Change is normal
It means you're growing
Evolving
Sometimes you need a change
To realise what you're capable of.
But sometimes you need a change
To help you discover how much you
Love staying the same.
This is real. The life I lived.
So here's my soul on a platter
My words in the now:
----------------
It's my birthday
Born a Wednesday's child
Crack of dawn and my eyes open.
Sun pours into my room
Filling my sleep riddled eye
Hot and orange
A cup of hot tea sits
Whips of steam snake through the air
Dad makes a smashing cuppa
Sugary and creamy
Spoon still inside
Out of bed, I step my foot down and yelp.
My arch freezes and a shock runs up my calf but I stand anyway.
Charlie horses are my mode of transport.
The creek in my ankle permanent now
It clicks as I hobble down oak steps.
I hate being late
So I slept in today's trousers
Yes. I really did.
Shower? Did that only 4 hours ago
Night time showers help me sleep
Crack of dawn showers make me howel
November frost leaves icy kisses
On my Mazda 3.
I ran out in my trousers and socked feet
Preheating/defrosting is essential.
Back in the warmth of my home
I slice pieces of "Plat bread" from Guyana
And toss them on a skillet to toast.
One burner always fires up faster than the rest
It's a law it seems
In this case the top left seems to take the lead
With zero tact or class
I grab a stick of butter and rub my toast
A glistening sparkle on my crusty bread
I quickly eat and pull on my hoodie
Grab my backpack, my clogs and cap
Keys...keys...where are my keys??
Awe yes warming up my Mazda!
"Coming home early today?" She hugs me and whispers happy birthday as she kissed my cheek.
Mom asks.
"I'll let you know..."
I knew the answer
No.
I hopped into my car and sped to work
I yanked the door open
Trotted down the concret steps
Kevin - Exec Chef was in his office
Cursing
"GET IN HERE...NOW!"
I shiver. What now? Did I forget something?
Steaks ordered for next Friday - check
Received the wedding cake for tonight's function - check
Schedule for the boys next week - check
Orders for veg - check
Strained the stock...went through the new coffee samples...paid The Bread Guy...yep all done.
Inventory - done
what's his beef?
I change in the hallway
Pulling off my hoodie sporting a tank top and trousers
Pulled down the smallest jacket
Walked and dressed myself
Multitasking
"Chef?"
"Look at this! Can you believe this shit?"
Pointing at his screen, furrowed eye brows. I move over to his desk bottoning up my white coat.
I stare at the BEO (Banquet Event Order in case you were wondering)
Last minute changes. Major last minute changes. Holy hell! My heart fell. Then fury rushed through my veins.
I looked at Kevin.
Kevin was like me, loved classic rock, and a good curry from time to time. Execpt he was older, more beaten up, dabbled in some heavy duty chemicals in the 80's but can cook like no other. Never compromised on his product and did most things from scratch. He was also Guyanese born here in Canada. Old enough to be my dad but young enough to shoot the shit with.
But sex drug & rock n' roll aside, his expression right now was that of sheer violent passion that I knew if I didn't intervene now, the crew would pay a heavy price.
"I'll handle it. Just cool it, Kev! It's gonna get done. I mean if the cli-"
He gets up from his seat in a rage. Towering over me an easy 6 feet vs my very proud 5 foot 2 inches, I manage to simultatiously kick the office door closed and stick my arms out to push him in the opposing direction. Superwoman pose.
"Print it off. I'll talk to her. Move from this office Chef and you will not live it down!"
So the last minute change...what was it? Numbers increased from 350 to a whopping 408. Oh and throw in a live crepe suzette station. Live crepe suzette! 1978 called and wants their crepe suzette back.
"Are you threatening me? Are you f***ing kidding me right now?" Kevin proclaims.
"I may be small but I'm quick! Do you really want to challenge my challenge? I will f*** you up, no shame!" I replied punching him in the arm.
My cheeky humour always defuses the old chap. His face started to relax and the grinding of his teeth subsided. Then came the beginnings of a smile.
I grab the BEO and bounce up the stairs.
"Oh- ho! Capone! Whip up 400 crepes for me please?" I holler down the kitchen corridor.
"Should I tell you f*** off now or wait for a better time?" Another bit of sarcasm from my dearest Capone. A giant teddy bear much taller than chef, goofy boyish charm and dirty blond hair, he flunked the Red Seal two times already but I didn't care. He worked hard and he was a nice piece of eye candy.
