I open the black steal delivery door to the kitchen and the aroma of veal stock collides with my nasal passages, classic rock pours into my ears like fine wine; it’s the time again that all cooks are in deep prep for the nightly battle of fire, heat, cold and perfection.
This is my life as a chef; culinary passion starts my heart racing; un-pasteurized chesses, fresh garden snails indulging on basil leafs, I can never get enough, I never know when to stop or say no, the chatter of all my culinary staff is to a minimum, the sound of razor sharp knifes slicing through vegetables and butchering meats is intoxicating to me.
A prep cook strains lobster stock in the corner of the kitchen, clouds of aroma makes you think of perfect bisque topped with shaved white truffles. I look to the walls and see detailed prep lists flowing in organized progression, foie gras being sliced and scored with a warm watered blade, pasta dough being rolled ready to receive there roasted lobster filling and brioche being pulled from the oven for service brushed with a coat of tomato butter.
I head down a small set of stairs that divides or prep kitchen from the line of hell, at the bottom of the stairs is our small pastry kitchen were my Pastry Chef is preparing chocolate truffles and lemon tarts with pulled sugar glass at that moment, the piercing whine of the Kitchen Aid mixer whisking egg whites and the soft hum of the ice cream machine turning raspberry black peppercorn sorbet for the intermezzo tonight is all comfort to my ears and makes me feel secure.
I turn the corner from the pastry kitchen and walk onto the battlefield; stainless steel glistens to a high polish under the amber lights of the heat lamps and neon ceiling lighting, French tops glow red hot waiting for sauté pans to be stacked in chimneys and white steam pushes from the wells on the line rolling off the pass and vanishing into the humidity of the small kitchen. Its like no other place on earth, a true testament to pain, joy, happiness, new discoveries, creativity and failure all wrapped up in one, a place where control and discipline collide with searing heat and madness, a line where for a small portion of the true fanatical culinarians that never are satisfied to find “somebody’s perfection” guide devotion and details against the unforgivable burn of natural gas and the perfection of me the chef.
Mesquite logs are burning in the grill, rendering down to the perfect coal, my dishwashers are polishing and stacking plates, sauté pans and delivering drinking water to each culinary station in pitchers with crushed ice and seared lemon slices floating atop, potatoes are simmering in seasoned water on the stove and the lamb sauce in its final reduction ready to be strained by my Chef de Cuisine.
I turn and push open the heavy wooden door with a glass window in the center that leads to the front of the house, cold dry air hits my face and rushes around my neck and shoots down my chef coat. I see a maticulase dinning room set and awaiting our guests for the night, in the center of the room sits my service staff listening intently to the restaurant manager’s notes and special occasions for the night. I write down the important cover information and re-confirm the larger parties for the night.
I inform my front of house staff of our specials tonight and remind them not to bang around the china in the dish room or throw the silver into the pre-soak from twelve feet away. I have reminded all of them once again that my dishwashers have stated they are tired of being splashed by the disgusting water and are now willing to stab one of them next time it happens again. The servers don’t say a word, knowing well to just not do it any longer.
On the line the culinary staff organize there mise en place on powdered ice in stainless steel nine pans to insure maximum transfer of the frigid powder, tongs, spatulas and ladles are lined up on the counters like surgical instruments, stations are being readied for there war; potatoes are being riced, sauces are strained; labeled and set aside in small copper sauce pots; coals are moved to the perfect position, sauté pans are being stacked in chimneys and baby greens are being washed in bottled water.
White anchovies are being minced; tasting spoons are set in water, kitchen towels being lied out and watched as if they were the last on earth.
The restaurant manager walks in with out saying a word, only hearing the echo of his footsteps cross the kitchen floor, replacing our ink and paper in the line printers like preparing clips for an assault rifle. I grab my fresh herbs, infused oils, powders and truffles placing them in reach for a quick show down to each plate before being taken to our guests.
The radio is shut off and knives are singing; high carbon steel honed against diamonds, it’s the sound of cooks taking pride in there weapon of choice, respecting what it can do and loving it as a natural extension of there arm, nothing else is that important in the kitchen to a cook.
All are double checking there mise en place, taking the time to place it in the best location; the movement of staff tasting and seasoning all sauces, starches and court bouillons to there fine tuned pallets, like a sommelier pulling out all the flavors of a great bottle of French wine or a Ferrari technician looking for that perfect hum in all cylinders; its an art; true passion for excellence, proud of what each of them has accomplished to make it here.
