My ticket is purchased, the passport I lost was replaced in record timing AND my living accommodations have FINALLY been secured. The only issue that remains,  is figuring out what I actually hope to accomplish with this very costly and stressful attempt at “finding myself” and “regaining inspiration”.

On the one hand, I want nothing more than to walk along the streets of Paris and have its citizens marvel at how stylish my series of vintage coats are – particularly for an American, negotiate the price of produce with french farmers with my lackluster grasp of the language and fool around with as many “artists” as my dwindling self-respect will allow. Surprisingly, my Rosetta Stone lessons have not covered how to say “I promise… I won’t tell anyone… but… is that a wedding ring?”

It’s not slutty if it happens in another country.

On the other hand, I would like to be able to add something onto my resume. I’ve been reluctant (and perhaps too late now…) to solicit help from my culinary school instructors, all of whom are still very well-connected to the French culinary world and offered their help to us, should we wish to take our learning to the next level. The issue is that in their minds, if we are serious about becoming a chef, then we must be willing to commit to the (abusively) rigorous lifestyle of the apprentice. I’m sort of… past that. I’m not interested in paying thousands of dollars to live in a country that I’ll never get to see, work (for free) six days a week and only understand half of the insults hurled in my direction about my culinary capabilities.

I need to find a balance.

But for now, I’m comforted by the fact that I am definitely going and that I have a gorgeous place to rest my head. I knew flats in Paris were small. I’ve seen more than my share of Househunters International so I wasn’t going to be all American about it. My requirements were pretty reasonable… close to metro, sufficiently cute surrounding neighborhood, a SEPARATE bathroom, internet access and a balcony to smoke cigarettes on. Decor was not a priority… but it just so happens that my “landlord” is either a real artist or an aging hipster because it’s decorated to please – lined with books, artwork and jazz music. Not unlike my current living place. As a bonus, there is also a fireplace and washing machine. Below is an actual photo of “my” apartment.

Life was pretty good. My European adventure nearly finalized, my last day very much in sight, and celebratory gatherings in the works. All of the hotel had been buzzing about my approaching last day and random staff would stop to inquire, “Is it true you’re going to Paris?”

Then…

Shit hit the fan at the restaurant…

One of my favorite cooks, “Aaron”, an uber gruff-looking biker/budding chef, who I often give permission to fondle me on line and dance to Britney Spears and Katy Perry songs with, came to a head with one of my favorite servers, an early twenties, Moroccan, college student with lots of confidence, who I…also grant permission to fondle me (when Aaron isn’t around).

They have never liked one another for unknown reasons. Of course, in my mind, they are both vying for my affection and that’s the sole reason.

It was a service like every other… Aaron and I were working the line, chef was at the bar drinking gin and the busboys were sort of hanging out, polishing glasses and savagely inhaling leftover frites that we leave in a bowl by the heat lamp.

A ticket came in with a substitution – the third one of the night. The customer ordered the steak frites but wanted roasted, marble potatoes instead of the fries. Simple enough BUT Aaron and I both being who we are, could not resist the opportunity to talk about what garbage that customer was and give the server a hard time for it.

It’s fun for us.

The server was my Moroccan “boyfriend” so after one or two mild gripes, I let it go after he gave me a wink. After all, I didn’t really care. and he was handsome. We were pretty slow that night and it wasn’t that big of a deal for me to saute some potatoes instead of dropping fries in the deep fryer.

But Aaron wouldn’t let it go.

“What the fuck, man? This is like- the third time you rang in this type of shit.”

At this point, everyone was totally desensitized. This type of exchanged happened nearly every time they worked together.

“Well, what do you want me to do? It’s what the customer wants.”

Now… I get the level of crazy that a cook feels over this statement. It’s what the customer wants is the servers’ way of ending the exchange. It means that their hands are tied and there is nothing they can do. It means that we are supposed to be here for the customer. It means… shut up and do it.

With just a little rephrasing, he might have begrudgingly honored the request but Aaron, for some reason (me) needed to vent. I knew he would eventually do it but he hated the server. and the customer. so he wanted to give them a hard time.

“They can fuck go themselves.”

Those five words had been said so many times before in the kitchen but this time, there was a misunderstanding. It seemed that the server thought that Aaron said “You can go fuck yourself.”

He raised his voice and belted “YOU CAN GO FUCK YOURSELF!” to Aaron.

Aaron calmly replied, “I didn’t say YOU could fuck yourself, I-”

“YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF!”

My beautiful server had snapped. and Aaron was more than happy to really give him something to snap about.

It happened so fast. Aaron’s hand jolted and an object flew at the server’s forehead.

They had been arguing and insulting one another for months but this was the first time, things got physical.

Everyone in the kitchen fell silent and bug-eyed at what they had just witnessed.

The server stopped in his tracks. He was in a total state of shock but then quickly recovered and began to transform into a madman. He eyes were surveying the kitchen for the first thing he could get into his hands to hurl back at Aaron. He settled on a metal condiment holder and sent it flying in Aaron’s direction. I don’t know if it hit him or not but Aaron took off his apron and moved from behind the line toward the server.

Holy shit… I’m going to have to break up a fight.

I yelled for Aaron to come back and thankfully, the server flew out of the kitchen. Lucky for me, Aaron did not go chasing after him. He returned to the line and casually said something like, “Well…. that was interesting…”

It was over…

…or so I thought…

Since we were, after all, in the middle of service, Aaron and I moved forward with plating dishes and a few minutes into our dance of moving hot food from pan to plate, a wooden business card holder flew in between Aaron and I and shattered against the backsplash. We both turned around but already knew who it was from.

“YOU MUTHA FUCKER! DON’T YOU EVER THROW SOMETHING AT ME! I’LL FUCK YOU UP!”

Again Aaron moved from behind the line and again, the server ran from the kitchen.

“If he comes back in here again, I’m gonna kill him.”

Shit, I’m gonna have to find chef.

But a few minutes later, the server returned with a heavily buzzed chef.

“THIS MUTHAFUCKER HIT ME IN MY FACE WITH SOMETHING! I HAVE NEVER HAD ANYONE DO THAT TO ME IN A WORKPLACE!”

He turned back to Aaron and yelled once again, “I’LL FUCK YOU UP! I DON’T CARE IF CHEF IS HERE!”

“DO IT!” Aaron yelled back.

“GUYS! HOLD IT!” chef said. “Bobby, what’s going on?”

I opened my mouth to try to recount what had happened when the server tried to pick up another object to throw at Aaron but chef stopped him.

He sent them both home out opposite sides of the restaurant and instructed both of them to call him tomorrow morning, after he had a chance to wrap his head around the incident.