"Heading up to sales, Carte Blanch?" A raspy voice from behind me speaks. Michael, our butcher come grill cook come resident gossip keeper, holds my shoulders as he shifts me aside to make way. He must have heard the drama in the chef's office as he already started trimming up another two cases of prime rib.
"Oh I'm going up there alright. Oooh...yes!"
"Well be nice, eh? Pay cheques come in tomorrow." He had a point but who cares when now I gotta keep the crew in for another 4 hours on a Saturday night.
Money was never an issue, time however always was. Time poor - money rich.
I walk through the banquet space and leap up the stairs. BEO in hand and the face of an angel. That is, until I unleashing the devil out my mouth.
"Chef! What's for lunch today?" The ladies upstairs, the front of house team and sometimes even the kitchen crew if we aren't busting each other's chops, would address me as chef. I liked it.
"Really? It's friggin' 11:00am! Damn!" I chuckled at Dee's audacity when it was her BEO I was about to slaughter. It's a time to kill.
She laughed too but offered no eye contact. She was scared. She ought to be if it was Kevin.
"With all due respect, what the heck is going on here?" Using the f-word here might be too much so heck will do. "Are you really kidding me with this? You think we can just pull prime ribs and crepes out of our a---, ere out of thin air?!" Good save.
"Well, they are paying for it. I'm sure you'll figure it out." That's what I'm getting. This. No sorry. No explanation. I should make her suit up, clip that pretty manicure and serve this crepe suzette at midnight.
Fucking crepe suzette. Happy Birthday to me! Here's your motherfucking pancake you pretentious witch!
My internal self was throwing a full on 'it's my party and I'll cry if I want to' tantrum.
"Again, with all due respect. You are totally disrespecting our crew's time and our food cost. Do this again to me and the team it's proof you really don't give a flying fuck about what this kitchen does and the quality we deliver! You are friggin clueless! And lunch? I suggest you dial '967-1111' instead of my extension today..."
No need to wait for her reaction. No time. Make a point and leave.
FYI: that's the number for pizza delivery.
Note, no where did I say 'no'. We are not in the business of saying the word. It's like it doesn't exist. To boot, we are in the business of weddings. Ever tried to tell a bride no on her wedding day? Haha, my advice? Don't. However the point I was trying to make here on behalf of the kitchen, and all kitchens everywhere is that we do take pride in what we do. This is our livelihood. We don't do this to one day become famous, be on the Food Network and have a set of frying pans named after us. No, we are artists and this is how we get paid, and just like you we have families, husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends. A sacrifice not just made by us, but by those we love as well.
I speed down the steps. I rarely walked when I was cheffing. I did a speedy stride, jogged , leaped, climbed, jumped, lifted, pulled and often dragged but never just walked. It felt inefficient to JUST walk. Also, when you're the smallest on the crew, walking often slowed me down even more.
Back in the kitchen, Danny boy, our part time guy was cutting veg. Michael was slicing away fat from the beef and Capone was whisking crepe batter. Kevin was also up in the kitchen, talking to himself about the service. He did that a lot. But he was also making another round of marinara for the pasta course tonight. Good thing I cooked off those tomatoes yesterday.
It was now 12:30pm. Still my birthday.
Frank, The Bread Guy entered. *sigh*
Happy Birthday, me!
I looked over to Capone, his face was disgruntled and a bit red. I noticed he was a bit aggressive with the 4 frying pans he was working simultaneously.
"Hey, how's it going?" Asked Frank. Those eyes, and the arms! Oh goodness those arms. I got hot around the collar and felt it creep up to my cheeks. By now, the whole world seemed to know about my undying obsession with Frank. I literally turned into a baby giraffe learning how to walk for the first time, every moment he was around. I would trip, drop things, even stutter. Sous chef turn softy all over the guy with the bread.
Rosy from Banquets happened to pass by in her loud Latina manner she hollered at me, "CH-ef! You ok?"
Lord, help me. Rosy was my closest friend, and we ran a business together on our downtime. She knew all about Frank's residence in my brain. She wanted to watch me squirm a bit. I smiled. Now, lightheaded I had to answer Frank's question.
"It's going! Can't complain given it's my birthday," so subtle, I know.
"What? Happy Birthday! You should have told me earlier! I would have brought you a gift!" he proclaims.
The only gift I want from you would require a whole lot of privacy, a bottle of Champagne and a man I call Barry White. Focus!
"No worries Frank. You can just buy me a coffee," and flowers, and chocolates...candle lit dinner...
"You got it! Have a great birthday!" and out the door he went.
