hecking stop it

I’m a Chef. A professionally trained, twenty years in the business, fucking real Chef. I’ve worked in James Beard houses, personal chefdom for the rich, upper-class catering for the richer, catered the Oscars, rubbed elbows with some pretty rad celebrities, pastry work for weddings and shlubs alike, I’ve worked too-many 24-hour days and hurt myself far more than your typical human.

I know, dear reader, that my industry is one born of being social. I, along with millions of Americans both professional chefs and decidedly not professional chefs, loved hanging with grandparents/parents/relatives in the kitchen, I love the social aspect that food intertwines within all of us. The stories, the laughs, the tears, or the ‘ah ha!’ moments. We can all recount a beautiful memory so old it was when we started making memories, where we can remember toddling into the kitchen to find Nonna/Papa/Mom/Dad/a family buddy (etc) cooking up something so good that the smell has embedded itself into your psyche. You smile when you think of it; that incredible chili that Dad won first prize for at the cook-off, those cookies Mom made for only two holidays a year, that pozole your college roommate introduced you to when you went home with him for the weekend and his Mom had been cooking all day. We smile when we think of it, get weak in the knees, and enjoy that easy feeling that surely will live within us for the rest of our days.

Of course I have them too. My Grandpa’s Kibbeh, my Aunt’s roast turkey, the first time I got to order chocolate mousse in a real bonafide French restaurant when I was thirteen. Transcendent memories that I crave and would bargain my successes to go back to and live through again. All that beauty is so much to feel, love, take in and laugh deeply, or smile through tears now that they’re gone.

And of course every Chef has those moments and they’re probably why we got into this business in the first place. Between the industries pirate-ship level of comradery and partying, once we found we had talent we’ll draw on those for periodic inspiration, or a good story for when we’re shooting the shit on the line while cooking for twelve hours and there’s a lull in tickets. Thusly, we stay. There’s so much heart in this: I get it.

So I had a tasting I was working through today: I had a list of dozen-ish items, all varying between appetizers, vegetable sides, proteins, and composed dishes. I typed those items piece-by-piece into a prep list in excel for me to tick off and highlight as I accomplished prepping each bit. I ordered the food, organized it for the week into a manageable task list, and then once that apron was tied tight with the ever-important blue towel (yellow line flowing vertically with the fold, never inside-out) tucked into my waist, I was on. This shit had to be tight and the list had specific time crunches that I could not vary or warble on, there is no time to be capricious or doddle. Each minute cut like a razor to make sure all dishes were on a plate, hot, garnished, and perfect by the pick-up time of 1:30.

A dishwasher, shiftless in his walk, approached my bench and stopped, admiring the speed rack full of meez (‘mis en place,’ and no, don’t ever fucking touch it) I had labeled to an inch of its merit and asked me what I’m cooking.

I had ten thousand things going on at once, with a deadline that was less than an hour away, and I still hadn’t even butchered the salmon. Ten thousand responses flooded my head, and so irritation was my first emotion.

In this moment I know my mood is irrational and truly dishwashers are the most important people in a food service establishment, so I went for the one thing I was stirring.

“In this pot, it’s going be the filling for a turkey and pearl onion pot pie, but it will be a tiny hand pie.” I kept stirring without eye contact with my most fervent hope being that this gentle soul leave me be. I gave a small smile.

“Oh that’s awesome. I love pot pie! It feels too fancy in here to be making pot pie though, are you making it for family meal or like something different? By the way, did you know that if you scrape the toppings off leftover pizza and put them into an omelet, it will change your life?” He laughed and slapped my table as he said this. I stopped for a minute and smiled.

“No man, I hadn’t thought of that. But I would definitely make a pizza topping omelet if my kid and husband didn’t love cold pizza so much.” There were too many questions so I went for the base of his ask.

Then I plugged my little earbud back in, gave sweet Allen a wave, and hustled to my next five projects. He let me be, thankfully.

This was a nice example because when it comes to the back of the house in food, I will run through a ring of fire for the dishwashers. If a cook doesn’t show up for a busy brunch, that just sucks for the other cooks who made it because you’ll just have to absorb that extra workflow, albeit painfully. A server doesn’t show up? Limit the sections and other servers will take more tables. Same with the host, busser, etc. However. The dishwasher doesn’t show up? Guess what. You will have no pans to cook in, no equipment, no bowls, no spats (spatulas) or anything you need at the turn of an eye. Your day is ruined. Between prepping and cooking, now you have to add busting suds to the day and I tell you what? Nothing humbles you more. This will be a hard one: take care of your damn dishwashers.

