Marktdagen

Its quarter to six. My phone vibrates, it notifies me that my uber has arrived as I'm hustling down the cold marble steps of a Brooklyn apartment building. I have a to-do list longer than imaginable, still dark out but spring is in the air and I'm surprisingly in a decent mood for just having had just five hours of sleep. First stop is the produce market, Union Square to be exact. Early morning at the markets always put me in a positive mood rain or shine. Im surrounded by millions of people yet I'm alone in quiet safety with my laptop behind the tinted glass of a Lincoln towncar. As we hit the Manhattan bridge the first slivers of sun bounce off the skyscrapers, that and the street lights make the city out to be dusted in glitter. 

Grabbing a quick coffee from a street vendor, I head straight to the first of the seasons berries and young spring potatoes, both smelling of fresh green dirt. I get a couple kilos of each with some baby leaks and fennel. Heading over to the cheese and honey vendors I pass a fish monger and the sea smells hit like a brick, Im awake. Im reminded of the times my grandmother took me to the market back in Schiedam. Herring. I was and still am obsessed, the way they fillet them in front of you and slap the fatty fish on a slice offresh white tigerbrood with some minced onions. Even getting some of the oozing fat onto my brand new orange soccer jersey, not caring the least. I was a wide eyed child, mesmerized and without a problem could eat two or more fish for breakfast, this I think even surprised my grandmother. Just as she would, I maneuver through the quickly thickening crowd ever so often voicing an ‘excuse me’ as to not make it seem like a personal attack to others as I elbow my way through with all my purchases. I see another chef waving in my direction, chatting as we head over to a stall that sells an amazing arrange of micro greens, I realize that she too looks exhausted but content. Just looking at all the produce and edible flowers can let anyone unclench from the daily kitchen life or more, the city life for just even a moment. Speaking of flowers I may just get some fresh arrangements for the restaurants bay windows facing the Hudson river.. I find a couple huge branches filled with cherry blossoms the aroma is sweet and I think Chef will appreciate them.

Heading into the bowels of the prep kitchen through a trapdoor off the sidewalk I can already hear the kitchen aid running and a mixture of smells coming from the pastry area. Coffee, bread, and passionfruit to be exact. I start to label and organize the produce I've brought in, and pass off the cherry blossoms to the porter who loves arranging the flowers. The smell of fresh baked genoise sponge spills out onto the side walk as I smoke a cigarette and go over todays BEOs. By god that women knows how to bake. Ive learned so much from her and she is my rock on more days then I have fingers and toes to count on. She may not like to hear it, but her humble talents remind me of just that. My grandmother.

To every women working in the kitchen, from the depth of my heart thank you for your élan vital.