About a month ago, I completed the exit
from my old life and dove head first into my new one.
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Good timing (and a little shameless pleading to a friend) landed me a job in a restaurant kitchen at long last. Doing my best to not be haunted or daunted by the words I heard last year, “Don’t take this wrong, but I don’t think you will ever work in a restaurant.”, I adopted my usual “…and the horse you rode in on” attitude and the rest is new history.
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So, whats it like in a kitchen? Is is stressful? Is it fun? Is it clean and shiny like Le Bernardin? Do I get to create wonderful things and eat all kinds of good stuff at work? Is the chef really the one standing on a platform in the middle of the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs? Is it really a bad idea to slap the dishwasher on the ass and tell them to tackle 50 pounds of potatoes during dinner rush? And what exactly happens when food falls on the floor???
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All in due time, my friends, all in due time. Lemme first tell you that I am still dabbling in chocolate for a few hours every week, using the contact high as therapy. I adore the Lillie Belle crew and for a few hours every week I get a dose of hippie love that carries me well into my work shift at the restaurant. I work four nights a week, usually 6 pm to closing and that, I have found out, is entirely dependent on the blood alcohol level of the citizens of Medford. Historically, late night bar food is awful and goes unnoticed by intoxicated patrons that shove it down just for fuel or to spew later, but this joint serves perfectly lovely food for classy drunks, and slings beautifully crafted cocktails to match.
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My new home is a Spanish restaurant that features tapas, or “covers”. Tapas, for those of you not in the know, were originally a cracker or some such snack that could be placed over an open wine glass to keep flying invaders from doing backstroke in one’s Albarino as they stood mingling and decompressing at the bar after work. It evolved into more complex items, from one bite items and finger foods to what we today call “small plates”. I have a soft spot for Spanish food, as my family would, on huge special occasions, haul ourselves down to old Ironbound Newark to the Spanish and Portuguese enclave for paella. This cauldron of goodness was stoked full of clams, mussels, chicken, sausage, lobster and calamari, accompanied by pitchers of fruit chunk-laden sangria, monstrous steaks layered with an inch of sizzling chopped garlic on top, piles of fried thick cut potato chips and heaped platters of saffron scented rice. I once had a wedding reception in one of those places, and last time I was home with Brian, we took our paella to go, froze it, packed it in ice and flew back to Billings with it in my carry-on luggage. We later ate it fireside on Memorial Day Weekend in South Dakota with s’more chasers.
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Medford has few stylish and crafty restaurants to dine at, save for about or two. I work at one, and the other one lies just around the corner. I wandered into the tapas place at the end of my summer internship debacle in sad shape and needing soul food of some meaningful kind. I slid into a booth, ordered a bunch of things and sat until my food appeared in blessed silence, unmoving, numb and exhausted mentally. I ate by myself, slowly, carefully, as the food began to restore my sense of what was right and wrong in the food universe. Suffice to say, the restaurant, the pretty countryside and the rest of the area made a better impression on me than what I had experienced in the previous three months, and we made the move down here so I could chase down a job in this fine establishment’s kitchen. Yes, I am a sentimental shmuck at heart.
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As luck would have it, some cosmic shift occurred and with the help of one of my chef friends from school, I got my size 12’s in the door and I joined the team at Elements Tapas Bar and Lounge. With a chef change made just before my arrival, it was a little unusual to be starting from the bottom with someone learning a new kitchen right along with me. My chef is a cool, competent dude, a nice talented guy, well liked and he’s worked all over this valley. And no, he does not scream like a bitchy prima donna. The other main squeeze is a young’un with 6-7 years of experience on me. He lives La Vida Bourdain, makes me totally crack up and he can prep the shit out of anything. The rest of the crew and the owner of the place are totally stand-up folks. Cool, amusing, hard-working, goddamned hilarious and a ball to be around.
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Now its time for the dirt.
There is always a dump truck full of truth
in my adventures, and this is no different.
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So, Jen were you shitting myself on the first day of your stage?
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Oh, HELLS yeah! I felt totally stupid, walking to the front door, Brian packing me off like I was going to my first day of school, making sure I had sharp knives, extra socks, a lighter in my pocket, Sharpies… After all that formal and regimented education, there I was, marching into battle for the first time… I felt like I needed my name and address pinned to my shirt and a change of underwear in a baggie in case I had an accident. Once I got to work, I had no time to even think about being nervous, it was go-go-go! Hasn’t been much different since that first day, actually.
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Is it stressful?
