If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. I've tried but can't seem to escape...maybe I'm not wholeheartedly trying to I guess. It is comfortable for me to be sure and I am decent at what I do but I'm not sure if I could ever truly fit in at a "normal" job. What would I do? Could I use the same language and mannerisms that are now part of my chef persona? Could I give the "look" and not have HR hauling me in to discuss alternative communication techniques? Really? Would you like to take your non mechanised erasable transcription tool and push it in your ear for me? Maybe I should stay put....
I can't imagine what kind of life it would be without the sometimes raucous cacophony of man and machine....as I sit here typing this is what I can hear. A cart rumbled by with plates and glassware on it that need to be put in their proper place. A crap song from the 80's...I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight, is on the radio. I can hear the vent system humming away. Someone is scrambling up eggs on the flat top and the spatula is doing it's dance across the steel. Someone I don't like is speaking with borrowed words from the Brits in an attempt to make her sound smarter than she will ever be...it's lovely, brilliant and so on. And while I can't hear it I know there is the ever present flame. Fire is the thing in our world. No fire no food. It is the medium by which a very large percentage of our work is based around. Raw beef + seasoning + heat = delicious steak. The cooks world is so intertwined with fire that for the most part none of us are even remotely phased by the appearance of flames at unexpected times. I was demonstrating a dish to some cooks once and my side towel caught on fire without me noticing it, I got two cooks looking at me and in dead pan tone they come to my rescue; look at me, point at my towel and say you're on fire chef. We don't get that freaked out. I had a BBQ blowout in my face once and it was funny. I lived, so what if I need new eyebrows.
When I owned the B & B in Lunenburg I spent a lot of time working...a lot. So my time with my kids was sporadic and opportunistic during the busy season. A stolen kiss here, a quick book read there and, well you get the idea. I liked having them sit up on my work station trying to keep quiet while I made breakfast for the guests and would feed them pancakes or french toast. God those were fun times. It was habit at night that the kids would come in to give me a kiss goodnight while I was in the middle of service. On one such occasion my oldest daughter, who would have been around four at the time and fiercely independent, came in by herself to wish me a goodnight and get a hug. As she rounded the corner and caught sight of me her arms instinctively started going up in the universal symbol for pick me up now buddy. That's as far as she got though, because you see I was in the middle of sauteing something and as is the norm when flame and fat meet a flame or two had shot up into the air. Her reaction is still laugh inducing, as loud as she could have mustered she yelled "Daddy!!! FIRE!!!!" and ran out of the kitchen slamming the heavy door behind her as she head back into our residence. Beautiful. Watching her run off in her onesie like a bat out of hell was hilarious. I remember a few guests commenting about it later on thinking it was cute. It was.
Another not so cute story about the power of fire comes to you courtesy of a friend of mine Peter. We we're working at a golf club outside of Toronto, doing a BBQ for 144 moronic members. We disliked this group of pretentious cheapskates a lot, but there was one old fuck we really hated. He was rude and disgusting with staff and people in general. Always had a quip designed to put you on edge and repeated them ad nauseum, such as when asked how he would like his steak prepared - "rip it's horns off, wipe it's ass and make sure it still can moo". Rare it is. So, the end of season BBQ is upon us and as usual Peter and I are on the deck baking over a charcoal fire zipping through T-Bone steaks. Way down the line you can hear Mr Jones being his usual ass hole like self. Peter had had enough. Watch this he says. He took a pair of tongs and stuck the ends into the embers of the charcoal to sit for a few minutes. As the dink got closer he got more abusive, don't burn my steak boys - you know how I like it. Oh we know so shut the fuck up already. And then we have the moment of truth. "hello Mr Jones, how are you today" says Peter as a way of throwing him off the impending trouble. "I'm great, shot a 75 so can I get a bigger steak" was the reply from the Tilley Hat wearing mother clucker. "Sure, I have one right here, rare as can be" and than Peter took the steak with the tongs that were embedded in the hot coals and did the old flip the steak and burn your thumbs off routine. Never heard of it? By applying a quarter turn of your right hand you flip the steak onto the plate and subsequently the edge of he tongs can brush up against the thumb of the plate holder. It was probably three or four seconds of pure symphonic pleasure. The sizzle of steaks and chattering golfers interrupted with a loud yelp as the tongs hit this bastards thumbs, his plate and steak went flying into the air and off the deck. A microsecond of quiet followed by apologies and laughter. He was, obviously supremely pissed but that's as far as it ever went.
See, fire can be fun.
Ciao
D
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