on kitchening (again)
These days, it seems as if I spend all my time either in the kitchen or in bed.
However, that's very much a lie. Like many employers of hourly workers in New York, my restaurant abhors paying overtime. That means that I really only spend about 40 out of 168 hours a week in the kitchen. But let's focus on those, since those seem to be the defining hours of my week.
Looking down at my forearms right now, I see eleven burn scars, one that's still red and painful to the touch a week and a half after the incident, and one cut from an absurdly sharp knife. All of these earned in the last three months while working the hot line.
I'll be the first to admit that it's a bit odd to define oneself by the number of scars on one's arms. But the other day, I saw my cousin for the first time in years. The last time he saw me, I worked in an office, where our biggest emergency was running out of toner in the laser printer or if one of us missed the latest episode of the Office. I went to reach for my beer and he looked at me with concern in his eyes and commented, "Steve, are you all right?" I had no idea what he was talking about until he said, "Dude, your arms are all fucked up."
And then I beamed with pride as I said, "Oh these? These are just burns from the restaurant. Comes with the territory."
The question you should be asking yourself right now is, "What kind a sicko is proud of getting burned?" and perhaps more importantly, "do I really want a psycho like this cooking my food?"
Can't really answer the first question, unfortunately, but you gotta hope that the psycho cooking your food actually has a knack for cooking and, if you're lucky, a passion for the cuisine with which he/she is dealing.
Not too long ago, I was allowed to work the saute station (or "the show" as I like to call it). The very first day that I was cooking, the very first ticket that came in, I awkwardly reached for a saute pan from the shelf above the stoves. The caucophony that followed as I dragged an entire stack of pans onto the stove brought peals of laughter from the fry cooks two stations down, and a quick annoyed glance from the grill cook as I narrowly avoided ruining the sauce for the lamb he was about to plate.
On the very first saute ticket that I was allowed to work unsupervised, I fired the duck breast as I had been shown a dozen times. I got the plate ready while the breast was still cooking in the oven, as I had been shown a dozen times. As the sauce reduced on the stove, I sliced the breast into six pieces, being careful to avoid squeezing the juice out of the meat, as I had been shown a dozen times. And as I brought the sliced breast from my cutting board up to the plate, sitting in the heat window at chin level, I dropped the slices. A couple pieces landed back on the cutting board, while one piece landed in my ninth pan of julienned red radish in water, another in my pan of orange supremes. My first panicked thought was, "SHIT! Maybe I can just put the pieces back together and no one will notice that one is cold and reeks of radish while another is oddly orangish." And then I reluctantly and sheepishly explained to the expediter that the duck was going to take a little longer because I had to fire a new one.
It's been forever since I've written anything in this journal. I was thinking of turning this into a "burn blog" and chronicling all my kitchen injuries, but I think that would be only interesting to me. At this point, I think I'll just ramble until I find some sort of purpose. For now, I feel like I just need to write.
However, that's very much a lie. Like many employers of hourly workers in New York, my restaurant abhors paying overtime. That means that I really only spend about 40 out of 168 hours a week in the kitchen. But let's focus on those, since those seem to be the defining hours of my week.
Looking down at my forearms right now, I see eleven burn scars, one that's still red and painful to the touch a week and a half after the incident, and one cut from an absurdly sharp knife. All of these earned in the last three months while working the hot line.
I'll be the first to admit that it's a bit odd to define oneself by the number of scars on one's arms. But the other day, I saw my cousin for the first time in years. The last time he saw me, I worked in an office, where our biggest emergency was running out of toner in the laser printer or if one of us missed the latest episode of the Office. I went to reach for my beer and he looked at me with concern in his eyes and commented, "Steve, are you all right?" I had no idea what he was talking about until he said, "Dude, your arms are all fucked up."
And then I beamed with pride as I said, "Oh these? These are just burns from the restaurant. Comes with the territory."
The question you should be asking yourself right now is, "What kind a sicko is proud of getting burned?" and perhaps more importantly, "do I really want a psycho like this cooking my food?"
Can't really answer the first question, unfortunately, but you gotta hope that the psycho cooking your food actually has a knack for cooking and, if you're lucky, a passion for the cuisine with which he/she is dealing.
Not too long ago, I was allowed to work the saute station (or "the show" as I like to call it). The very first day that I was cooking, the very first ticket that came in, I awkwardly reached for a saute pan from the shelf above the stoves. The caucophony that followed as I dragged an entire stack of pans onto the stove brought peals of laughter from the fry cooks two stations down, and a quick annoyed glance from the grill cook as I narrowly avoided ruining the sauce for the lamb he was about to plate.
On the very first saute ticket that I was allowed to work unsupervised, I fired the duck breast as I had been shown a dozen times. I got the plate ready while the breast was still cooking in the oven, as I had been shown a dozen times. As the sauce reduced on the stove, I sliced the breast into six pieces, being careful to avoid squeezing the juice out of the meat, as I had been shown a dozen times. And as I brought the sliced breast from my cutting board up to the plate, sitting in the heat window at chin level, I dropped the slices. A couple pieces landed back on the cutting board, while one piece landed in my ninth pan of julienned red radish in water, another in my pan of orange supremes. My first panicked thought was, "SHIT! Maybe I can just put the pieces back together and no one will notice that one is cold and reeks of radish while another is oddly orangish." And then I reluctantly and sheepishly explained to the expediter that the duck was going to take a little longer because I had to fire a new one.
It's been forever since I've written anything in this journal. I was thinking of turning this into a "burn blog" and chronicling all my kitchen injuries, but I think that would be only interesting to me. At this point, I think I'll just ramble until I find some sort of purpose. For now, I feel like I just need to write.