The guys both disappeared and I was left with the remaining couple of tickets on the board, not even sure what temperatures they were to be or how long they had been in the oven.

“You got this?” chef said.

“Yeah?”

I assume he went back to the bar while everyone around me was all abuzz about what just happened.

Early the next day, I got a call from chef and learned that both guys had been suspended indefinitely, pending an “investigation” from HR.

So now we were down two more employees until further notice and I was about to leave as well. But none of us could dwell on it. We had to get back to business as usual.

When I finally entered the kitchen for lunch service, I bumped into one of our busboys, Jose, who had recently been making a big deal of my departure, telling me how much he was going to miss me and how great of a person I was – stuff I would never tire of hearing but humbly thanked him and shared his sentiment, telling him I would miss him as well.

“Bobby…”

I knew what he was going to say and in an i know…i can’t believe it either… tone, said “yeah, two weeks…”

“Yeah…,” he said “so, do you know what is going to happen with Aaron?”

I had a couple more misunderstandings like that one throughout the day until I finally realized that the interests in the kitchen had changed and that my departure was now playing second string to the near fist-fight that erupted and the possible termination of two employees.

Am I going to have to slap someone to reinstate myself?

By the end of the night, I was so tired of talking about what happened that one of the last people to question me about it, was informed that I didn’t know what was going to happen – but I DID know that they were NOT going to PARIS.

Let’s not totally lose focus, people…

The first being, New Years Eve. As usual, it was a never-ending punishment on the line. I think we turned the restaurant nearly three times. On top of regular a la carte menu items, we offered a tasting menu.

All I can remember at this point was:

Butter poached lobster with braised leeks and caviar

Foie gras with cannelini beans, local chard and apple cider gastrique

Pan seared venison with glazed root vegetables and red wine sauce

and I think some sort of fish with saffron broth?

In any case, 80% of this was coming off of my station, which meant that I was wishing a very unhappy New Year to every customer who ordered it… which was everyone. So I was pan searing, butter poaching, and sauce heating my ass off while simultaneously juggling the hot soups, Parisian gnocchi and mussels while wishing for everyone’s death.

Chef…sort of….included.

The only thing that got me through it, was my ego.

Chef must think I’m so awesome to load me up like this. He has no doubts of my ability to handle this. effortlessly.

You do what you have to do and think what you have to think to get through such a shit storm without bursting into tears.

More than likely, chef gave no thought to an even distribution of tasks and simply dreamed up whatever he wanted… and then later realized that it was all me. He was still riding high from the second BIG THING to happen. That being, that we were named in The Washingtonian Top 100 Very Best Restaurants.

This was a very big deal for us. and we were thrilled. I’ll admit, I tapped into my inner diva a couple of times.

A few days after the posting, I went to the sales office of the hotel to pick up paychecks for the cooks and had an exchange with one of the reservation agents – I can’t remember what it was about but I DO remember that I finished the conversation with “I’m a top 100, I don’t have to take this…” and jokingly knocked over a small stack of papers on her desk. Again, it was a joke…. but I didn’t stop to pick those papers back up… it felt GOOOOOD.

Much of my satisfaction came from how thrilled chef was about the write-up. Two years before I joined the staff, the restaurant had been taken off the list and he has been fighting his way back ever since. He had plans for how he wanted the restaurant to function and be reworked and what direction he wanted to take the menu in but had very little support for executing his plans. Now he’s back on and staff-wise, there’s only one thing that changed during that time…

MMMEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

Alright, I’m over myself now.

Seriously, everyone in the kitchen did a great job this year. after being pushed a little (a lot)…

But also seriously, I worked my ass off to help chef move in the direction that he wanted to go because 1.) I’ve been trained to do so and 2.) I have daddy issues – but now it seems like it’s totally paid off. Chef’s talent and my desperate need for approval are a winning combination.

However, since the start of restaurant week, the worst two weeks of the year, I actually hadn’t given a thought to placement or ranking… and in fact, totally forgot about The Washingtonian.

Any cook worth his or her knives, hates restaurant week. For thirty dollars, culinary tourists get to invade the dining room, critique everything in sight (under the guise of being a “foodie”), try to swindle as much free stuff as they can through a barrage of complaints about service, portion size and misunderstandings about menu descriptions.

I’d like to exchange this for something else (like the dish is a sweater from The Gap). I didn’t know it had artichokes. I don’t like artichokes (after eating nearly everything in the salad except the artichokes).

Our hearts of palm salad with artichokes? What would you like instead (you illiterate cheapskate)?

With the week finally over and food ne’er-do-wells back where they belong, I’m back to obsessing over the one thing that, despite its significance, has been given very little of my time.

Gay Pari…

I’ve been trying to get there for over twenty years. In my mind, it’s where it all begins…

What I neglected in my fantasy of life in Paris, was looking for employment, finding a place to live (that I can actually afford) and struggling to speak the language without sounding like a moron. I’ve been hyping this journey up in my head for so long that I’m driving myself insane from the pressure to find romance and be successful. I almost can’t stand to talk about it anymore due to the stress of trying to make this the trip of my dreams – the be-all and end-all. Essentially, I’ve given myself a couple of weeks to hop on a plane, master a language, find the love of my life, gain a successful career and live in a prime area of the city.

It was getting to the point where just he mention of Paris would nearly evoke hyperventilation.

Thankfully, after a late night gab-fest with my “hag” and best friend in the world, without whom none of this would even be possible, things started to fall into perspective.

I may not fall in love. I may not even find a job. I may embarrass myself a little in conversation but I am, even if only for a few weeks, going to live in my very own apartment in Paris – and that is nothing to be upset over.

I realize now that hearing me lament over Paris is just as annoying as complaints from people about not being able to gain weight, only being appreciated for your looks, or having too much money.

Sorry about that.

As previously stated, I LOVE the holidays. Even more so this year because and I coordinated with/lied to chef to have a number of consecutive days off leading up to Christmas day. But I had to pay the piper in a major way before that happened (nearly 85 hours in one week).

My last day before my break was the night of the staff holiday party. In typical hotel fashion, our “holiday” party was Hawaiian luau themed. Everyone was strongly encouraged to bring their best tropical island attire and warned against bringing “outside” guests in order to keep costs down. Maybe I’m just old fashioned, insensitive or country, but I miss the good old days when the theme of a holiday party was… I don’t know… Christmas! I can’t do a drunken, sultry version of “Santa Baby” (a la Eartha Kitt) in a Hawaiian shirt!

To make matters worse, the hotel wanted THE RESTAURANT to prepare the food. So our invitation to the company party came with the following implied caveats – stay in the kitchen, make all the food and have limited interactions with the rest of the staff.

