Taken as a whole, she was less than what I would consider a good person. Like the uncomfortable neighbour that you have to be nice to, but really wish you could just bounce off of a brick wall at least once. I didn’t see any redeeming qualities and it seemed like she was going out if her way to be sociable by talking to me. And I wasn't sure why.
My comment, at best was rhetorical, a place holder. Much like when someone asks you how you are and your answer is the same every time “good buddy, how about you?” as you continue on your merry way. Nobody wants to actually hear how you are, they're just trying to be nice by asking. "Well Jeff, I'm not doing so great. I just found out my wife is sleeping with the starting lineup of the Chicago Bulls, a fucking piano dropped on my shit box car that I haven't finished paying for and I have no coverage for that kind of calamity. My shoulder still hurts from when you hit me with a rolling pin as "a joke" and the restaurant I'm working at is one bad weekend away from closing up shop. Oh, I almost forgot, my dog was in the car when that Steinway dropped on it. How are you?"
Back to the conversation...so why must I be subjected to a five minute story on how she remembers this time that she did this thing with this other chef that went really great and the dish featured 28 varieties of mushrooms and one of them happened to be shitake – which, in the end, is what I had made the comment on and why she feels she can tell me this confounding story. God I hate that, almost as much as I hate vegans and that’s saying something because I really hate vegans. I don’t know why but I associate them with witches. The burn in Salem kind of witches.
There I am, standing in the middle of the kitchen, one foot going one way and the other going the other way, brain and eyes going others. Like Pixie Le Knot, the greatest contortionist that ever lived, limbering up before wrapping her legs around her head from the front. I wanted, I needed to get out of there before I said something stupid or showed an interest. But here in the middle of a not so great bistro hovering on the edge of Yorkville, I was trapped. Bound by a code ingrained through the years of doing the trenches. Nondescript homage’s to lost dreams and fortunes. It’s a team and you don’t throw your team under the bus, in front of the bus or even near a bus. Unless you are helping them onto the bus because they can’t walk. Walk? How about can’t even speak or see – rye is funny that way. I did that to a buddy once. Threw him on a bus and told the bus driver where he lived. He’s still alive so I guess no harm done. Throwing Madison, Madi for short, out of the way is simply not the way good guys are wired. No matter how much you want to. No matter how many times it has happened to you and will happen again. So there I stand, nothing pressing to do and a desire to get out of the way, still listening to a story that would make watching paint dry as exciting as the running of the bulls in Pampolana.
“Sounds like a great night Madi, I have to get going on my prep. You should as well, we might get busy tonight.” I said as a way of extricating myself from the pain. And just like that I moved on. Not really needing to do any prep because we weren’t going to be busy. In fact, the complete opposite of busy is what we will most likely be. Chef knows it. The bartender and the front of house manager know it. I know it. Seems everyone but the owner knows it. And probably Madi. She’s new to “Herbs” and new to the city. She will learn soon though. Shortened shifts, always a couple of days late in getting paid, suppliers calling looking for accounting – the writing is on the wall if anyone cares to read it. I’m ok of course, I’ve got a gig lined up next month. I’m not sure about Chef though, I’m starting to wonder if he got suckered into putting money into the place. Well, that’s what you get for not being at your post. This isn’t the fucking Hilton or Trump Towers. We need you to work, not carry a clip board.
Friday night can be a weird night for the restaurant business. If you’re good and known, busiest night of the week at the start of a busy weekend. It’s where you can make your money. But, if you are like us, in decline, you would be forgiven for feeling like the road in front has been blocked by a mass suicide and no one feels like eating when that happens. We have a few reservations but nowhere near the capacity of 75 seats that we would like filled up tonight. Hell, if 75 people showed up I don’t what we would feed them. Love working in a place that has been forced to make decisions based on worse case scenarios. But now, for some strange reason I am thinking of Madi. Something has my attention and I’m trying to figure out what that is. This is dangerous territory for me. I realize that, like a gambling addict trying to walk past a row of VLT’s or the front door of the casino – but the lights are so pretty - $20 and that is all, get up and leave once that is gone. Something has stirred in me because of Madi and it isn’t because she is drop dead gorgeous with a great body, which, by the by, is not the case. She’s attractive in her own way. Her personality is the thing that rubs me the wrong way. So why am I thinking of her….
