my cart dont touch thx
I meant to go to uspinmeround's birthday party tonight, but today my chef told me that this week he'd be sitting down with the exec and "reviewing my situation", e.g., trying to decide whether or not I'm worth bumping up to the next payscale. That means I'm frantically banging out the proposal I've been languidly throwing together over the past month so I can give a copy to my chef on Monday and thereby max out my brownie points in time; this post constitutes my procrastination break. (But check out what muddy_feet did for the party! Holy crap. Just as good or better than any of the stuff I saw or made at school. I have to say, though, I never thought I'd hear anyone say that they enjoyed working with fondant. You're weird, dude.)
It's been just over six months since this shiny plum was dangled in front of me, and since then it's been the usual excuses. Season too busy, budget too tight, chefs too ornery to sit in the same room together. They would decide to get down to it while I'm in post-crisis mode. I've been cranky and mopey at work for the past month - though it's possible no one can tell the difference - and taking the option to leave early when things are slow, instead of putting on a big grin and saying, "why don't I stay and scrub out the walk-in for you?" because I've been emotionally and physically exhausted from working seven days a week. I've also lost the initiative in working on plated dessert ideas. To be fair, that works both ways, since my boss hasn't scheduled me for evening service like he promised he would, or worked out a schedule to train me on the different mixes. But he's not the one up for review.
I can, however, point out that I took on the care and feeding of our stockroom on my own initiative, which went over big not just with my direct boss, but the sous chefs on the savory side. I wasn't even brownosing; I just can't stand to see a messy storeroom. I also was the only cook in the entire kitchen (!) who knew what scientific Basque cuisine was, and that was what made the exec start addressing me by name. During the company-mandated individual "Short Chats", we talked a long time about Southern cooking, with all its attendant emotions, and I think he appreciated that I was able to discuss food trends and restaurant design intelligently. My boss knows that I keep up on local restaurants and food news, and asks for my opinions. Today we were talking about the possible change in FDA chocolate standards. By the way, if you happen to like chocolate made with real cocoa butter and milk instead of vegetable oil and "powdered milk substitutes", and I shudder to think what those might be, I strongly suggest you visit the link and take a second to post a protest. Deadline for commentary extended to June 25th.
I realized this week that my professional life thus far is measured out by carts. My externship was doled out to me in speedcart-loads of the frozen pastry that the suckers thought we made by hand. The majority of my current workday revolves around filling carts, pushing carts - damn heavy ones, too, loaded with silver trays and rack after rack of ceramic ramekins - and by far the hardest task, finding empty carts. I tape huge Xs across every able-bodied cart I can find the night before big plateups, scribbling JASON PASTRY SHOP 4 SAT DONT USE PLS across them. People find them, rip off the old tape, and put on new tape reading PEPES CART 4 SAT DONT TOUCH THX, since the stewards never bother to take the tape off when they clean them, so everyone knows the tape is always out of date even when they're clearly dated. You were busy and the writing wasn't clear and chef told you to get the cart anyways, remember.
Our small handcart is often swiped from the shop right in front of us, and last week the pastry sous and the morning guy nearly came to blows with one of the slackers next door after he threw all our boxes off our cart and made off with it. I set up tens of dozens of cookies at a go, and measure out the morning bake in sheetpanfuls - which go on carts. I finally learned to hoard them in the walk-in and the freezer, and hide them in the old shop behind the new carts that everyone hates and no one will use because the slats are too close together. (Ten thousand dollars down the drain because no one listened to cook input.) But now that I've got the cart game down, even going so far as to load up empty carts with stuff destined for the garbage to make them look important ... someone is sneaking into the shop late at night, and taking all our towels.
It's been just over six months since this shiny plum was dangled in front of me, and since then it's been the usual excuses. Season too busy, budget too tight, chefs too ornery to sit in the same room together. They would decide to get down to it while I'm in post-crisis mode. I've been cranky and mopey at work for the past month - though it's possible no one can tell the difference - and taking the option to leave early when things are slow, instead of putting on a big grin and saying, "why don't I stay and scrub out the walk-in for you?" because I've been emotionally and physically exhausted from working seven days a week. I've also lost the initiative in working on plated dessert ideas. To be fair, that works both ways, since my boss hasn't scheduled me for evening service like he promised he would, or worked out a schedule to train me on the different mixes. But he's not the one up for review.
I can, however, point out that I took on the care and feeding of our stockroom on my own initiative, which went over big not just with my direct boss, but the sous chefs on the savory side. I wasn't even brownosing; I just can't stand to see a messy storeroom. I also was the only cook in the entire kitchen (!) who knew what scientific Basque cuisine was, and that was what made the exec start addressing me by name. During the company-mandated individual "Short Chats", we talked a long time about Southern cooking, with all its attendant emotions, and I think he appreciated that I was able to discuss food trends and restaurant design intelligently. My boss knows that I keep up on local restaurants and food news, and asks for my opinions. Today we were talking about the possible change in FDA chocolate standards. By the way, if you happen to like chocolate made with real cocoa butter and milk instead of vegetable oil and "powdered milk substitutes", and I shudder to think what those might be, I strongly suggest you visit the link and take a second to post a protest. Deadline for commentary extended to June 25th.
I realized this week that my professional life thus far is measured out by carts. My externship was doled out to me in speedcart-loads of the frozen pastry that the suckers thought we made by hand. The majority of my current workday revolves around filling carts, pushing carts - damn heavy ones, too, loaded with silver trays and rack after rack of ceramic ramekins - and by far the hardest task, finding empty carts. I tape huge Xs across every able-bodied cart I can find the night before big plateups, scribbling JASON PASTRY SHOP 4 SAT DONT USE PLS across them. People find them, rip off the old tape, and put on new tape reading PEPES CART 4 SAT DONT TOUCH THX, since the stewards never bother to take the tape off when they clean them, so everyone knows the tape is always out of date even when they're clearly dated. You were busy and the writing wasn't clear and chef told you to get the cart anyways, remember.
Our small handcart is often swiped from the shop right in front of us, and last week the pastry sous and the morning guy nearly came to blows with one of the slackers next door after he threw all our boxes off our cart and made off with it. I set up tens of dozens of cookies at a go, and measure out the morning bake in sheetpanfuls - which go on carts. I finally learned to hoard them in the walk-in and the freezer, and hide them in the old shop behind the new carts that everyone hates and no one will use because the slats are too close together. (Ten thousand dollars down the drain because no one listened to cook input.) But now that I've got the cart game down, even going so far as to load up empty carts with stuff destined for the garbage to make them look important ... someone is sneaking into the shop late at night, and taking all our towels.