What I found even more interesting is that even though the kitchen staff were livid when they got wind of this, I seemed to be the only one who stayed that way…

I’m not someone who can be placated with a plate of food (that I had to make), a cheap lei and and an even cheaper Mai Thai and then be expected to go back into the kitchen and continue frying coconut shrimp for coworkers who work half the hours I do. and not to be a snob… but if you’ve ever put a tray of free shrimp out before a bunch of drunk, blue collar workers and wannabe executives then you know what a scene this is.

The hotel closed the restaurant for dinner service on the day of the party and so after lunch service while the hotel staff plastered hideous decorations in the dining room, I took this opportunity to go to the office and type my formal letter of resignation. Prior to this, my departure was still only hearsay.

and after all, what are the holidays without a little drama? If I was going to be made unhappy and chained to a deep fryer then I definitely wanted my announcement to be a dark cloud that loomed over the party. One way or another, I was going to be talked about.

Hey, did you hear that that slutty sous chef just quit and is going to Paris?

The letter to chef was beautifully drafted. I thanked him for the amazing opportunity, praised him for his talents as a chef and mentor but also expressed my desire to explore other (non-hotel related) opportunities and I gave a firm date for my last day.

It…is…official. Send.

I’m sort of “doubly” talented. I’m also more than happy to lay it alllll out on the table  if someone wants to push an issue with me but my specialty is being passive aggressive. No one does it better than me. I can shut a room down with five words or less.  I can still recall my silent disappointment as a five year old after receiving a salmon colored Care Bear instead of the blue one that I spoke about for weeks prior. I quietly left it under the Christmas tree and retreated to my bedroom to play with other toys that were not a total failure.  Looking back, I’m not at all proud of my behavior that day but my point is, if I can ruin a Christmas for people I love with minimal effort then making a bunch of people I hate feel guilty at a shitty holiday party would be a total cakewalk.

About an hour into the party, our HR director made the mistake of coming into the kitchen. Now… I feel like… if you’re part of the corporate team and you know full well that there are members of the staff who are not going to be able to participate in the festivities AND as an extra slap in the face, make them responsible for serving food to the participating staff, then you should have an idea of the type of greeting you’re going to receive when you enter in. I was poised to attack. We made eye contact and my eyelids immediately sunk, as if to foreshadow how a verbal exchange was going play out. I was frying coconut shrimp while the catering manager waited to carry it out to the dining room and one of the other cooks was saucing some “tropical” chicken concoction when she greeted us. The other cook happily replied back but I stood my ground. I said nothing…

“Are you guys going to come out to the party?”

That’s it.

Game on.

I need to end this. For both our sakes…

“I don’t think this party is for me. I’m clearly just the hired help.”

She gave me one of those “sad faces” that someone does when they “sympathize” but don’t really have a response.

“No. I won’t be coming out.”

“Well, can I get you anything? Do you want me to bring you a Mai Thai?”

“No.”

I then turned my back to her and continued frying shrimp, that really didn’t need attention but I knew that I had to conclude this dialogue with the bitterness I felt it deserved.

She quickly left the kitchen.

When I turned back around, the catering events manager, also tasked with working the party and who I normally hate was grinning from ear to ear and replied, “That was awesome.”

“Merry Christmas.” I replied. She got the joke.

I don’t know if the HR manager said something to the GM of the hotel but he entered the kitchen shortly after and I wouldn’t even look at him. I was so pissed off and prepared for an even more aggressive blowout, if he pushed me. and I was prepared to quit on the spot, which would have ended up hurting me way more than him, but I’m willing to go to any lengths to make a statement. No matter how stupid. I overheard him thanking chef for all the great work from the kitchen and how much they appreciated it and I nearly vomited into the deep fryer. I have GOT… to get the f$%k outta here. I have 40 days… and 4 paychecks to go… then it’s nothing but eggplants, pastry, cheese, cigarettes and brooding, French bass players.

Chef walked out into the dining room with the GM and returned a few minutes later with a grin on his face.

“He knows your pissed… and he’s concerned.”

“Me….? I didn’t say anything, chef…”

“You can give the mean face when he’s around… but WE are gonna have a shot.”

Very well, chef…

I’ll enjoy myself for a second while no one is looking.

Line it up.

Sometimes, I feel like culinary school was a total rip-off. My degree has me SEVERAL thousand dollars in the hole and even as a sous-chef, some high-school or college drop-out donning a black apron is making more than me? SERIOUSLY? This is probably why repaying my student loan is last on my priority list. Sure, my credit will be shattered and I’ll never own a home… but they’ll get my point…I’m thinking of setting up my own culinary school where people approach me to learn how to be a professional cook and I tell them to “do whatever the chef tells you. always. that will be $40,000.”

In the beginning, culinary school graduates are all Food Section reading, Thomas Keller/Alice Waters/Anthony Bourdain obsessed, Top Chef watching, Food Network hating, over enthusiastic, gluttons for punishment to realize what’s happening. That they are turning into… a robot.

You still love food but the act of preparing food becomes… mechanical… after a while, if you want to survive the kitchen. and chef.

My movements… the same. My dish…the same. This is what chef wants. This is the way I was formally trained. So naturally, having someone who is neither a chef nor trained in anything other than ass kissing, dictate how I am to work, is going to create a bit of… static.

I still remember the first dish I made on the line like a mis en place list.

Baby Lettuces

Toasted Pine Nits

Golden Raisins

Olive Oil

Balsamic Vinegar

So when a ticket makes me veer from what I’ve programmed as the way to construct this salad, I risk a short circuit. It’s not because I’m a simpleton. But if I’ve just made 20 of them exactly the same way and have about 6 minutes to make 30 more of them and the 25th one is a special request, there might be a mixup. And to be honest… most servers verbal the substitutions because they don’t feel like doing the extra typing and as ticket numbers increase and I get into my zone to avoid getting in the weeds, the chances of resorting to my original instruction from the chef, are very high. especially if there is NO NOTE ON THE TICKET.

Once the error has been identified, I have to redo it on the fly. This means I have have to stop in the middle of whatever other plate I was working on to correct this. Perhaps during this time another ticket has come in so I now need to finish the plate I had to stop and then get a late jump on the new ticket that has come in. and God forbid that this request involves an item that isn’t even part of my station, because if I have to leave and get a cheese that a customer wants instead of the golden raisins or a vinegar other than balsamic, I could end up being several plates behind.

So while may it may be totally irrational, your customer has just fucked up my workflow and since I can’t yell at that them, YOU are the next best thing. This is part of the reason you get paid the BIG bucks, which is another point of tension.

Oh, if I had a nickel for every time I heard, “It’s not me. It’s the customer.” followed by “fuck your customer. and fuck you.”

