I follow this mantra and am on Craigslist. I see a want ad for a line cook. I think to myself I have worked as a line cook before. I worked at hooters and made sandwiches and tossed wings. I worked at Chilli’s and fucked up some people’s salads and appetizers. God I sucked as a line cook.
Hooters was my first job out of the Army and I decided that I wanted to call in sick. I wasn't allowed to do that in the Army. So I pick up the phone and call in sick. The next day I was called in to the office and was surrounded by all the red nosed managers, (hooters managers did a lot of coke), and was told I was “fired.”
“Cool,” I said and talked my friend nick into quitting before leaving, because, well, he was my ride.
My job at Chilli’s didn't end much better. I hated the waitress’s, every single one of them, mainly for asking for salad dressing. I hated the lettuce machine, which was constantly running out of lettuce; I hated the chili’s red nosed managers, or they hated me, I lied on my application or at least I think I did. I got my friend Nick a job there and right before closing one night the fucker walked out leaving all the closing side work to the rest of the shift.
It was nice being in our earlier twenties in the late nineties. Jobs were plentiful and money dripped in handfuls.
My last job on a line cooking was for a Barbecue place called Sonny’s. I will never live in Florida again anyway because of the humidity, which was exacerbated by memories of two a day football practices in August in full gear and my experience working at this restaurant. I don’t know if kitchens routinely have air conditioning, but this place did not, and it had three giant rotisserie ovens going all the time, two flat tops, a log fed grill and five people behind the line all fighting to get as close to the small breeze coming in from the expedite window as they could.
I pulled a knife on someone once here and thought seriously of using it, before the thought of prison crept up and the image of spending the rest of my days roasting on some chain gang stopped me.
I have created a special CV for line cook jobs and a cover letter to match. I e-mailed it to the craigslist’s address.
A few hours later I get a response. That’s good for craigslist usually my resumes get sucked up into the black hole of cyber space. I am thankful It doesn't cost me anything but time to apply for a job this way.
This time I get something back:
Joshua,
What exactly are you looking for? You have plenty of life experience, but really no fine dining experience. This would be an entry level job for you. If this is of interest, please give me a call and we can discuss your goals as a cook and what you're hoping to experience by working at Stone Park Cafe. Thanks,
Josh Grinker
Josh is the head chef. I am impressed.
He includes his number and I give him a call and leave a message.
“Hey I am interested!” I probably yelled into my phone!
When he calls back we talk about my experience. I try and make Chili’s, the BBQ place and Hooters sound impressive, and he says “we don’t do those sorts of things here.”
I might have said “Oh,” in a meek little voice.
“Come in and see a shift, work from 5-9 and see if you like it, then we can talk.”
I got excited and would have hugged the guy through the phone if possible.
I looked it as a free pass on a writing idea if nothing else.
When I get there I am told to follow the fish guy and I guess the fish guys makes the fish. Instead of following I am asked to clean the shrimp. I clean the shrimp leave a bit of the tail on as the guy showed me and devein them with a very sharp knife, maybe I cut a bit too deep, almost butter flying them, and still have difficulty getting the black line of salty crud from within their bodies out.
Must be some trick that I don’t know.
So I make up a trick and grab a dish fill it with water and rinse each shrimp in it and toss it in a Chinese take-out container. I am not sure if all the crud is removed or not but make it through my task. I clean my area, as I promised I would in my cover letter and am given another task.
Make the Pico De Gallo.
The Sous Chef shows me, “take a tomato and cut in three piece long ways, than cut it in six pieces short ways , this is the annoying part, but you be okay, than take the onion make three slits like this.”
He shows me but I miss it. I have my own way of cutting onions that works most of the time, his way was perfect, fuck I think, but I don’t ask him about the three slits, I wish I had. First I drop a whole basket of cherry tomatoes on the ground. Hope no one is watching, but fully aware, me, being the only gringo in the kitchen every eye had to be on me. Instead of washing those off, I just throw them away. No one yells. So I move on and cut the tomatoes and the sous chef is correct this is the most annoying thing I have yet to do.
Taking as long as the shrimp I finish and cut the onion, my way, I have a little too much left uncut at the top but decide fuck it and throw those section into the trash.
