The Chef Things

by Kevin Yu

After opening my eyes slowly and subconsciously, I turn to my left and squint at the desk clock.

“8:50! Fuck” I exclaim as I begin the mayhem that is waking up late for work. I quickly put on my uniform, grab my knife, and exit my apartment. Two minutes, flat. I am supposed to be there at nine, but after a late night of drinking, I must have forgotten to set my alarm. As I speed down the crowded streets, I look at the little clock on the radio.

“9:03, Brian is going to be pissed,” Brian is the manager of Hatfield, a three star restaurant in LA. I have been working as a line cook for over a month now. Even though the restaurant has an abundance of customers and profit, my pay is mediocre at best. I shouldn’t complain, because the only chefs that get paid well are on the Food Network.

I quickly find my parking spot and burst through the door. Not good, customers are beginning to line up, but they are not the ones I was worried about. Brian stood there, waiting for me.

“David, maybe you haven’t realized this from the five weeks you’ve been working here, but we can’t start without our cook.”

“I’m really sorry, I’ll get started.” I quickly wash my hands and get into the kitchen. A familiar face with an indifferent expression greeted me.

“Way to be on time.”

“Shut up Stevie. You know how fucked up I was last night?” I start preparing orders for customers while Stevie chopped vegetables. Cob Salad, hold the olives, Eggs Benedict, Corn Beef Hash, extra toast. Disgusting.

Cooking was one of my great passions in life. When I was little, I would make dinner for my family when our mom was busy. Every time I cooked, I wanted to make something new and delicious. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. I would spend days in advance preparing the turkey and formulating recipes for the meal. After graduating high school, my next step was obvious; I enrolled into the Culinary Institute of America. It was as great as I had hoped it would be. I spent all day learning the tricks and trade of the culinary world. I was mentored by some of the greatest chefs from all over the world. A dream come true.

In my second year, I was offered an internship at a high-end restaurant. I was in charge of prepping various proteins so that the chef could assemble the final dish. One day, I was deboning salmon for the seasonal special. The manager walks into the kitchen and says that there was a bone left in a piece of fish.

“Who was in charge of prepping the fish?” At that point I knew that I had made a mistake so I admitted to what I had done.

“I must have missed a bone for some reason, I’m sorry.” The manager did not look satisfied and I knew he would not let this go. He beguines ranting on about how the CIA was supposed to be one of the best culinary schools in America. Then goes onto talking about how his restaurant’s ratings are already “hanging on by a thread.” We were able to convince him that mistakes like this happen and that I was truly sorry. He accepts this.

“Perhaps I am over reacting, it is only one bone and I’m sure it is no big deal.” I breathe a sigh of relief. He then turns to me and says,“ maybe I am expecting too much from you, after all you are still learning, and maybe you aren’t as serious about cooking as I thought.” I was shocked by this remark. Cooking has all that I have known and cared about. I was not about to accept his remark.

“You don’t think I’m serious about cooking? I have been cooking for my entire life. I know everything there is to know about food. Where do you get off telling people how dedicated they are to cooking?” The manager was angry now, but I he had crossed the line.

“I have managed this restaurant for ten years and I know a bad chef when I see one, and you are one of the worst I have seen my entire life. You will never be a great chef.”

“You don’t know shit!” What would proceed after those words was made of pure rage. I clenched my fist and lunged forward. He fell to the floor and squirmed in pain. The other workers in the kitchen pulled me back and restrained me. The next day, I was given a notice that I had twenty-four hours to get my things and leave. I was expelled for culinary school, and my dreams.

“The Culinary Institute of America, eh? That’s pretty impressive. I learned how to cook from my mom, and her food was terrible.” Stevie and I are sitting at the bar after our second five-hour shift. We come here every night to have a drink and unwind. It’s a chef thing.

“Yea. I had three more semesters before I could get my chef’s degree. Then I wouldn’t be working at crappy Hatfield’s with stupid Brian.” I took a gulp of beer and lit a cigarette.

“Well, if you hate working there so much, why don’t you quit and do something else?”

“Like what? All I have ever known is cooking, and for a culinary school drop out, a line cook job at a second rate restaurant is the best there is.” He didn’t look too interested.

