Appreciation of Art

From one o’clock to the beautiful chimes of midnight, I was on my feet, on the run. As soon as I disrobed into that drab chef’s jacket and apron, like a cat being declawed, I was de-feminized of all that was girl. The fellow cooks greeted me with light and friendly perverse gestures. The only girl on the line, I was accustomed to the austere filth that was a man’s mouth and mind. If I didn’t have seven brothers, I might find some offense to their remarks instead of humor.

A restaurant line consists of stations. A standard restaurant line would entail cold appetizer, hot appetizers, sides, meats, and desserts. Each cook is responsible (and accountable) for their station. In my case, I have proven my worth by slaving my way three notches up the line. Regardless of the station, it was all the same; my mise en place (fancy word for ingredients) and all reinforcements best be ready by service. When the stations are orchestrated correctly, like witnessing all the dishes come together like Mozart’s Concerto No. 10 in E-flat Major.

I was on the “side” station, which worked very closely with the meat. It was my first time working on a flat top, friend and foe, which was like staring the sun blatantly in the face. A flat top is so scorching hot that it cured my hangovers almost immediately through sweating. Instamatically, my body was quenched with sweat within the first fifteen minutes of exposure. Shrug, I was conveniently rewarded with twelve percent body fat. For the next twelve hours, I was imprisoned in a heat box fit for roasting pigs. Stage name: Sweat Master.

As I fervently prepare my station, all cooks will tell you the same thing, that there is never enough time to get your station ready. Never. There’s a gradual under tow of anxiety that strengthens as seconds sprint by, but I always found time for a smoke break. The key to a finished station is “passion.” If you don’t have it, than all you have is half-ass shit. There are two kinds of cooks in the kitchen: the one that has the “love” and “patience,” always on the move for improvement, and the one that is covering his ass just so he could make it through service. I found myself somewhere in the middle as I could always use improvement in my time management.

Chefs ... where do I start? Chefs are the maestro and composer to all that is the menu. Chefs have a love and hate relationship with perfection; it is never good enough. Chefs demand absolute respect. Chefs come equipped with tempers triggered by expectations. I’ve seen it so many times before service, middle of service, after service. Dodge, to avoid that Misono from your shoulder blade. At the same time, compliments were medals of valor and was worn with pride.