I had forgotten about Capone. I glanced over again, he was officially a different colour. A shade of red only affiliated with one emotion. It did dawn on me before but never had I noticed it so overtly, nor had I considered to indulge it. He too had a hard time hiding what was on his mind. I walked over and stood close to him, and I felt the jagged energy pulse off his towering body. He shuffled his feet, to give me room.
"Yep?" he asked.
"Your crepes look good. How many have you done so far?"
He sighed, then smiled a sheepish smile looking down at my face. Wait, what? Why is my face getting hot? Again? I'm standing too close to the grills. Ya, that's it. Huh?
"82."
"I'll help. Give me half the batter and I'll fire up the other burners.
4 more burners totaling 8. 8 frying pans. 8 crepes made at once. 2 chefs. Elbow to elbow.
With a ladle, I quickly poured batter. Now ambidextrous from years of trying to be quicker, better and more efficient, I held a frying pan in each hand and flicked and rolled my wrists. With a smooth motion I placed them back on the fire. Capone, a bit quicker but a little sloppier did the same. A wafting draft brushed my nose, a hint of vanilla and butter. His batter was smooth, no lumps. It poured like heavy cream. He did a good job. Now does it taste good? I took a cooled one, and ripped it. I placed it in my mouth and chewed. The texture was soft but not fall apart soft. The hint of sweetness and vanilla came through but very subtly. With that suzette sauce, this would go well.
I couldn't deny it. He was a good cook. In a lot of ways better than me and that didn't bother me. I could learn from him and he was surely learning from me, when he wasn't going beet-red when I was around.
Michael leaves the kitchen and goes into the back room where Big Eddie and the boys usually have their lunch. I knew where he was going. I hear the distinct hiss and pop of an espresso machine.
Michael was a stocky middle aged Armenian guy who had a lovely singing voice and a good judge of character. He could read people well, especially if it meant getting information out of them.
"Habiiii-bii!" He sang to me while putting his arm around my shoulder kissing my cheek. He was apparently raised in Lebanon and could also speak Arabic. "Happy Birthday! Capone, did you give your girlfriend here her birthday kiss?"
Oh for fuck sakes! I thought to myself. Although I bet Capone would be a delicious kisser.
"Die...Mike just die." Capone replied turning red again.
Ok so the cats out of the bag for my Italian teddy bear here. Capone did the 'where are my smokes' face and walked out.
I continued with the crepes. Then my mind began to wonder as crepes as fast as they cook, still feel slow when you have 400 to make.
My birthday. And I'm here. I had ended things with Captain in August and still no regrets but this is one birthday I am wondering what could have been. Scratch that! I looked down at the crepes. Nicely blushed not browned too much and uniformed.
"We drink tonight to celebrate your birthday!" Danny says in passing. Buddy was always looking for a free drink. Or just a drink in general. He has at least 12 coffees a day and drank like a fish soon as we clocked out. Tonight lord only knows when that will be.
Capone returned, now much calmer and less red.
I left him to complete the crepes and walked over to the white board to check off whats been done. I was always the last to leave at night because I was in charge of making the prep list for the next day. That and if I let Kevin do it, it looks like a Serial Killer broke in and left his grocery list behind with his poor handwriting.
I love lists. Prep lists were a favourite of mine because I broke them down even to the minute. I know how long it took to clean and trim a full salmon, to chiffonade 8 bunches of basil, to sear off chicken breasts for 60 people and so on. I'm dedicated to the clock and timing is everything. Tonight we have 408 hungry Italians to feed and I don't need any fuck ups or delays.
My stomach rumbled. I looked at the clock at it's 3:40pm. 90% of the prep is done and all that's left is the last few dessert plates and suzette sauce.
Blasted suzette sauce!
I ran down to the other end of the kitchen and popped the walk-in cooler open. Capone was in there already grabbing fresh strawberries from the top shelf. I decided in that awkward moment to take the blueberries from the middle shelf, enough for plating and coulis. So everything we had.
Capone moved closer and danced around me collecting more flats of berries. That's when I felt a warm sensation slip around my waist. I looked down and his strapping arm and gentle hand swiftly pulled me in one direction and he searched the shelves with eyes in another.
Knowing exactly when to let go he turned with strawberry crates propped on one shoulder and pushing the door open with the next.
It was very quick. Too quick to say it was an advance because I know I've done the same. I've gently held someone's arm to direct them. Pushed someone by the waist to get them out of the way from an oven door. Kitchens are small quarters at times and eventually you get touched, pulled, pushed, shoved and so on. As a woman I knew where to draw the line with the cheeky ones. I've elbowed a few naughty boys in the rib cage a time or two. Threatened to cut body parts off...etc.