“ Did you know there was a critic eating your food today? Pretty cool right?”

“Why would a critique eat at that shit-hole? Is he writing an article about third rate food in a fourth rate setting?” I thought it was odd that a critic would eat at Hatfield. Critics often go to top rate restaurants all over the world to write about one of a kind seasonal specialties, there’ s nothings special about a boring dinner in LA. It doesn’t add up.

“I don’t know. You want to go smoke a joint?”

“Nah, I’m going to bed early tonight. See ya.” I walk home, take an Advil, and pass out.

I wake and see that I’ve slept too long again. I felt frustrated, but I decide to just get ready and leave as quickly as possible. Brian would most likely be waiting for me to dash through the door, at which point he would make a sardonic remark about me being late. I enter and Brian was waiting for me, but there’s someone else with him.

“I see you’re late again, David. I’d like you to meet someone. This is Laurie Rite. She is a friend of mine and she is interested in your cooking.” She was a middle aged and dressed in a suite. I am not sure what she wanted with me. “She was eating here yesterday and trying your food.” It wasn’t my food. It was food I was told how to prepare. I am not so happy that food the restaurant served is representing me as a chef. “ Perhaps you two should have a seat. I’ll let you two talk alone.”

We sat down at a table in the back. She was looking at me, smiling with anticipation. “Nice to meet you David, it has come to my attention that you are somewhat of a talented chef. Brian holds you in such high regards.” I didn’t believe she was telling the truth. “I am from the Southern California Culinary School, a new cooking school I am starting. I was wondering, if you would be interested in working for me.”

“I don’t know what you heard from Brian or where you are getting your information, but I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I’m not a great cook and I don’t think I qualify to work for you.” She looked a little intimidated, like she had made a mistake in talking to me. But she had, there was nothing she could possibly offer me that would help me.

“I understand that you attended the Culinary Institute of America. Having that kind of formal training would surely qualify you to do what I have in mind for you.”

“And what exactly do you want me to do?”

“I want you to teach people how to cook.” I paused to think about this for a second.

“Sorry, not interested. But why don’t you take Stevie. He’s a pretty talented chef.”

“You have all the skills to help these kids fulfill their dreams. I know how much you care about food, and how much you want to do something bigger then working as a line cook.” I really didn’t want to teach talentless kids how to chop vegetables. The process would be way too much work, which I didn’t want. Besides, my dream is to cook. And cooking is what I was doing, even if it was for a crappy dinner. “Here is my card,” she handed a card with the letters “SCCS” printed on it. “If you change your mind, please give me a call.” She stood up and left. I was left there alone, contemplating my options.

I wake up, get dressed, grab my knife, and leave my apartment. I start driving to work, not too excited about what I was going to do today. I arrive at a large white building bustling with hundreds of young people in white coats. I walk up to the gate and read the sign, “Welcome to the Southern California Culinary School.” I knew that from this point on, my life would be completely different from the way it was, for better and for worse.

I enter my classroom to find Laurie waiting there along with twenty other students. “You’re late,” she said jokingly. I gave her a stern look. “Class, I would like you to meet Mr. David Swanson. He will be teaching you the basics of cooking.” I examined the students. They were a bunch of odd misfits, fresh out of high school. A collection of scrawny geeks, emotional fatties, and goofy idiots. I had my work cut out.

It was late spring, and I have been teaching at the SCCS for three years now. The decision took a lot of consideration, but in the end, I decided it was the right thing to do. My pay is almost twice as good as my chef gig, and the hours are much more relaxing. The only thing I miss is being a chef. I miss perfecting my art and creating great dishes of food. But I’m over that now. Today, I had prepared a new lesson about constructing pastry dough. The key to a more flaky crust is to not over-mix the dough. “It is ideal to work with butter that has been chilled so that the pieces stay together, thus creating layers in the mixing process.” I started cubing the cold butter. The students are looking at my demo, studying every move, tracking every step. It really isn’t a complicated concept. “I’m just going to add some salt and a little bit of water and mix with my hands.” My demo took about another ten minutes and then I had them start their own crusts. I had a moment to contemplate the upcoming culinary examination. My students would have to prepare food for food critiques and start their internships at restaurants. The past few weeks, I had been speaking one-on-one with my students about where they should be interning. Naturally, I am more confident in some students more then others.