I yell out to each station; grill ready? Yes chef! Sauté ready? Yes chef! Pantry ready? Yes chef! Pastry ready? Yes chef! A dead silence falls over the line, all are ready for the battle; ten cooks and one chef will work as a flawless unit, the same way a fine Swiss watch runs. Not all of the parts in the watch are the same; some big, some small and some that don’t look like they fit in at all. But placed all together by a watch maker and they run perfectly, flawless, one would say “harmony”. Just like a chef building his culinary team, both imperfections and perfections mirror each other like crystal gears, complementing each other, creating a time honored tradition of the arts.
A waiter comes to the kitchen and asks me for four Amuse Bouche. I call out to the pantry for the amuse, yes chef; four amuse to the window! The line printer starts to speak, all cooks ready themselves, I call out; one escargot! One chicken liver! One pear! and one foie! The cooks call back enthusiastically! Yes chef! One car! One liver! One pear! And one foie! Grill; two pomegranate lamb one rare one medium rare; sauté one escolar and one shrimp! Yes chef! as the cooks call back; two lamb one bass, one shrimp.
The sound starts filling the air, lamb on the grill, the searing of bass hitting the sauté pan and sexual sound of the garlic and shallots being deglazed by with a perfectly chilled Chardonnay from the lowboy.
Another waiter walks in asking for more amuse bouche, then two more waiters come in asking for more, the chef calls out to the pantry “I need three hearts of palm, and two mache”! Yes chef a call comes back repeating the demand. Sauté two muscles, one foie gras, one crab and bisque! Yes chef! Grill one veal chop medium, two chickens and one venison! Yes chef!
All of the kitchen rings with sounds of tongs hitting salad mixing bowls, plates being readied to receive there items, cooler drawers closing and oven doors opened. Fire shoots from burners, sparks crackle and jump to the air from the grill, the searing cry of poaching water is hitting the French top hissing and popping like an evil possessed serpent spilling into the air.
Sauté I need that bass! Yes chef its coming!
No excuses “I need it now!” I turn toward a buss boy; go get your server! Table nine is ready. No problem chef! Sauté calls out “Plating chef” ok one bass in the window. I take and grab the plate looking for any imperfections, checking to ensure that this fish has properly been cooked, looking for flaws that one might find on the table.
I take my towel and remove and polish off any finger prints on the rim and finish it off with young corn shoots and smoked sea salt. Ok let’s pick these plates up; table nine is waiting and ready! Chris the Maitradee walks into the kitchen; Chef! Table seven sends their compliments on the first course and would like to speak with you if possible before they leave, the young man eating at the table will be finishing culinary school in a few weeks; I just look at my Maitradee and he understands that I won’t be making any appearances out in the dinning room this evening under the very busy condition that we are about to get ourselves into; Chris I add very comely, we are booked solid tonight and please pass along to them that I’m not Rachel Ray, Rocco nor do I walk out and go Bam! If he is interested in a job, give him an application and tell him to stop in at 9:00 sharp in the morning. Yes Chef! Chris replies before heading back out into the dinning room.
Hours of brutal passion runs by, cooks plating the most delicate items again and again, and I scrutinizing there every move, there every plate.
Cooks jumping to the aid of the grill station that is getting beaten almost to submission by the relentless orders of that nights hot item of Duck Confit on Wild Rice Cakes with Spiced Beets to feed the masses just outside of the doors. The line printer keeps pushing out orders as if to test the kitchens limits, a game of cat and mouse; cooks are replacing mise en place, skimming sauces and trying to keep organized thought the night.
One must never fall behind, one must never look down the board of never ending tickets and fall into dismay; it would destroy ones harmony of his mind, each station can fall one by one until there was massive ciaos in the kitchen; a fucken pile of cooks banging into each other; orders not coming up together, orders having to be re-plated or re-cooked, dollars falling onto the floor. It can all happen in a moments notice. I need to expedite my team thought the good and the bad, I have to know how much each one can handle, how many orders to call out as not to overload there minds. No chef wants a “hydrogen bomb” detonating in his kitchen; a loss of all human functions in the kitchen, I have to balance these acts as if trying to balance a the perfect timing of a soufflé ready to come out of the oven every minute of every night. It is all performed night after night like a great symphony playing together, knowing each others every move, each others thoughts and darting in and out of the line of fire.
As the printer starts to run out of ammunition for the night, cooks keep busy with cleaning and organizing their stations.
Ovens have to be cleaned, steam tables have to be drained and wiped out, grills have to be brushed and floor mates picked up and carried to the loading docks to be sanitized.
Dishwashers are busy cleaning and polishing the stainless steel, sweeping and mopping the floors and digging in washing the final assault of heavy items from the line. Cooks our filling requisitions for there supplies to be delivered to them by purchasing the following morning, cleaning out the walk-ins and placing there knifes in bags.