This was the relationship I was”born” into. My first chef haaaated the front of the house. and he hated substitutions, which subsequently, made him hate most customers.

He believed servers to be money-grubbing, “whores” who would sell out the menu in a second if it meant the difference between a 20% and 30% gratuity. He would be disgusted as they savagely devoured anything that they didn’t have to pay for and were only useful, in his opinion, for fetching beverages. carrying plates to tables. and sex.

“Sure, they make more money… but they’ll be a server their entire life. That’s all they’ll ever be. But one day you’ll be a chef.” he said to me on a few occasions.

Even as I’m writing this, I find it remarkable how much of an impact his philosophy had on me and transformed me into the often irrational, server resenting, substitution hating, maniac that I am today.

He’d be so proud.

I know it doesn’t always make sense… and I know they’re just doing there jobs but their mindset is in direct contrast with mine. They want to be paid in cash every night. I want a successful restaurant.

I am… an unfamous chef, which means I have dues to pay. I’m still waiting for my “big break” and so when I’m cooking, I’m trying to blow a customer’s mind away. I’m trying to create buzz with every effort. I have no problem rising to fame as the kind of bitchy, sort of slutty, foul mouthed chef who makes the best Venison they’ve ever had.

I get to tell a small handful of people what to do but each day is still a challenge – a race to end to get shit done and do it as perfectly as possible. As a cook, everyday, I’m trying to be better, faster, and more knowledgeable. As a chef, everyday, I’m trying to make other cooks better, faster and more knowledgeable. I’m trying to learn how to run a restaurant so that I can use these skills for my own endeavors.

A server’s goal is slightly different and WAY more primitive. That being, make more money than yesterday.

“Well, we have to deal with the customers… at least you guys get to stay back here” is the common and poorly articulated retort every time the server vs cook argument unfolds. which is nearly every day.

You have it rough. I’ll give you that. Customers can be needy, arrogant and cheap. But I have it worse. Have you ever burned all of the hair on your forearm off, reaching for a pan of sauteed veg while at the same time, your chef threatens to choke you if you don’t move faster. and he’s NOT kidding.

As a cook, I generally, have three hours of constant hustling before service to get enough food prepared to feed a full dining room and bar. It sounds like a reasonable amount of time but I can assure you, it flies by with no apology. Every day is a flurry of knife movement, sauce making, vegetable blanching, and herb picking. and when I say hustling, I mean it. MANY TIMES, I’ve had to assess – or re-assess my priorities an hour before service, “If need be, I can make my butter sauce on the fly or fry this sage leaf to order but I MUST get these fingerling potatoes roasted, cut in half and on my station and I MUST braise this fennel RIGHT NOW if it’s going to be ready before 5:00″.

A server gets to show up an hour (sometimes less) before service starts, fold a couple napkins, maybe polish a dozen or so wine glasses and then start bitching about when “family meal” is going to happen. and then on a “good night”, will try to order food to take home at the end of service. I can’t tell you how many times, I’ve had my ass handed to me from what felt like an endless service and when there is finally a slow point to catch my breath, maybe grab a quick smoke or replenish your station, only to have a server ask “can I order a steak to-go?” like I’ve been standing around for the past few hours, doing nothing and would be grateful for the work.

Can you go fuck yourself? Did you not just witness what happened? I didn’t even want to cook for most of the people paying FULL price for this food and you want me to fix you a discounted meal?

As a sous chef AND line cook, it’s even worse because my prep time is often interrupted with asinine questions, that I find myself getting more creative and testy with my responses to.

server: Do we have more ketchup?
me: I don’t know. DO we have more ketchup? Did you check the storage room?
server: no.
me: Well, you might be interested to know that the storage room is more than just the place you steal bottles of wine from, if you look around, there are actually INGREDIENTS that you are supposed to use for your setup.

Not even the slightest regard for my time. Totally entitled. They couldn’t care less. They hover in front of the line, eating bread intended for customers and fighting over any food returned or made in error. They count their tips in front of the cooks, cackling or complaining – depending on the night. They don’t care if the cooks hate them or customers are assholes, they want to be paid. You ask a server how they’re doing and they will answer either “I made $300 dollars last night.” or “I didn’t make shit, last night.”, neither of which, really answer the question. Their obsession with the dollar was, I thought, beautifully articulated by one of my cooks a few years ago, named Rolando, who said, “These guys will sell their mother’s pu$$y for more money”.

Well said, Rolando. You giant, hot, Guatemalan, real-life version of Bam-Bam. Well said…

It sounds harsh… but it’s all true. I could (and I think… have…) write an equally, if not LONGER entry for how much of a pain in the ass cooks are as well but they are at least, going through this with me. There is the occasional pin put in this daily, behind the scenes, clash when a customer is such an asshole it ignites a united front of shared offense and hatred but the overarching debate over which side of the house has it worse, will never go away, given the makeup of most restaurants.

So should I just be content with the fact that in 10-15 years, I could have a restaurant and they could still be eating off of customers’ plates in the kitchen? Do I have this kind of time to spare? I’m convinced that after a few more years of hauling 30 gallon stock pots, cases of potatoes and butternut squash, and pots of bolognese, I’ll have a hunched back and need leg braces. Still desperate for foie gras or a mussels mariniere with grilled bread, I’ll drag my broken body to the occasional restaurant and as I wince with pain every time I life my fork up to my mouth, a server will come out of nowhere and say, “I’ll take that if you’re not going to eat it.”

and then expect 30%.

What? You were expecting me to hate Christmas, like some sort of monster?  Please… I love everything about it. The lights, the music, the specialty drinks, the lack of judgement for over-eating, making out in the liquor closet during the holiday party with a Latin dishwasher who claims to be straight. You know…a good ‘ole fashioned Christmas. Just like the days of yore…

However, there seems to be a couple of things that are throwing a wrench in my holiday merriment. That being… I’m sort of… totally resenting everyone I work with.

The banquet parties are rolling in, dining room business is finally picking up and the excuses are abundant.

At this stage, I shouldn’t have to spell it out for anyone.

I’M LEAVING… SOON, but people are still acting totally incompetent and helpless.  No one is assuming any kind of responsibility or stepping up in any way. and even with chef beginning to get on my nerves occasionally, I feel bad for leaving him.

No one is competitive here. Perhaps that’s what I’m missing… or needing.

Someone try to take my job, start thinking you’re better than me, try to show me up, keep me on my toes. I’m not even an amazing cook. I’m just really, really good. DO ANYTHING other than watch me solve your issues.

I was still relatively new at my first restaurant when our sous-chef announced that he was leaving.