“How many specials do we have and what’s the count on the tenderloin tonight?” asks chef as he strolls into the kitchen, clip board in hand. “Four trout and three tenderloin” chef I respond. “How old is the tenderloin?” comes the expected question. “Four days; we haven’t sold one all week” He just shakes his head and heads out into the dining room for a pre-service meeting but mostly a pre-service drink.
I’ve known chef, also known as Peter, for a few years now. He came in as sous chef at the last hotel I worked at. Seemed like a decent guy with big dreams of running his own bistro. He talked about it all the time actually. “When I have my own place I’m going to do this and that” while indulging in his third smoke break of the morning. Typical stuff that all chefs spout out because we all think we know better. Having lived and barely survived my own experience at being the boss, I know different. Chef is out of his depth here. I don’t think he knows business at all and worse, he has no clue about what is wrong with this place. Classic case of cooking food you like and not understanding when the John Q Public isn’t as enamoured with the crispy proscuitto and chorizo mac ‘n’ cheese as you think they should be. And I won’t even get into the bar and front of house.
I’ve cobbled together my station as best I can and am ready for the “rush”. Madi to the left of me on garde manger, which for novices is a catch all for cold appetizers and such. In this place it is also where desserts come from since we aren’t busy and can’t afford another mouth to feed. And on my right is….no one, there is no one beside me on grill. Didn’t I see Jeff recently? And almost as if on cue, Chef walks in. “Jeff called in sick so we let him go. I’ll be helping out if you need a hand” was the declaration of the night. For fuck sakes!!! Really? I hate that. The chef says he’ll be there to help out but what will really happen is I’ll be doing two stations for service as the king glides in and out of the kitchen looking busy. And who the fuck is going to set up his station for him? Me of course….wait, “Oh Madi”
And so it began, that confluence of events that started with Jeff not coming to work and ended with Madi and I drunk in a local watering hole frequented by us fluorescent light dwellers. And as sure as I am pissed on tequila I know that she and I will be entangled in a bed before the morning sun rises. I know it, I’m staring at her as she talks about those fucking mushrooms again and do you think I can avoid it? Nope…were going to bump uglies tonight.
When I called Madi over to check over the station and see what was needed for chefs/mine mis en place she actually did so in a friendly and team player way. I did a double take because her normal MO was to drag her feet and bitch about having to do anything outside of her normal duties. Granted, she always had her station set and prepped perfectly while maintain a clean area, but that didn’t absolve her from her lack of convivial spirit.
If rule number one is don’t be a douche rule number two must be play nice with your team. Nothing, and I literally mean nothing, can you throw you off the rails quicker than a team that doesn’t work well together. It’s not a case of even liking the people that you work with, who cares about that, it’s about melding together like a well oiled machine to produce results. Keeping our heads and by extension our bodies out of the weeds…and for that, you need your team.
I’ve been part of some simply awesome teams, both big and small, where everything seems to fire on all cylinders and when the shit hits the fan everyone works that much harder to get the job done. And then there were the times I felt like Andy Dufrene in The Shawshank Redemption…crawled through 500 yards of shit to get out the other side.
Here at Herbs we don’t even have a quorum to be able to call ourselves a team. Myself, Madi, Chef and the recently departed Jeff. I wonder how many times Jeff turns when people call out chef thinking they were calling him? A team? Not really. At best mutual aligned goals, temporary as they may be. But one must never forget that you still have to hold up your end of the bargain when your work is dependent on another, and maybe this is why I have an issue with Madi? She should know better. But now she's acting like she is all about the team....Spidey sense tingling. Maybe I should say something…..?
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