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Lets just say that when the little printer that spits our paper tickets out starts hurling like a St Paddy’s Day drunk, the only proper and widely accepted verbal response at the machine starts with, “Fuck your…” and ends with insulting generations of solid state mechanical devices being insulted. The chef fessed up that he hears it in his sleep. Me? I don’t have the ticket machine nightmare problem so much as I have a newfound OCD target and it’s the deck oven. I check that bastard fifty, sixty times a night, fearing I have forgotten a flatbread, a baking Manchego cheese or loaf of bread. Some night, I will forget something in that quadruple decked bastard and I will come in the next day to find it hanging from a chain off the ceiling. Mementos are in abundance in this kitchen, and I will be damned if a burnt offering will immortalize me!!
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Is it shiny and pretty like Le Bernardin’s kitchen?
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Are you shitting me? Eric Ripert has a staff of fifty people just for his hair and fifty more to wipe his ass in the bathroom… What do you think?! So, its roomier than most kitchens, which is kinda nice, but I sure as shit would not operate on anyone in there. A sterile environment is way different mentality but you know how it goes, food flies fast and stuff splatters. Whats important is how it tastes and looks on the plate. Nuff said.
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Do I get to taste all kinds of wonderful foods
and create new things all the time?
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We all get to be creative and contribute some small things to the menu, namely desserts. As we have a new chef, some of the menu items will be changing and evolving as he spiffs things up a little. It’s nice that we all get asked what our thoughts are, we are pressed for ideas, we are encouraged to play a bit. Time is short, we prep, cook and run, but we do what we can when we manage to find the time.
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Have I gained weight working around all that yummy food?
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Ummm… not so much. My job is to cook, so eating is usually not a priority. I occasionally bring a protein shake with me… sounds pathetic, huh? Really, its okay. I can use a little trimming down after all that abuse I threw at my insides with the Baking & Pastry program’s rejects all over the lounge tables at school… I am still ashamed at some of the crap I willingly ate.
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And about smacking the dishwasher…?
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Unless you want to draw back a bloody stump, you best not reach out to slap some ass, ’cause we ALL do our own dishes, and the closer (AKA, Moi) does the plates, flatware and all the service dishes as well as shutting down the line. It’s best not to poke the bear she may flat-out kill you.
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Is it fun?
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Lemme tell ya, it takes a certain kind of person to like the special environment that is the restaurant kitchen. As La Bourdain says, “It’s a buncha sweaty guys in a submarine talking about dick, dick, dick, dick, dick.”. Really. It is.
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People ask me why I left medicine, and I just smile… It’s because 99% of what comes out of my mouth at night can not be uttered in an operating room. And they frown on adult beverages within 8 hours of your shift. Can you imagine the 8 hour rule applying to a restaurant kitchen???? Holy smokes, nobody would ever get a decent meal!! I do wonder how people like me who are not under the influence of massive amounts of recreational agents can belt out 10 tickets in under 5 minutes. Admitting or assuming nuthin’ ’bout nobody, I will gladly admit to having my ass handed to me by a 23 year old when the ticket rail is full. experience is a grand thing and I appreciate the attribute in others, no matter what the motivation or means of momentum.
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And when food hits the floor?
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Just think of it as landing in a garbage can. It’s the right thing to do.
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Sore feet and Dehydration
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I confess it’s not all fun and games. Some nights are hard. I am still trying to get a handle on ticket management. When I am on shift alone and five tickets are staring me in the face, it’s a little intimidating. I need to fight through the weeds as fast as I can and keep my eyes on ten different items cooking at one time. Not turning out charcoal or overdone food is as important as not sending out underdone food as well. Food is food. It’s done when its done and you are its slave… But, still, like Dude said to me long ago, “It’s just food.” Simple and complex.
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I have learned the hard way, that four days of this is perfect and five days, with extra hours and obscenely long nights, makes Jen a complete bitch. With the change of the clocks last weekend, a freak busy night and little rest, we all felt it hard when we got clobbered, leaving for our beds somewhere close to breakfast time. Foul humor was in abundance (all mine, I admit), but a good rest cured me.
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So, do I feel bulletproof yet? Not even close. Do I question my abilities and juggling skills every day? U betcher ass. It’s called “a healthy respect for the job” in my opinion. Will I conquer this beast? Undoubtedly. I rarely turn down a worthy challenge. After all, it ain’t brain surgery… It’s more fun 🙂
Hang in there Jen! Even if you aren’t enjoying yourself, I’m enjoying you!
Cheers
David
Its a hell of a ride, David! Wish you and Erin were on the lounge couch watching the circus live!!
Hi… you’re old Auntie Bobbi is proud of you. At 61 I am working harder than ever before… but I love running a charity… You are probably working harder as well, but if this is something you will enjoy, it is worth it!
Big hug… Bobbi “Bai Ling”