At this point, I was progressing very nicely and had already mastered two of the three stations, with my eyes set firmly on the final one. There was another cook who had been there about six months before me and was working the last of the three stations but we were both self-confessed “bad-asses“, working an insane number of hours, cranking out specials, and keeping service going, flawlessly. But while we agreed to have each others’ back while the restaurant looked for another cook, both of us silently wondered, plotted and vied… who’s getting sous?

Generally, cooks who want to be chefs – are extremely competitive and egocentric. Every day is an unwritten competition to be the baddest, fastest, and most indispensable to chef.

The problem with this place is that everyone seems to have other priorities. Recently, a lot of cooks have not been showing up to work or coming in late due to various illnesses, doctor’ appointments, broken down cars – basically any excuse pulled out of Calling Out For Dummies.

Here… the competition seems to be who can get through a shift doing the least amount of work.

Today sort of drove it home for me that these cooks just don’t have it.

This is just how they pay their bills.

I was off today and really… worked my ass off the night before, nearly prepping an elaborate hors d’oeuvre party for 80 by myself  but knew that I before I tuned out for a day, I was going to send an early morning text to one of the cooks, reminding him that he would need to plate two dessert platters for a couple of events today.

I thought it was pretty nice, if not a tad over-nurturing, of me to do that. He’s a grown man. Certainly capable of looking at the wall of events, noticing that there are two events that he is responsible for providing platters, and executing them. Well, he responds to my text to inform me that he isn’t even at the restaurant, after I assumed that he had been there for over two hours! He was at a “doctors appointment”… and knowing this dude, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was code for “pot dealer”. To make matters worse, he asks me if I would get in touch with one of the other morning cooks to let him know that he might have to do it since he is not able to be there.

Are you kidding me? You aren’t in the kitchen for your shift, no one knows where you are AND you want me to make arrangements to have your work done for you?

You must be high.

I’m reminded of one of the stories in Michael Ruhlman’s, “The Making of a Chef” when he tried to call out of taking a practical exam during a snow storm and the chef told him that one of the things that makes a chef – a chef, is that if you need to be somewhere – you get there. It sounds sort of insane, i’m sure, to most people but it doesn’t matter if there is snow on the ground, it doesn’t matter if it’s the holiday and everyone else is celebrating, it doesn’t matter if you were asked to pick a family member up at the airport at the last minute. You get there. and you certainly don’t involve the sous chef in your problem.

Lately, every time someone unloads an issue on me – some reason for why they need to leave early, or come in late, or take the day off, I look at them and in my mind, I’m narrating over their voice, “You don’t want to be a chef. You aren’t serious about this. Do something else to support yourself.”

I don’t love this place anymore. Who can blame me? I’m only paid for about half the hours I work, I have no health insurance at the moment, I haven’t had a traditional weekend off in over four years and have never said “no” to my chef, no matter how inconvenient or annoying the request.

ever. and I get there. every day.

and it will pay off.

That being said, one (at least) of these “losers” is probably getting to second base (at least) in a few weeks at the Christmas party.

Hey, I’ve got my shit together.

I know why I’m doing this, why I’m here and how to play this game.

I can afford a little drunken irresponsibility.

A couple of days ago, “Chi Chi” showed me how to make “Kit Kats” with feuittine and ganache. It was very special. We’ve also added Foie Gras to the menu, served with a cannelini bean and braised kale “stew” and apple cider gastrique. This means that every couple of days, I get to wolf down a little “nugget” of foie (for testing, of course…). This was also very special.

Now, to resume with bitching and negativity…

THOUGH…

I also have to pat myself on the back… I think a lesser person might break down under the pressure of tight, uncontrollable, timelines and little (to no) preparations made, financial or otherwise – for a forced, life-changing opportunity.

Right now, I have:

a plane ticket

a pending passport

a job I hate

a “boyfriend” I hate

five packs of cigarettes

two mini bottles of champagne and a half pound of homemade foie gras butter in the fridge

fifteen dollars in cash

Some people lack the cohonesto face a mounting stack of obstacles and say, “there’s still time…” even when there isn’t.

In less than three months, I’ll be fumbling my way around Paris – possibly reduced to shoplifting because I’m too embarrassed to ask how much the eggplant in my hand is or urinating in alleys because I can’t remember how to say “where?” as in “where is the public bathroom?”

In less than six months, I’ll be unemployed and forced to face the same dilemma that this trip has provided the perfect distraction from. What am I doing with myself and these newly acquired talents?

I realize now that when what you do is also who you are, the lines between your life and work, become annoyingly, intertwined. The whole reason for all of this, boils down to what I want my life to be, as a chef.

Where do I want it to be?
No matter where I go, I need to consider both the business and social opportunities. How can I juggle working 12-14 hours a day with being a significant other or having a family? It seems a lot easier to sell a house and move on if you want to but what about when you own a business and have a following and a reputation?

What is my food identity?
Am I more “honest” Americanna or haute cuisine? or can I successfully blend the two? I don’t really see myself serving chicken wings on porcelain plates for a living but I don’t want to have to top everything with truffle oil or foie gras to get noticed by big spenders.

Do I want to be famous? or just successful? Rich? At what cost? Sometimes, I want to body slam a customer for “dumbing down” a menu item – but at the same time, I can afford to behave that way because this restaurant isn’t my business but how much do I have to compromise when it becomes my business?

Other times, I just want to open a little sandwich shack or tripped up diner that becomes an institution to whatever town I end up in. Sort of like a Cheers that serves duck confit subs with pickled veg and housemade juniper aioli. Sure, my former culinary school instructors may see my endeavor as waisted potential and I may get the occasional snub from some of my more uppity classmates BUT I’m supposed to be doing this for me…

All of my rants stem from the same place of frustration.

That being… I want to do my own thing. Or rather, I want to figure out what my “thing” is AND then do it.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s still plenty to learn but that will always be the case. I’ve also picked up a great deal over the years.

I want my own restaurant. and I’d like it now, please…

This France trip is essential, in my mind, as a reference for food culture. It’s arguably, the mecca of cuisine. These folks claim to have invented the “best” way to prepare (and eat) food. Well… I want to see it. I want to be fully immersed in it, borrow what I love about it…and start making some serious shit happen.

My current job is nothing more than a paycheck at this point.

It’s been a blast… but I’m done.

In fact, I’ve taken to drinking a paper cup full of box wine at the beginning of service, which seems to make me more “agreeable” through the first rush.

I’m too arrogant to do a half-ass job so I’m still going through all the motions – ordering, menu editing, prepping, working saute or grill, fondling busboys who I’m no longer attracted to, and signing for wine, meat and linen deliveries.

I will miss this place when I leave it.

But I can’t wait to leave it.

No offense to chef. This has everything to do with management.

