I survived my first week working
in a professional kitchen. Unfortunately not the same can be said for my fingers
or my medical aid, but I am getting ahead of myself.
My first day was like starting
any other job, I got taken around the kitchen, placed into a section and got
asked the typical rhetorical question: “Anything else you would like to know?”
This generally means that the newbie’s tour is concluded, a false sense of
security has been created and you are now the problem of the section you have
been placed in. I was fortunate enough to get placed into the pastry section
along with a familiar face from university.
I surprisingly discovered that
the pastry section not only covers delicious desserts, breads and pastries but
also cheese platters, cold breakfasts, kiddies meals and all of the deli meats.
Rescuing a Leaning Tower of Pisa wedding cake isn’t out of the question
either.
Low and behold my first task was
to slice Pastrami on an electric meat slicer. This according to them was a good
way to ease into things. Admittedly I open-eye prayed like a parent at the doctor’s
office waiting nervously to hear if their princess got knocked up after doing the dirty with the
boy next door. Slicing that deli meat reminded me of the hundred
year old spinning blade decapitating ‘unworthy’ limbs in The Last Crusade.
The irony here is that the meat
slicer is the only piece of equipment that we have at the university kitchen
that students are not allowed to use. The university’s insurance doesn’t cover
any accident that can’t be fixed with a plaster and a finger condom found in the
vintage first aid box. Fortunately I was ‘worthy’ and my precious fingers were
spared. For now…
As Karma would have it in for me
things went from good too bad. The next day I somehow managed to tear off two
finger nails as I was overzealous in my attempt to scrape bread dough from the cracked
mixer bowl. I currently have ten fingers and eight fingernails. It hurt like
hell.
Once again, if it can’t be fixed
with a plaster and two latex gloves there is no reason to stop working.
I however did manage to save the
bread by not bleeding onto the dough and contaminating it with two finger
nails. Win for me!
For the next couple of days I had
two fingers completely out of commission and a hand that couldn’t even open a
five litre ice cream tub. With a ridiculous amount of pain killers in my system
my head was as fuzzy as a drunken geriatric on a senior sunset Champaign
cruise. This did not help matters. Understandably so cursing at the greenhorn
quickly became part of the shift. “Bread for two” became “bread for f!#king two”.
It was like my first day on set all over
again.
A restaurant kitchen is like a
gladiator arena. It is filled with crass language, blood, sweat and lots of
flying tempers along with projectile loaves of bread. The head chef is Caesar
giving the thumbs up or thumbs down. The mains team are the lions and the
pastry chefs the female gladiators in chariots. A clash between Caesar and the lions is a
daily occurrence and the female gladiators always have to fight for their right
in the arena. One cannot work without the other, yet the one always tries to
make the other one his or her b!tch.
In a daily battle like this the
greenhorn can only get a crass crash course. The rest you have to figure out
yourself in a timely manner. For the first couple of days you pray that you can
find what you are looking for in the walk-in or in dry storage under one
minute. If the pastry chef has to come looking for you then you will be lanced
quickly and mercilessly.
Finding your feet and having a
good memory is a given. Understanding and executing orders thoroughly and
timelessly is expected and repeating all of the above without question is
advisable. Avoid going to the bathroom during service and do not get injured.
This will halt service and the pyramid will slowly collapse. You will be the
most hated person in the kitchen. Working in a cramped 25 square meter kitchen,
one tries not to cause any unnecessary problems for oneself.
My first week was hell’s kitchen
at its best. Nineteen and a half hours in a double and eleven hours in a single
shift. This is what a restaurant kitchen during peak tourist season looks like.
I stand by what I said about chefs being masochists. You do it for the love of
food, you endure the pain and you ignore the rest. Money should not be your aim
and holidays not your time to rest. If you have these five things down then you
might have a chance of surviving in hell’s kitchen.
Follow me!
Instagram - @iCarl_Lee
Twitter - @ChefCarlLee
