Turning Tables
“Pick up ten. Vite, vite.” Chef Claude was already tired of this waiter tonight. “If the sauce breaks before it gets to your table, you’ll be wearing it. Do you understand?”
“Oui, Chef.”
Upon hearing this, Chef’s ears burned. “Speaking French doesn’t make you a boy; remember that.” Chef Claude was in a particular mood this evening.
“Americans.” The acidic words like a smooth velouté, flowed effortlessly off his tongue before sputtering around the base of the pan. “Life is so easy for you until you have to work.”
His staff heard Chef’s quip and anxiously looked at him, hoping he would offer more derision so that they could sneer along with him. His staff rarely smiled. None of them dared to look as if they were enjoying their work.
Despite the beauty of the finished products placed on the plates they had perfected; it was more important to perform for Chef. Each person behind the line had learned to minimize their movements. They were surrounded by pots and pans like a drummer with no space to set up.
Nobody’s shoulders moved. Their heads were down looking up periodically to check on the next item up. The skilled hands that sliced and julienned vegetables made precise cuts with knives that never banged on a cutting board. They were delicate instruments. Sauté pans were not given the same gentle treatment. Moving to the stove allowed legs stiff from standing to stretch and tense arm muscles could relax momentarily. The sound of pans scraping on burners continued the symphony.
Oil was ladled onto the pan and allowed to warm before adding the first item that would sizzle and release the aroma of fresh ingredients before turning into a mélange of flavors. Then it would pass to the next station to be finished before plating.
There was no music besides the rhythms and sounds made by the food being prepared. If it was a good night someone would call out a table number and say, “Order up, Chef”. On less tranquil ones the thunder of Chef’s voice could be heard piercing the air.
“Where is my salad for six?” Occasionally he would taste something that wasn’t quite right. He would say things like, “Would you serve this to your mistress? Never. It’s salty and has too much garlic. This is what you give your wife!”
Anything deemed wife food was destined for the waste bin. Chef had recently been through a nasty divorce that cost him his restaurant, forcing him to work for someone else.
When Claude became executive chef, he wanted everyone to know where they stood in his eyes. On his first day, he hung an embroidered scroll beside the time clock. It was made of cotton duct and thick thread that would never be considered refined.
To survive in my kitchen, you must learn your place -
Executive Chef
Chef De Cuisine
Sous-Chef
Party Chef
Commis Chef
Kitchen Porter
Dishwasher
Bartender
Waiters
The kitchen staff was equally oppressive. It was their chance to give grief to those beneath them. They enjoyed being able to proffer Chef’s attitude toward waiters, even if they were not allowed to use his words.
Tommy was unphased.
“Yes, Chef.” His eyes were fixed on the medium-rare Steak Diane sitting on the line. If it weren’t for the scent of his cologne, Chef would have picked up the metallic smell of resentment.
“Mon Dieu. Why are you still here?”
The line stopped what they were doing to glare at him.
“Yes, Chef.” Tommy, the new waiter, who had been there two years, picked up his order and escaped into the din of the contemporary dining room. He straightened his spine and moved gracefully towards table ten, where he gingerly placed the perfectly prepared piece of beef his customer had ordered.
There was easily a 15-degree difference in temperature between the kitchen and the dining room.
Perhaps Chef had a reason to be overheated.