A more obnoxious example:

I’ll never forget this date because it also happened to be the day that Tom Petty died (RIP) in 2017, October. I had to be at work at 3:00 am for a 300-person breakfast event which included my most loathful thing on the docket, the dreaded active omelet bar.

I dare you to ask any cook or chef, and they will answer you that when it comes to an active station omelet/breakfast bar, most of us would give a pinky finger to never have to do it again. And it isn’t because we hate eggs or even the hour of day, because really if you finished work at noon that’s not so bad. The problem lies with you, dear reader.

Here’s the thing. Imagine you’re in a cubicle or office at your normal job and then every twenty seconds someone steps into your space and stops you to ask thirty things about what you’re doing. ‘What’s that? What’s that for? Could you do this specific thing in the tiniest font that’s (not) available? Do you have to do it that way or could you do it this way just for me?’ For a full shift. All day. Every. Day. Rude, yes? Is there a chorus that could voice a rousing ‘Hallelujah’ real quick? Is the light on yet?

So here I am, showtime ready at 6:00 am, probably hungover (but that’s my fault to be fair) in a giant corporate space with two little burners, two little egg pans, a bain marie of liquid egg, and probably a dozen toppings. It’s fairly standard. I have my apron on, plates abound, bright blue latex gloves, and a forced smile, ready to go. I kid you not, every single person approaching me approaches the station (that I also promise is labeled with giant tags explaining what the ingredients are and what to do with them,) and yet nearly every person approaches with a swelling feeling that I can only describe as abject, ridiculous awe.

“OOOOH! An omelet station! Wow, you’ve got [lists every ingredient out loud to me] and I can have any of that!? And you’ll make it?” Three hundred times. It’s like they had never seen or heard of ‘food’ before. Spinach you say? Sausage? What is this witchcraft!

I know people mostly are trying to be polite in what feels like a very ‘indentured servitude’ kind of vibe, but for the love of God, just pick some ingredients, put them in some eggs, and then eat it and leave me the fuck alone.

Another dreaded example is any ‘open kitchen’ kind of concept. You’re looking at the line, you’re watching the cooks make food, you’re probably at an advertised “Chefs Table” and get to feel like you’re part of the fun. Maybe you’re at a sushi bar and you’re in the action yourself.

Some people admire quietly, enjoy the food, tip a bit extra after seeing the hustle, and then leave: bless your dear heart.

Others see this as an opportunity to involve yourself with whatever hot line master they’ve scheduled for the night and you want a full education on the system and process of cooking every little thing.

“SO HEY,” you might start, looking for anyone’s eye contact. “When you guys go out to dinner, where do YOU go?”

I promise the cooks are snickering because no cook can generally afford the meal you’re about to pay for.

“SO HEY,” you try again, “what would you do with chicken at home?”

We don’t work like that. When you want an answer in the blink of an eye our minds flow with questions like what cut? For how many people? Any allergies? How much time do you wanna spend on this dish? What kind of kitchen do you have, electric or gas? Any ethnic lean? What are your sides, or do you need those suggestions too?

“SO HEY. How do you cook an octopus, anyway?”

We aren’t supposed to, but we’ll rub our faces.

There are a dozen steps to cooking octopus, and we have probably five minutes a dish to cook for the public times sixty an hour, and what we say doesn’t matter because you won’t do it anyway. Are you going to cook Spanish octopus? Do you think you could just Google it after the approximate 15 seconds a line cook has to give you an explanation if you aren’t satisfied? We aren’t your teachers for the ridiculously complicated. We are here to make you and your 200 friends dinner in a painfully small window of time, and then clock out and go home. We are beyond exhausted.

So, stop it. Please?

Be cool. Better – be HUMAN. Tip fat, leave within two hours, Google your dinnertime cooking questions, and if you absolutely must speak to the cooks or Chef, please know that the best way to say ‘thank you’ is cash, NOT a ‘thank you’ alone. 🙂