The pastry cook still stands at attention, waiting for the last dessert orders to be placed.
I sit at my desk filling out the nightly reports and notes in the log, creating a guide for the future, something to compare to, maybe at times something just to read on slow nights.
All the cooks have handed in the requisitions to me and all gather in the middle of the prep kitchen discussing what they want to do; it’s that time again; their time. Some cooks go home to their families; others are off to their world of criminal crimes of sex, drugs and raggae music.
The last order has been placed and still artfully created by my Pastry Chef; she cleans up her station, and puts away all of her flavored chocolates, sauces and exotic wild berries in the walk-ins. I finish my papers and place them in the files, I take one last walk on the line, double checking the floors, ovens and stainless. I help drag in the floor matt’s and place them in there pre-cut slots for a perfect non-slip fit.
The dishwashers have had it, tired, dirty and just wanting to go and eat some real food; beans and rice with a couple of tacos and a Budweiser. I thank them gratefully and off they go like a pack of lone wolf’s, who knows what trouble will find them tonight its Saturday night so must of them will be just getting home when the sun is coming up.
I start turning off the lights one by one making my way to the prep-kitchen, there I fine my team has broken into small isolated groups waiting for others to come out of the dressing room.
I throw locks on all of the doors and shut off the main lights, everybody out! Let’s go! We all silently step out the back door. I turn and flick the last of light off inside of the kitchen; we will all be back in the morning to start all over again – start what we love to do, what most people don’t understand.
We love it for the intense drama, all of the highs and lows within a night, the controlled chaos, anger and success; the fluid like thoughts and movements of all behind these closed doors. Is it mystical to some on the out side world? No I don’t think so – but we do create magic for our guests, moments that will last a lifetime for them.
Know it is time to debrief with my staff, discussing all the nights’ adventures and mayhem, listening and venting to one another like we are professional counselors out to make the best of any situation. I turn to my staff; and thank them for a great night, as we all step out on to the dark back alley way, we head down the street to the Viper Room, drink until we are content, talk about and brag on the nights adventures and eventually go home and start it all over again in the morning. With out a thought it’s a life style, you will either thrive in its environment and become one with it, or you will be pushed out by those who have truly risen to the top as cream to a boil and can call them self’s culinary fanatics; for this is a career that chooses you, no part timers, burn outs or second career personal need apply.
Author
John du Toit
[email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this fictional story may be used or reproduced whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is my life as a chef; culinary passion starts my heart racing; un-pasteurized chesses, fresh garden snails indulging on basil leafs, I can never get enough, I never know when to stop or say no, the chatter of all my culinary staff is to a minimum, the sound of razor sharp knifes slicing through vegetables and butchering meats is intoxicating to me.
A prep cook strains lobster stock in the corner of the kitchen, clouds of aroma makes you think of perfect bisque topped with shaved white truffles. I look to the walls and see detailed prep lists flowing in organized progression, foie gras being sliced and scored with a warm watered blade, pasta dough being rolled ready to receive there roasted lobster filling and brioche being pulled from the oven for service brushed with a coat of tomato butter.
I head down a small set of stairs that divides or prep kitchen from the line of hell, at the bottom of the stairs is our small pastry kitchen were my Pastry Chef is preparing chocolate truffles and lemon tarts with pulled sugar glass at that moment, the piercing whine of the Kitchen Aid mixer whisking egg whites and the soft hum of the ice cream machine turning raspberry black peppercorn sorbet for the intermezzo tonight is all comfort to my ears and makes me feel secure.
I turn the corner from the pastry kitchen and walk onto the battlefield; stainless steel glistens to a high polish under the amber lights of the heat lamps and neon ceiling lighting, French tops glow red hot waiting for sauté pans to be stacked in chimneys and white steam pushes from the wells on the line rolling off the pass and vanishing into the humidity of the small kitchen. Its like no other place on earth, a true testament to pain, joy, happiness, new discoveries, creativity and failure all wrapped up in one, a place where control and discipline collide with searing heat and madness, a line where for a small portion of the true fanatical culinarians that never are satisfied to find “somebody’s perfection” guide devotion and details against the unforgivable burn of natural gas and the perfection of me the chef.
Mesquite logs are burning in the grill, rendering down to the perfect coal, my dishwashers are polishing and stacking plates, sauté pans and delivering drinking water to each culinary station in pitchers with crushed ice and seared lemon slices floating atop, potatoes are simmering in seasoned water on the stove and the lamb sauce in its final reduction ready to be strained by my Chef de Cuisine.