My departure is also a hot topic of conversation in the kitchen, which is… troubling for me. Someone mentions my trip to France at least once a day and when it happens, I always pray to God that the language barrier prevents them from getting too specific with their inquiries about my living and working arrangements, and have even been reduced to fibbing a little to at least give the illusion that I’m a little more on top of this than I really am.

The truth will only dampen the mood. and these are happy times…

Time is being a total bitch. Insisting on moving forward and offering zero sympathy for the pile up of right now issues that I’m forced to deal with.

Nonetheless, there is a voice inside my head that insists, “everything will work itself out…” and thankfully, my job doesn’t allow me a lot of time to beat myself up about it.

I was especially not thinking about how much of a France trip slacker I was when I returned from two glorious days off (finally) to learn from our catering events manager, that she had spoken with chef and that I would be “light demo-ing” and passing out oyster chowder samples to 250 people at the French embassy the following day.

“But we’ll help you, don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

Apparently, her boyfriend, a sales rep for a local, food purveyor, would be joining us.

“Great…” I thought to myself. I get to feel scared shitless, a little vulnerable and like a third wheel in front of a girl I hate. and her boyfriend.

Of course, I played it cool… I acted as if it was no big deal and devised a game plan and meetup time with her. But on the inside… I was… a hot mess. I immediately had a vision of my disastrous debut that not only made me look like a jackass of a chef but also sabotaged my pending entrance into France because I had offended them so.

Following this vision of culinary crash and burn, I started brainstorming my own solo game plan – had any of the prep been done during my days off? who did the brunoise? – shit… the brunoise….they would have to be perfect if I was going to the french embassy. THEY INVENTED THE BRUNOISE. I could see guests looking into their 2 oz sample of chowder at the tiny massacre of carrots, celery root and potatoes caused by the dull “kitchen knife” and poor knife skills of a careless and clueless line cook forced to undertake the task. Then smiling into the face of their companions.

“brunoise?”

possible laughter.

definite judgement.

Then my emotions auto-piloted on a good, old-fashioned stand-by. anger.

Why the hell would chef share this with my work nemesis BEFORE he would tell ME if he intended for ME to carry out all of the work?

I will not miss this poor communication…

The funny thing was, even after I knew, I wasn’t sure if chef knew I knew and I waited nearly two hours into his arrival for him to actually tell me his “plan”, which was a follows,

“You’re going to the French embassy tomorrow and passing out samples of the oyster chowder. I’ve been going for the past four years and I’m kinda over it… but I think it’ll be good for you… it’s real chill. You pass out samples and get fucked up on champagne.”

“Okay… who’s going to work my station tomorrow night?”

He was going to pull our garde manger guy over, which sounded like a terrible idea. I love him (bless his heart…) but he’s not even handling his own station very well at the moment and to put him on what is arguably one of the most difficult stations… on a Saturday night… smells like fail to me.

“I also forgot to order celery root for the base,”

Celery root, of course, being… the primary component of the base. This means that I would have to make the soup the day of.

“so you can just work on the garnishes tonight and start getting everything together… business cards, ban marie, salt/pepper…”

So now after setting up my line, I was made to leave it and work on enough perfect brunoise to be visible in 250 samples of soup.

FML. as the kids say…

Even during my prep for this… nightmare, I got pulled off about four times – for about 30 minutes each time, to bail them out of the weeds because (big shocker…) the poor garde manger guy was having some pretty serious trouble keeping up with the pace.

Suffice it to say, I did not finish everything that night, which meant an early-ish morning to get it done by four o’clock the next day.

The next day, I arrived two hours before the other cooks in hopes of finishing everything before they arrived so that I could at least help them set up for service before I disappeared.

Not so much…

I finished all the cutting but still needed to glaze my brunoise, render the fat from my lardons, puree my soup, find business cards, make stupid signs that read “Chesapeake Oyster Chowder” and then some ridiculous, print piece with our restaurant logo, address and website… because apparently… I’m the only person in the entire hotel who knows how to use a computer and printer…

Again, time was a total jerk but I was perfectly packed up and ready to go with twenty minutes to spare.

Suck on that, time…

I went down to change into my cleaner chef coat and as I pulled them out of the plastic, dry cleaning wrap, noticed that there were stains on BOTH jackets.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccckkkkk

I managed to get the stain on one of the jackets mostly off and then realized that it could be easily covered by using the other side of the jacket. Crisis avoided.

As I had what I hoped would not be my final smoke until after the event, the couple pulled up.

She smiled and I smiled back. Both of us smiling at one another in that way that people do when they hate each other. When she stepped out of the car, I greeted her and told her that I would pop back in to get my stuff and when I did, she sent me a text that read:

You should quit smoking.

I very nearly replied back,

One of us is not going to make it tonight.

We arrived and as I expected, there were some restaurants who had gone over the top. They’re tables were gorgeous – tiered and such. Plus, they very cleverly brought their own utensils and serving dishes. and I hated them for it. Ours looked like a charter school craft project.

I started to feel like a hack.

Things got slightly worse when I noticed that the embassy had provided us with 8 oz bowls to display a 2 oz sample. Plus, the bowls were white – and the chowder was… white. This would not do.

I pulled it together and was able to use my “charm” to get them to locate some different bowls for us. They returned with 4 oz, plastic black, bowls. Despite being plastic, the size and color were perfect so I accepted them. Besides, I noticed that nearly everyone was using plastic so I tried not to beat myself about it. Plus, I had no choice at this moment.

Then, one of the catering manager’s hideous flower arrangements fell from the table, breaking the vase.

It’s awful… but it made me happy.

“Oh no….” I feigned….

The soup was very well received with my perfect brunoise garnish resting delicately on top of each one, earning me several comments throughout the night. In fact, we had several repeat visitors. Some even brought friends back with them.

The only thing that nearly drove me insane is that every time someone approached the table, my “date” would pounce on them like a desperate maniac and launch into her schpeel – first inquiring if they had ever been to the restaurant and if they had not, where the restaurant was located and what the dish was.

Look, I get it. This is a business. and it should be marketed. I totally understand that. I was gracious..and welcoming. and all that crap. But I’m not going to beg someone to eat my food and in my mind, every time she opened her mouth, I felt like all these people heard was “I have no shame. Please buy food at this restaurant”.

I ended up having a great time despite the company. The manager’s boyfriend earned his keep by bringing us food samples and champagne for most of the night.

As usual, booze makes everything better.

We actually shared a couple of laughs, pointed out cute guys, ugly guys, and potential “escorts”.

It wasn’t until the event ended that I realized that I was so “focused” that I managed to avoid making any potential contacts in perhaps the most perfect place I could have done so.

Thanks a lot – stupid work ethic and booze.