Afterward I have a bowl of Red and purple and think this doesn't seem right.
I tap one of the Mexican guys on the shoulder. “Que es?” I don’t speak Spanish, he might not even be Mexican, but he answers in deeply accented English, jalapenos and cilantro.
The young food runner walks over, “over there in the water grab that bowl and tear the leaves from the stems and toss into the mix okay?”
He sounds impatient.
“Okay.”
I scan the line for tickets and don’t see any.
Beginning to get paranoid, I wonder if these tasks given to me are taking too long. I grab the bowl dice the jalapenos and strip the leafs from the cilantro and finish the job by squeezing lime all over top.
At this point I am bored, hungry and ready to call it a day I had double booked myself and had an interview scheduled with the Olympic race walker Maria Michta scheduled for 8, it was 7:30. Than the chef walks in. “A limo’s just pulled up get ready for the night boys, the billionaire is here.”
The bowl of finished Pico De Gallo is pulled from me and the Chef says “Josh stand my me.” And I do.
The food runner comes in, “One of those fuckers is Six foot eight.” The Billionaire owns the Brooklyn Nets. I had promised to keep my mouth shut the entire evening, but couldn't help asking, Which would you prefer to be 6’8 or a billionaire?”
Billionaire came the universal response.
And I tried to explain about the stress of money, not that I have any nor any height other then my six feet, but was interrupted by the chef, “No,” he demands, “stand there in that corner cram yourself in.” Out of the way I think and free from the discussion, but I hear the chef say, “interesting,” and wonder why.
Then it starts.<>P Tickets start bouncing out of the machine, orders are given and food so perfect my mouth salivates, starts hitting the window.
I am given a taste of the English Pea Soup with crème fraiche, oh my god if I were drowned in soup I could have picked no better way to die.
Meat was charring on the grill, boned fish were smoking, and salads piled in perfect little circles on plates were being pushed into my hands to give the chef.
“Heirloom beets, Arugula, Grilled Baby Octopus, the chef explained as each new plate left my hand and wiped down my his napkin and handed to the food runner.
Rare J.T. Jobbagy, bone in, hand selected, 30 ounce, average price $2.50 an ounce. i watch the steak being sliced for consumption right next to me.
The chef demands, “is it perfect,”
“Yes Chef.”
The next cut comes from the grill.
“Cut all that fat off.”
And I whisper, “Fuck me that’s the best part.”
“Here the sous Chef says handing me a piece of perfectly cooked rare rib eye.
In my mouth the meat melts, this was better than an orgasm. If for the rest of my life I could have had one of two choices, sex or that beef it would be a close decision and a hard one to make.
It is now 9:30, I asked Olivia to send an apology e-mail to Michta, but still kept checking my phone for a response.
The chef caught me, ‘You probably want to go home. Go to the bar have dinner on me.”
“Really?”
“Yes go to the bar, we will talk when you are done.”
I changed my tomato stained chef jacket shirt back into the black button down I thought I would have to wear and headed to the bar.
I was offered beer and had two Brooklyn Lagers.
I was given the menu, and I ordered the, Cavatelli: plum tomatoes, roasted garlic, fennel sausage, beech mushrooms.
Once I ordered and a drunk a beer I called Michta. She answered and we talked and rescheduled the interview for today.
When I walked back in to the restaurant my second beer was waiting and moments later the food arrived.
“The Chef wanted you to try the, Swiss Chard Raviolini.”
"Oh God, thank you,” I either thought or said.
The bartender looked non too impressed, but I did not give a shit. Before I was finished the chef came over. “So you wanted to work full time.”
I was feeling very drunk. Two beers, but even with that I was hearing my voice slur.
“To tell you the truth chef, I don’t know if I can work in your kitchen.”
He smiles, “We were thinking the same thing, plus the language barer.”
“Those guys are amazing,” I said.
“Five years’ experience most of them, Pablo started on as a dishwasher. I read your resume I was impressed by your life experience and wanted to see if I could fit you in.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t.”
“I want to learn that though, I will work for free, I just don’t know how that's," indicating back to the kitchen with my hand, "is even possible.”
“You want to work for free you can come back anytime you want and shadow me; you know what guys like us say. I smile.
“In every experience there is a story.”
I agree, “fuck yeah.”
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