I turn and push open the heavy wooden door with a glass window in the center that leads to the front of the house, cold dry air hits my face and rushes around my neck and shoots down my chef coat. I see a maticulase dinning room set and awaiting our guests for the night, in the center of the room sits my service staff listening intently to the restaurant manager’s notes and special occasions for the night. I write down the important cover information and re-confirm the larger parties for the night.
I inform my front of house staff of our specials tonight and remind them not to bang around the china in the dish room or throw the silver into the pre-soak from twelve feet away. I have reminded all of them once again that my dishwashers have stated they are tired of being splashed by the disgusting water and are now willing to stab one of them next time it happens again. The servers don’t say a word, knowing well to just not do it any longer.
On the line the culinary staff organize there mise en place on powdered ice in stainless steel nine pans to insure maximum transfer of the frigid powder, tongs, spatulas and ladles are lined up on the counters like surgical instruments, stations are being readied for there war; potatoes are being riced, sauces are strained; labeled and set aside in small copper sauce pots; coals are moved to the perfect position, sauté pans are being stacked in chimneys and baby greens are being washed in bottled water.
White anchovies are being minced; tasting spoons are set in water, kitchen towels being lied out and watched as if they were the last on earth.
The restaurant manager walks in with out saying a word, only hearing the echo of his footsteps cross the kitchen floor, replacing our ink and paper in the line printers like preparing clips for an assault rifle. I grab my fresh herbs, infused oils, powders and truffles placing them in reach for a quick show down to each plate before being taken to our guests.
The radio is shut off and knives are singing; high carbon steel honed against diamonds, it’s the sound of cooks taking pride in there weapon of choice, respecting what it can do and loving it as a natural extension of there arm, nothing else is that important in the kitchen to a cook.
All are double checking there mise en place, taking the time to place it in the best location; the movement of staff tasting and seasoning all sauces, starches and court bouillons to there fine tuned pallets, like a sommelier pulling out all the flavors of a great bottle of French wine or a Ferrari technician looking for that perfect hum in all cylinders; its an art; true passion for excellence, proud of what each of them has accomplished to make it here.
I yell out to each station; grill ready? Yes chef! Sauté ready? Yes chef! Pantry ready? Yes chef! Pastry ready? Yes chef! A dead silence falls over the line, all are ready for the battle; ten cooks and one chef will work as a flawless unit, the same way a fine Swiss watch runs. Not all of the parts in the watch are the same; some big, some small and some that don’t look like they fit in at all. But placed all together by a watch maker and they run perfectly, flawless, one would say “harmony”. Just like a chef building his culinary team, both imperfections and perfections mirror each other like crystal gears, complementing each other, creating a time honored tradition of the arts.
A waiter comes to the kitchen and asks me for four Amuse Bouche. I call out to the pantry for the amuse, yes chef; four amuse to the window! The line printer starts to speak, all cooks ready themselves, I call out; one escargot! One chicken liver! One pear! and one foie! The cooks call back enthusiastically! Yes chef! One car! One liver! One pear! And one foie! Grill; two pomegranate lamb one rare one medium rare; sauté one escolar and one shrimp! Yes chef! as the cooks call back; two lamb one bass, one shrimp.
The sound starts filling the air, lamb on the grill, the searing of bass hitting the sauté pan and sexual sound of the garlic and shallots being deglazed by with a perfectly chilled Chardonnay from the lowboy.
Another waiter walks in asking for more amuse bouche, then two more waiters come in asking for more, the chef calls out to the pantry “I need three hearts of palm, and two mache”! Yes chef a call comes back repeating the demand. Sauté two muscles, one foie gras, one crab and bisque! Yes chef! Grill one veal chop medium, two chickens and one venison! Yes chef!
All of the kitchen rings with sounds of tongs hitting salad mixing bowls, plates being readied to receive there items, cooler drawers closing and oven doors opened. Fire shoots from burners, sparks crackle and jump to the air from the grill, the searing cry of poaching water is hitting the French top hissing and popping like an evil possessed serpent spilling into the air.
Sauté I need that bass! Yes chef its coming!
No excuses “I need it now!” I turn toward a buss boy; go get your server! Table nine is ready. No problem chef! Sauté calls out “Plating chef” ok one bass in the window. I take and grab the plate looking for any imperfections, checking to ensure that this fish has properly been cooked, looking for flaws that one might find on the table.