But… somehow…everything will work itself out?

I’m shocked that I even mustered the energy to complain about it. I guess I’m just resilient that way.

I’m a martyr, often confused for a self-absorbed, cry-baby.

Even for a self-proclaimed “golden boy”, this schedule is brutal. NOT even thoughts of gay Paris are enough to sustain me. I’m a six top away from a teary-eyed, mental breakdown with the possibility of an assault charge. or two. Though more realistically, a barrage of bitchy comments about their professional, educational, and social incompetencies.  But they’ll wish I had physically assaulted them instead… It’ll be that hurtful…

Sure, there are plenty of chefs who have horror stories of experiences much worse and on a more regular basis… but I’m not interested in their stories… I’m far too wrapped up in my own problems.

We began our reopening with a couple of mock services for hotel staff and local business associates (who apparently must have gifted the invitations to their really ghetto-seeming secretaries)… Let me tell you,  nothing boils the blood like being made to cook for people you hate. I don’t believe we’ve ever made so many well done steaks or S.O.S’ (Sauce on Side)…

During my misery over my summer schedule and routine, I actually forgot about how miserable my full-time routine was.

I have a “final” cigarette in front of the garage of the building next door. This way, no one disrupts the slow poisoning of my lungs, as I have occasionally been approached with a question or complaint before I even have my hand on the door to enter the property. If a dishwasher sees me across the street from the building while he’s emptying a trash bin and has a question about his paycheck or needs to take an unscheduled day off, he will start talking as soon as we make eye contact.

If I can manage to make it to the locker room without being stopped by someone, I will shoot a 5 hour energy while trying to mentally cross referencing the prep list that I wrote for that day with what I think we might need from one of the downstairs walk-ins, so I don’t have to make a second (or fifth) trip later.

I enter the kitchen and tie on an apron while quietly surveying what people are working on, determining it’s priority against other tasks that need to be finished, based on what our reservations are or if we have a banquet event that night. If we have a party of 30 and need to make more soup then I might have to stop a cook from cutting potatoes for breakfast the next day and “encourage” him start peeling butternut squash.

Of course, they shouldn’t be prepping anything before their stations are fully set up for the upcoming service. So I need to “visit” each station – making sure people have things like mache, diced shallots, caramelized onions, fingerling potatoes, mussels, lemon juice, enough of the various sauces in their bans to make it through an entire shift. I have to act as a priority coach. Hell, you can julienne your herbs a la minute if you absolutely have to…but no way, can you blanch haricot verts to order. Unless your chef is a psychopath.

It’s during these visits, that the cooks take the opportunity to complain about how they have too much work to do and how nothing was prepared for them by the previous shift or how they were unable to complete an item for their station because we were out of an ingredient, where I, again… have to remind them of the necessity of prioritizing and organization. You don’t forgo making a brine, for example, just because we’re out of bay leaves (priority)…which, by the way, we ARE NOT out of. I just saw them in a container underneath the thyme (organization).

When service begins, I’m ping-ponged between the stations, helping move things along faster where there seems to be a lull, while trying to keep my eye on taste and presentation. Don’t compensate for forgetting to add radishes to your mixed green salad by adding too much blue cheese.

Deliveries to be signed for, arguments to break up, hands to be held, family meal to get working, unplanned requests by the hotel for cheese and fruit displays, and menus to be reprinted based on changes texted to me by chef.

Shift change.

Have the exact same interactions with a different set of cooks.

On top of which, It’s now painfully clear that my passport is nowhere to be found, which is going to make my short-term pilgrimage to France… somewhat of a challenge… so now, THAT gets added to the list of trip preparations that I seem to have no time to execute, which also include NOT being homeless for more than half of my visit and being able to EAT for a little more than half of my visit.

On top of that… and, I haven’t run the numbers…but I feel like I’ve gained about ten pounds since the beginning of the summer and I’m so depressed about it… that I can’t stop eating my pain.

On the other, I’m not prepared for anything more than that…

I’m not ready to deal with questions about where I’m staying. or working.  or how my french is. They will just remind me of how unprepared I really am… thus, raining on my parade.

There is also the matter of closing out my position at my current restaurant, which can’t come soon enough. I’m in such a severe state of unhappy, that I’m seriously concerned for my ability to keep it together until February.

Every day is an extended, modern-day, video of Aretha Franklin’s “Pitiful” staring…moi.

In preparation of our “grand reopening”, we are being booked for every holiday party, baby shower, pre-wedding brunch, and bah mitzvah that the hotel can contract for.

Yesterday, I had an “exchange” with our catering events coordinator/whore after showing up to work for a surprise cleaning and moving day.

She was all smiles and veiled bitchiness and asked me how I was doing as I stood before her, a sweaty and red-faced, mess who beginning to cramp. I looked at her as I would if she had taken a shit on the floor.

“I’ve been better.”

To which she responded, “You are such a ray of sunshine.”

I nearly lost it.

Is this funny to her?

“I’m not sure what the protocol is for being fucked over.”

end of cigarette. end of scene.

I also noticed that during this time that chef did very little. VERY… LITTLE. This guy works out as a hobby while I regard it as punishment and yet… I’m lifting my sixth alcove table…

It should come as no shock to anyone that manual labor isn’t really my thang.

I’ve taken taxis go uphill.

I once pretended to faint in front of a cop car because I didn’t feel like walking home.

But I get why chef did it…He did it because he didn’t have to.

Plain and simple.

I don’t know if I was more upset because this forced workout sucked OR if it was because I was expecting to be pardoned from it.

I’m already in charge of PR, IT, print materials, product ordering, inventory, babysitting, and being a full time line cook. If we’re going to add mover to my itinerary, then I’m going to need some more cash.

Earlier this week, before the move made me hate him a little, chef and I went for burgers at BTS, where we both had the “Big Daddy” (Smoked Benton Bacon,  Buttermilk Blue Cheese, and Lea and Perrins Mushrooms/Homemade Bun).

It was pretty amazing.

BTS also shares a kitchen with District Commons, where chef is friends with one of the sous-chefs, who gave us a tour of the kitchen and dining room.

Wood and chrome tables, hand-cranked deli slicers, holding ovens and beer and wine coolers from the floor to the ceiling. Everything was virgin (brand new).

I looked around and tried not to act embarrassingly impressed or ashamed of what I would soon be walking back to, while chef and his friend were engrossed in conversation about some of the products and what they had been up to and where they had worked since they saw each other last.

How nice it must be to have people who actually want to invest in making the restaurant a success instead of paying for only what is deemed unusable and insisting on recycling as much of the thirty year old equipment as possible.

Still, as I looked around at the pretty, shiny things, It occurred to me, these people are going to be busy as shit.