Michael had started dressing plates along with Danny. Capone handed off the berries and had started in that God-forsaken suzette sauce.
I turned on a burner and filled a pot with water. I dig around my station to find a couple boxes of penne pasta. This will have to do.
I thinly sliced onions and peppers. We had some spicy Italian sausage from a late station from earlier that week. I pulled them out of the fridge and slit them so I could squeeze the meat out of the casing.
I need to feed the guys. They'll be working late. It's 4:30pm and this is lunch time.
Lunch was served. I ate over the sink. Capone and Danny sat on milk crates and Kevin and Michael ate by the steam kettles to nurse that marinara sauce. 15 minutes chew fast. Get back to it.
Back to my list:
Crepes and Suzette - fine
Extra prime rib, veg and back up potatoes - turned and roasted. Finished.
The slushy machine is running pinacoladas and strawberry daquiries...cool
Marinara done pasta blanched. Great. Kettle boiling for the refresh.
Salads plated. Balsamic reduction - check!
Dessert plates. Done.
Bread arrived. Cocktail hour behind at 6:00 pm...30 minutes to get my ducks in a row.
I was in charge of cocktail hour and canapes. Capone would help me. I dressed the platters and manned the fryer. He grilled. The cold canapes the servers could help themselves to.
My cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and it's mom. I don't answer but she'll understand why.
A service kicks off at 6pm sharp. Rare that it's on time but I won't complain. The quicker it moves the quicker I can enjoy some birthday down time.
Krissy, a server bear hugs me during first course. Her bubble gum scented body spray cloaks me and it begins to spark hunger in my belly.
"Happy Birthday!" She squealed with a giggle synonymous for a teenager.
I thank her and peel away from her grip. Soon, a symphony of happy birthdays and best wishes come my way. Flattered, I hugged, elbow bumped and high fived whomever I could. Kick in chef mode:
"Folks! Seriously! Let's get this show on the road because I need to squeeze in at least a fairly decent buzz before my birth day ends!" I announce. A couple claps and a cheer from Kenny, the bartender. Kenny was also a tree of a man but quiet. Well, for the most part. If there's a swarm of ladies at the bar it's a different story.
"We got 3 gluten allergies, so watch who's serving the pasta course and know your tables. I have gluten free pasta available but let's not advertise! Prime rib, main course. The sauce is thickened with roux so please don't serve it on the meat unless told by the guest. Dessert is Tartufo, simple enough. Watch the martini glasses please, I can't keep buying them so please only carry what you can handle. It's 408 people, that's not including the kiddos so please please give me an update if you have any kids meals you need served. Capone and Danny are rolling out the late night crepe station tonight. I will be BOH as runner. Michael will do the poutine station! Questions?"
"Sauce on the pasta?" a voice asked.
"It's actually Arabiatta. Bit spicy, but nothing you'd regret in the morning. Anything else?"
Silence.
"Dressing is balsamic reduction. The sauce for the beef is actually jus lie should any of the guests ask. There is alcohol in the sauce as well, same with the suzette sauce for the crepe station. If there's anything else, I'll be in the chef's office."
I leave Michael and Danny to begin dressing the salads. I clip-clop down the stairs and find Kevin once again huddled up behind the computer.
"Kevo! Prep list for tomorrow please?" I ask.
He hands me his note pad without glancing away from the computer. I step into the dry storage room, begin counting out boxes of pasta for tomorrow. That's when I hear a sound that every chef dreads.
A loud tumbling of plates, a crashing, heartbreaking, stomach dropping, utterly painful sound! Broken plates. I sigh and step out of the dry store room and find Kevin ready to meet me at the base of the concrete stairs. His eye roll, "After you, princess!" I leap up the stairs, he follows promptly.
"What the f*** is this?" Curse words flow out of me smooth and calm like pouring maple syrup on pancakes. I'm much better than most chefs. Some can't go a full sentence without using the f-word, s-word, or even worse the c-word. Kevin is one of those guys but he never used the c-word. I asked my sources and they confirmed this as I thought maybe he just didn't use it around me. "Jesus, f***ing Mary, Joseph! What's this, like 60 plates!? Come on, you're f***ing kidding me!" I even went Biblical. I think?