I take my towel and remove and polish off any finger prints on the rim and finish it off with young corn shoots and smoked sea salt. Ok let’s pick these plates up; table nine is waiting and ready! Chris the Maitradee walks into the kitchen; Chef! Table seven sends their compliments on the first course and would like to speak with you if possible before they leave, the young man eating at the table will be finishing culinary school in a few weeks; I just look at my Maitradee and he understands that I won’t be making any appearances out in the dinning room this evening under the very busy condition that we are about to get ourselves into; Chris I add very comely, we are booked solid tonight and please pass along to them that I’m not Rachel Ray, Rocco nor do I walk out and go Bam! If he is interested in a job, give him an application and tell him to stop in at 9:00 sharp in the morning. Yes Chef! Chris replies before heading back out into the dinning room.
Hours of brutal passion runs by, cooks plating the most delicate items again and again, and I scrutinizing there every move, there every plate.
Cooks jumping to the aid of the grill station that is getting beaten almost to submission by the relentless orders of that nights hot item of Duck Confit on Wild Rice Cakes with Spiced Beets to feed the masses just outside of the doors. The line printer keeps pushing out orders as if to test the kitchens limits, a game of cat and mouse; cooks are replacing mise en place, skimming sauces and trying to keep organized thought the night.
One must never fall behind, one must never look down the board of never ending tickets and fall into dismay; it would destroy ones harmony of his mind, each station can fall one by one until there was massive ciaos in the kitchen; a fucken pile of cooks banging into each other; orders not coming up together, orders having to be re-plated or re-cooked, dollars falling onto the floor. It can all happen in a moments notice. I need to expedite my team thought the good and the bad, I have to know how much each one can handle, how many orders to call out as not to overload there minds. No chef wants a “hydrogen bomb” detonating in his kitchen; a loss of all human functions in the kitchen, I have to balance these acts as if trying to balance a the perfect timing of a soufflé ready to come out of the oven every minute of every night. It is all performed night after night like a great symphony playing together, knowing each others every move, each others thoughts and darting in and out of the line of fire.
As the printer starts to run out of ammunition for the night, cooks keep busy with cleaning and organizing their stations.
Ovens have to be cleaned, steam tables have to be drained and wiped out, grills have to be brushed and floor mates picked up and carried to the loading docks to be sanitized.
Dishwashers are busy cleaning and polishing the stainless steel, sweeping and mopping the floors and digging in washing the final assault of heavy items from the line. Cooks our filling requisitions for there supplies to be delivered to them by purchasing the following morning, cleaning out the walk-ins and placing there knifes in bags.
The pastry cook still stands at attention, waiting for the last dessert orders to be placed.
I sit at my desk filling out the nightly reports and notes in the log, creating a guide for the future, something to compare to, maybe at times something just to read on slow nights.
All the cooks have handed in the requisitions to me and all gather in the middle of the prep kitchen discussing what they want to do; it’s that time again; their time. Some cooks go home to their families; others are off to their world of criminal crimes of sex, drugs and raggae music.
The last order has been placed and still artfully created by my Pastry Chef; she cleans up her station, and puts away all of her flavored chocolates, sauces and exotic wild berries in the walk-ins. I finish my papers and place them in the files, I take one last walk on the line, double checking the floors, ovens and stainless. I help drag in the floor matt’s and place them in there pre-cut slots for a perfect non-slip fit.
The dishwashers have had it, tired, dirty and just wanting to go and eat some real food; beans and rice with a couple of tacos and a Budweiser. I thank them gratefully and off they go like a pack of lone wolf’s, who knows what trouble will find them tonight its Saturday night so must of them will be just getting home when the sun is coming up.
I start turning off the lights one by one making my way to the prep-kitchen, there I fine my team has broken into small isolated groups waiting for others to come out of the dressing room.
I throw locks on all of the doors and shut off the main lights, everybody out! Let’s go! We all silently step out the back door. I turn and flick the last of light off inside of the kitchen; we will all be back in the morning to start all over again – start what we love to do, what most people don’t understand.
We love it for the intense drama, all of the highs and lows within a night, the controlled chaos, anger and success; the fluid like thoughts and movements of all behind these closed doors. Is it mystical to some on the out side world? No I don’t think so – but we do create magic for our guests, moments that will last a lifetime for them.
Know it is time to debrief with my staff, discussing all the nights’ adventures and mayhem, listening and venting to one another like we are professional counselors out to make the best of any situation. I turn to my staff; and thank them for a great night, as we all step out on to the dark back alley way, we head down the street to the Viper Room, drink until we are content, talk about and brag on the nights adventures and eventually go home and start it all over again in the morning. With out a thought it’s a life style, you will either thrive in its environment and become one with it, or you will be pushed out by those who have truly risen to the top as cream to a boil and can call them self’s culinary fanatics; for this is a career that chooses you, no part timers, burn outs or second career personal need apply.
Author
John du Toit
[email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this fictional story may be used or reproduced whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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