Photo by @lasse_bergqvist
I spent some time in the 80’s as a sous chef in a French and Italian Provencal restaurant. I’d worked as a chef but couldn’t find a job anywhere. Professional kitchens have a rigid class system and females weren’t hired very often.
One restaurant offered me a dish washer’s job. A dish washer not only washes the dishes but peels the potatoes, takes out the garbage, mops the floor, carries in food for prep and generally gets a lot of grief. It’s the lowest paid, lowest status job in the kitchen, very physical and one of the most exhausting.
So I took the job. Yep, I took the worst job in the kitchen, the total insult to my skills because I knew they’d pay and feed me. That was important.
My least favorite part of being a dishwasher was taking care of the kitchen floor. Guess who stays late to sweep, mop, sanitize and haul off to dry the mats and then mops the tiled kitchen floors a few times? The kitchen floor in a restaurant is slippery especially during a rush. My shoes never lasted more than 5 months. The rubber mats you’ve been standing on all day to ease your legs get slick too. Everyone is mindful of the floor.
The executive chef, an alcoholic and a budding drug addict, had a temper and could be unbelievably unreasonable. The rest of the kitchen crew was golden. They were the hardest working, funniest, nicest people I’d ever worked with. The crew would bail someone out of jail, help them move, get them drunk when the girlfriend/boyfriend found someone else, haul them to AA meetings.
I loved them like a family.
I was a dish washer for two weeks when the head prep cook walked out after a screaming match with the head chef. I got promoted on the spot to head prep cook and Barry mysteriously appeared to take over my dish washing job.
Then came the day the owner decided to tour the kitchen. I was working at the sink when he cruised through our area and slapped me on the butt.
I turned around sharply snatching up a huge knife.
The entire kitchen fell silent. I open my mouth to say, “If you ever touch me again I will cut off your balls and feed them to you, you disgusting pig,” when Carlos touched my arm and, with an imperceptible shake of his head, let me know stabbing the pathetic bastard wasn’t worth doing time for.
“Don’t touch the help,” the executive chef sighed. “They’re really busy and someone might accidentally get badly cut.” I’ve always regretted not speaking up. It would have been worth getting fired for.
In July the head chef walked out and convinced the sous chef to come along. The new head chef promoted me to sous chef and hired a chef named Evan who looked about 12. First week there Evan cuts off the tip of his finger. He’s back on the job the next day sporting and an impressive bandage. He’s cooking away one evening and sets the bandage on fire.
Then one Saturday we get slammed with diners. The head chef is MIA and a cook doesn’t show. I’m in charge. People who don’t know what they’re doing are pitching in and working the cold and hot lines. I’m expediting orders, shifting in at the stove with Evan and doing my best to keep everyone from walking out.
Evan is working like a madman. He had 6 beautifully presented dishes lined up, three on each arm. I can still see it in my mind.
He rounds the corner, his right foot clips the edge of the rubber mat and he starts to stumble forward. He catches himself and it looks like everything will be okay when his left foot slips on the oily mat and he falls, spectacularly tossing all the plates on his arms up in the air. The food and plates hit the ceiling. As he lies there on his back, eyes closed, he gets covered with 6 plates of pasta and dishes which shatter around him. He doesn’t move. I’m not sure he’s breathing. The entire kitchen comes to a halt. My god I thought he was dead. I ran over to him. “Evan! Evan, are you okay? Evan, can you hear me?” It’s then I hear him say in a tiny, sad voice, “Do I have to do it all again?”
“YES!” I scream at him. “Get up now!”
The kitchen went into overdrive and we did indeed get it done. Evan had some burns on his face from the hot food raining down on him but otherwise he was okay. At the end of the night I bought him a couple of vodka tonics and had a couple of bourbons myself. “Evan,” I said gently. “maybe you should reconsider your career as a chef.” We worked together another 5 years.
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