I walk around the kitchen to see how they did. “Jim, you used a little too much water which is making your dough stick to everything…Karen, don’t mix your dough so much, it will become tough, which is not good…Harold, very good, it looks like you did a good job incorporating the ingredients together without over-mixing, good job.” Harold is one of my top students. When I first met him, he was a little timid, and could barely hold his knife right. In the past few months, he has shown great improvement and really seams to absorb the information well. I have plans for him to work at a high-end restaurant with a Michelin Star. I have high hopes for him.

After class I stop by Laurie’s office to talk with her. I nock on the door and am immediately greeted by the same lady I met a few months ago. “David! How nice to see you. How are things going with your class?”

“They are doing alright, I wish some of them would be a little more capable then they currently are. Some of these kids are really dumb.”

“Well, they have just learning about the great world of cooking. I’m sure if you give them time, they will become great chefs, just like you.” There was a long pause. “How do you feel about the upcoming exam?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure these kids can handle the pressure. Cooking in a restaurant environment is nothing like cooking in a class kitchen. There is no room for error when you have to serve food to hundreds of customers.”

“Well, they will have to learn at some point in their life. Besides, the point of having a selective internship process is so that the weaker ones can work in less important restaurants.” Maybe she was right; I should have more confidence in my students. It’s just that I am afraid they will crack under the reality of what being a chef is about and lose their motivation to become chefs. I didn’t want that to happen.

The next few weeks have been very busy. For every restaurant we were having an internship I had to go there in person and introduce my students. They oriented the students and it was time for me to leave. This somewhat resembled a mother sending her child off to college, although I am not nearly as nice as a mother. They were on their own now and all I could do is take a break from teaching.

The long hours of rest and relaxation from work was fairly nice. I have been spending most of my time at home watching TV and cooking meals for myself. I even had a chance to go on a picnic with Laurie at a park. However, my rest was abruptly interrupted by an unruly phone call from a restaurant chef.

“Sir, please calm down. I’m sure there is an reasonable explanation,” I try desperately to calm him.

“This is unacceptable! We are running a very serious operation here and it is ridiculous to send an amateur to work in this setting,” he sounds displeased about something. I wasn’t sure what is making him so upset. “Your student is jeopardizing the entire restaurant with his arrogance. I am sorry but we can’t keep him.”

“Please, let’s not be hasty. I’ll come over first thing in the morning tomorrow and we can discuss what happened.” The conversation baffled me. I could only hope that I am able to convince this man to reconsider what he had just told me. The next morning, I go to the restaurant to talk with the chef. The interior is extremely nice; tables covered in white tablecloth, large paintings hanging from the wall. I walk into the kitchen and see Harold standing there, ashamed. The chef is also there, waiting. We start talking about the mistake in question. Apparently, he had undercooked some pork brisket and food was delayed for some customers. I apologized to him and told him that we are both “very sorry.” He didn’t look satisfied. He goes on to further confront us.

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we are running a serious operation here...My reputation goes out on that table in every dish…You should be more serious about teaching your students properly.” His last statement put me off a little bit.

“ I assure you, that I put the most possible care into my students so that they get a proper education. Harold is one of my top students and he will not make another mistake like this again.”

“I cannot have an amateur who is just here to fuck around in my kitchen! I won’t have this failure messing up everything I’ve worked so hard for.” I was getting mad. My face started turning red, I clenched my fists. All sensibility had left me. All I cared about was beating his face in. But, before I could make a move, Harold stepped in.

“It’s ok…thank you for the great experience, chef.” He turned in his apron and walked out of the kitchen. I quickly followed behind him.

“Wait, don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know anything. You are a great chef.”

“Don’t worry about it Mr. Swanson. You have taught me everything you know, and I am grateful for that.”

“Harold, I promise that I will get you another internship. Maybe at a restaurant that is even better then this one. I promise.” He looks at me and gives me a smile. I feel extremely proud. He had done something I should have always done. I should have held my anger back. I should have just kept cooking. I should have not cared what people thought about me, because if I truly cared about what I did, nothing the critics or managers or chefs said could affect me. All that matters to us is cooking and food. It’s a chef thing.