E., the new girl works out well. A former stone mason, seeking new opportunities after the housing bubble went away and took jobs with it, she only took a few classes at El Centro, food safety and basic kitchen techniques, that stuff. Looking to see if she really liked working in a kitchen, she applied to a few places but no one wanted to take a mid-30s single mother with no formal training. We had an opening, she had the will to do something new, so Chef hired her.
Yesterday marked her second week on the line. She’s advanced faster than most people coming into this kitchen, I am told, and definitely faster than me. We finished prep for dinner, spent a few minutes commiserating about substitutions if we ran out of green beans, and started another pool for the precise quit date of Edward, our new Maitre d’, pretentious prick and pretty boy that he is.
No one noticed E. slipping back inside. We finished our cigarettes when the sweet smell of amaretto wafted towards us from the prep kitchen. A few seconds later, the sizzle of a steak on the grill. A curious sound, given the empty dining room and the fact that family meals are only served on weekends. Not by draconian decree but by vote, most BoH staff felt they were better off having a coffee across the street than a meal taking time away from that.
Walking back into the kitchen, I notice the Chef’s Table has been moved, covered in white linen and set up for one diner. Chefs Table? On a Wednesday? At four? And why in seven flying monkey’s buttocks wasn’t I told. Chef’s Table diners (who pay exorbitant sums to dine where the food is made) are generally served by me, dressed in my best whites, trying to smile as I count the ways I could stab a fork into Chef for bringing more mundanes into my kitchen.
Seconds later, E. emerges, carrying a steak the size of a smaller country, fresh arugula and spinach salad on the side, a glaze that made me salivate from sheer looks and smell, and a baked potato, topped with the works. Great, more off-menu orders. For some pretentious foodie prick who’ll write a blog entry after having spent more time photographing the kitchen, us, and his food, than enjoying the dish. He’ll call Chef “my dear friend”, and – despite having seen how a kitchen works – phrase everything to sound as if Chef made the food, not a small group of great cooks.
E. smiles, hands me the plate, then turns around and grabs something from her lowboy. We we walk into the kitchen, her pushing the table with a brown package on top of it, me carrying the steak. “Happy birthday, S.” she crows as we enter, waving S., our disher, to the table.
As I said, E. works out well. She understands what kitchens are all about – a bunch of workers, trying to get work done. Disher, Prep, Line, Sous, or Chef, we’re all in this for a reason. And it’s not the money or work hours. It’s the joy of doing precisely what we’re doing. Dish washer or three-Michelin-stars-to-his-name-Chef, it doesn’t matter. And people like E., bringing in cake and steak for one of the team, is one of the reasons we’re all still here.
Too many new-hires come in here and forget the top attribute for a good cook – humility. Before the food, before the ingredient, and as a member of the team. Too many “top culinary school” graduates have passed through this kitchen, not even bothering to learn S.’s name, let alone his birthday. Too many believe, that a few weeks standing in a nice, modern, kitchen and making a new dish every day, makes them a “chef”. We know better. But, if anything, E., that afternoon, prove that she has what it takes to become a Chef.
