I arrive at the restaurant at 2:30pm.
This is typical of me — I don’t have to be in until 3pm but I like to get a bit of a head start because there’s always a lot to prep for my station (garde manger). I say hello to everyone, both the front of house and back of house staff, because I’m friendly like that but also because I see these people more than I see my boyfriend and friends so they’re really growing on me. I head to the back and change into my uniform: a standard white chef coat (the restaurant just recently began ordering these in a size small for me and they’re still giant so I really have a bone to pick here because this feels sexist but I digress), really unattractive black slip-free/water resistant shoes, and an apron that’s so long it falls beneath my boobs (see previous note re: chef coat). I head to my station and survey the status of things, since I just had 2 days off. And by “the status” I mean is everything empty/running low/did the guy who works at my station when I’m gone use everything but not prep anything?
I work at the garde manger station (“garmo”) which is a French term for salads/cold appetizers. But what most people don’t know (and I can’t speak to all restaurants but at least at mine) is that my station busts out roughly ¾ of the menu. Like, I just tried to count to myself the amount of items I’m responsible for, got to 26, and gave up. To give you a rough idea, at any given time I’m responsible for 4 different types of crostini, 5 salads, 4 sandwiches, 5 desserts, several different combinations of antipasti, cheese plates and more. I’m the first one to get hit with the rush when all the tables sit down and start ordering apps, and the last person to feel the rush when all the dessert orders are coming in. I toss salads, slice prosciutto, plate desserts, make sandwiches — you get the gist.
After surveying the scene, I note that I’ll need to clean a new leg of prosciutto, quart the burrata, make a quart of flowering chive dressing, chop a hotel pan of kale, seed 4–5 pomegranates, season 3 quarts of ricotta, make 2 quarts of whipped cream, cut the chocolate tart, cut the cheesecake, put mascarpone into pints, pit the dessert prunes because for some reason they’re not pitted, portion cheeses for antipasti, slice about 15 orders of prosciutto cotto for the antipasti plate, slice one sweet soppressata and one spicy soppressata, and hopefully I’m not forgetting anything. Not bad for one day of prep. Oh, and this all needs to get done before the orders start coming in about 1.5 hours.
Before entering the world of professional cooking, I was a publicist for chefs and restaurants. I got to work with some of the best in the business and it was very rewarding but 90% of my job was answering and sending emails which just absolutely withered my soul. I had to leave but I felt lost and a little trapped: being a publicist was the only career I’d ever known and while I knew I wanted to remain in the food industry, I wasn’t sure exactly where I belonged. I decided that the best place to start was the place where I never thought I’d be: a professional kitchen.
Facing my fears in a traditionally cut-throat, male-dominated, intimidating, physically taxing industry was exactly what I needed. In a job where I thought I would feel the most out of place, I finally felt like I belonged. In doing repetitive tasks every day, I gained discipline. In working with my hands I found purpose. And most importantly: in interacting with people I normally wouldn’t cross paths with, I found meaning. This last paragraph I’m writing is in hindsight and I no longer work in the kitchen. I finally gained the tools and the confidence I needed to pursue a dormant goal of mine: food TV hosting. But ay, mi madre — do I miss my kitchen pendejos.