It was the kind of place that you’d visit even if the food wasn’t that great. If the food does turn out to be good, then it’s even more of a bonus for them.

During the walk back to the restaurant, chef said, “Can you believe that shit?”

“No.”

“We’ve really gotta step our game up.”

Yeah….

This is where it gets tricky for me.

The hotel is looking for us to step it up because they’re greedy, soul-less bastards.

Chef wants to step it up because his reputation is on the line.

and then there’s me… just trying to keep from blowing my brains out before I get on a plane and spend all my savings so that I can feel insecure in two languages.

But it’s accurate and it’s what I’m dealing with now. and it needs to be addressed. or addressed again.

I don’t want to turn people away from dining out or be in fear of having their food sabotaged. Cooks are generally, very generous people… unless you make them be otherwise.

There are those people who love food. and these are the people we strive to please. Those willing to try new things and excited about what we want to share with them… and we genuinely want to make a customers experience a pleasurable one… unless they make it otherwise.

I was hoping that my upcoming move to “the most romantic city on the world” would have prevented me from being a total nightmare in the coming months.

That has sort of happened. I’m not a total nightmare all of the time but with a host a recent temper tantrums and evil thoughts under my belt since my ticket purchase, I realize that keeping my eyes fully on the prize and bowing out gracefully, may not be in the cards.

I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking about how much I hate the arrogant, bureaucratic, Nazis who make decisions for my restaurant, the worthless servers, and some of the horrible customers who think that the cost of their entree includes a complimentary pass to second guess the menu, degrade the wait staff and covet our recipes.

All of this has ultimately stifled any creativity left or love of cooking I once had (at the moment), which makes this adventure not only a dream but a necessity, if I am to stay in this business.

I need to fall in love with cooking again. I need to be around people who understand and support my sometimes elitist and downright loathing of a walk-in customer with a list of dietary restrictions and substitutions as ridiculous and offensive as the Hawaiian shirt and cut-off shorts they insist on wearing.

Oh, how I’d love to kick you right in the fannypack.

This makes France the obvious choice.

They get it. They invented suffering for their art.

Some of these list items are reasonable while others might appear to be the thoughts of someone extremely hateful and unstable.

In any case, I need to get them off my chest with the hope that putting them out there will allow the universe to deal with them better than I have, allowing me to focus on better (or at least, other…) things…

1. Customers who waste their servers’ time by sending them to the kitchen to inquire about where their food is from.
Where do we get our mussels? Where do we get our lamb? I don’t mind (too much) an innocent curiosity but 99% of these requests come from some douchebag who scanned an article about sustainability on Google News in between porn site visits and Facebook postings and now suddenly wants to be appear informed in front of their dinner companions (99% of whom, couldn’t care less and hope that this request doesn’t prolong the arrival of the main course.)

2. Family Meal.
I think this is appauling. I’m just going to say it… no cook should ever have to waste valuable prep time to make anything for a server. Sorry servers… but you don’t work as hard as we do… plain and simple. and I don’t want to hear it about the dealing with the customers. Until one of them cuts your fingertip off with their steak knife or holds the dining table candle under your forearm for an extended period of time, you have not earned my respect. Continue eating off customers plates before turning them over to the dishwasher. You savage. Maybe #2 should be “servers”?

3. Sales Staff and GMs.
This might be more specific to my situation but currently our restaurant is being “marketed” by a team of “professionals” who know nothing about the restaurant business (i.e. they have no idea how to build a respectable clientele for us or who they should be notifying about our efforts and/or accomplishments) and even less about food. Our fate rests in the hands of a group of recent college graduates who seem to act out of a Marketing for Dummies book and a “restaurant manager” who is almost always, a former line cook who couldn’t hack it and still doesn’t get it, as they are far too willing to roll over for a needy customer.

4. Johnny Come Latelys.
This is going to take a minute… but its for your own good.
I may change my mind about this, should I become a restauranteur down the road but at this time in my life, as someone who is frequently on the cusp of missing the last bus home, I must tell you… potential customer…that showing up 10 minutes before closing and expecting (in some cases, demanding) to enjoy the same leisurely pace (and quality) of multiple courses as those who show up at 7:00 p.m…. is utterly… fucking… insane.

Here is what happens when you do this.

As soon as you are spotted heading toward the host stand, someone from the front of the house (waiter/busboy/bartender) has gone back to inform the cooks that a party has arrived.

The cooks, who have already started wrapping up their stations at this point, go ape shit. A host of expletives are shouted into the air (if it’s a closed kitchen) and they immediately demand to know if the GM really intends to take the table even though they kind of already know the answer. 9 times out of 10, the GM will take the table, because they, like the rest of the front of the house, are an asshole, and see only an extra $20 – $30 tip.

The longer you take to order, the more hostile the cooks are becoming… because they have plans to get to. and there is still cleaning left to do.

If you are asshole enough to insist on multiple courses despite noticing that you’re the minority in the emptying dining room then you must know that you are not getting good service. You have been called every name in the book by the people in charge of your food. In many cases, they’ve peered at you from the kitchen and already made brutal comments about your physical appearance, your outfit, and your inconsideration/arrogance at showing up at such a time. and they are moving forward with closing up regardless of your requests. Most exec chefs are gone…or drunk at this time of night, so there is no one to protect you. You are totally at the mercy of an overworked and underpaid line cook and your presence has possibly just thrown a wrench into their plans for the night.

If a cook ran out of (or already wrapped up) an item or a garnish at their station, there is no way in hell they are going to replenish them for you. You are generally getting whatever they have left or feel like throwing in a pan. If they already put their stock away, you’re getting water. If they used up all of their pea shoots, you’re getting parsley – or whatever “green” thing they find… and if you even think of making a substitution or insist on something that they have to make on the fly, then you might as well just let them come out and spit into your mouth directly. It will taste far better than whatever they are forced to make.

5. Asking for a recipe.
I’m occasionally surprised at the bold requests made some customers. Most obnoxiously, are the requests for the recipe of a menu item.

WTF?

You want a recipe? You got a pen?

1 cup of none of your damn business
3/4 tablespoon of instead of looking at Giada De Laurentiis’ tits for the entire episode, try paying more attention to what she’s doing or saying the next time you’re posted in front of the Food Network.
8 oz. of figure it out for yourself.

I know this sounds a bit harsh – but it is what it is… I didn’t put myself in debt to go to culinary school so that someone else can be a better cook. Unless you’re chipping in on this student loan, then you’re on your own.

But again, this is directed to the explosion of entitled pricks for customers. We will do anything for (and give anything to) customers who are willing to play the game and cater to our ego.

Okay… time’s up…

I think we’re at a good stopping point.

We’ll resume next week…