Capone was already at the scene of the crime sweeping. A collision of the servers trying to use the 'out' door as the 'in' door and it became a domino effect. Plates, salad, balsamic, all guts and glory, all over my floor. I nearly lost my cool. Why? Because I wasn't sure we had enough salad greens to replace this cock-up of the century. The broken plates cost money to replace. Service is now delayed. For fuck sakes! Danny was already replacing plates and garnishing again. I ran to the walk-in of close encounters, pulled cases of mesculin mix from the shelves, Kevin was on his way out carrying a few as well. This time it was Kevin giving me the chill out speech.
"Fuck, your face! Hey, shit happens, let's just push it out!" His pep talk was short and sweet. But I was red. Not, "oh my dearest Frank" red, this was "Someone will die tonight" red. Kevin could read me like a book. He knew I was going to lose it. I had already worked 82 hours on the punch card. I was still here at 2am yesterday (today?) and was back here bright and early at 9am. I was fried but still going strong. So he did what any good exec chef would do...
"Smoke break! Now!" Kevin barked at me. I don't smoke. But I know what that means. It means, get the hell out of the kitchen before you turn this into a CSI episode. I begin to hum "Teenaged Waste Land" in my head.
I kick a milk crate as I storm out of the kitchen. I bump into Lyn, my enemy. Older woman, Blockbuster cashier turn 'Banquets Expert' (my brown ass!) very self-centered and queen of stirring pots. Her brother was part owner of the business and therefore she had a cockiness coupled with an undeserving title of Banquet Manager. Rosey has been in this industry for 7 years and still didn't get a shot at the promotion since Lyn joined. I hated that she looked for every excuse to blame the crew for things going wrong, And of all people, she walked in, bad highlight and everything! I refused to say hello, why should I? I know I'll just say something highly inappropriate so best keep my mouth shut. It is my birthday after all.
I found the curb and I sat. The cold air woke me up. I could see the flurries of snow twisting through the air. I look down at my watch and it said 7:48pm. Where did the day go? It's dark out and my Mazda was kissed again by frost. Kevin stepped out, lit a cigarette. "It's cool. They've got it down. Pasta is up next, I just need you to breath man. Shit girl, you were about to go US postal on those kids!"
I got up without saying anything. I looked at him and smiled. I was fine. He understood me and my feelings. I work hard. Really hard. I want it perfect, even when it can't be.
Rosy, came out as well. "CH-ef? Want a margarita?" She handed me a Styrofoam cup. The neon green slush looked uncomfortably fake. Almost radio active. I sip the slush and I laugh. Oh Rosy, I can count on you!
FYI: there was more than just neon green slush in the cup
I don't believe in drinking on the job. If anything its a danger, and highly unprofessional. Fellow chefs out there can agree it's the beginning of the end for those who start. But I took the drink anyway that day and I didn't feel guilty about it.
I head back in. Now chilled in more ways than one, the pasta course had already kicked off.
"Carte! You good?" Michael asked. I went by many nicknames in that kitchen. Carte Blanch, Princess (my least fave but only Kevin used it), Queen Bee, just to name a few. Carte Blanch was my favourite.
I nod my head. Teenaged Waste Land was still in my head.
Capone moved around me and with affection he threw his arm around my shoulder. But he said nothing. And as swiftly as he was in the walk-in cooler earlier, he pulled my apron strings and my side towels and all tumbled to the floor. Capone let out a jolly laugh and I blush profusely.
"Pay back for the crepes, Carte!" why am I blushing???
The night moved along, and the main course is served. I realized it had been over a 12 hour shift and I only sat once and that too when it was ordered to. It was now 11:10pm. I finally remember my phone was ringing earlier. I looked at about 17 missed calls and about 20 text messages saying happy birthday. I replied to all of them. I was happy that I was remembered by those 20 people and it made me feel good after such a wicked service. Wicked good.
I watched on as the servers arranged martini glasses with Tartufo. They garnished it themselves with chocolate cigars and powdered sugar. Glad to see my delegation to the FOH was paying off. Danny and Kevin were smack talking by the meat slicer, Capone and Michael were propped up by the coffee machine. Fuck, the prep list!
I ran downstairs, I began to do counts of everything in the walk-ins, dry storage and then the freezer. Everything was there, just as I hoped. I did do a good job on staying on top of orders from suppliers.
"CARTE!" Michael yells! I was in the dry storage, climbed up on a top shelf trying to rearrange my neatly packed lentils section.
"Michael? Why the hell are you screaming?" I stick my head out of the room.
Then I hear Kevin's voice raspy and tired start to holler. Oh good grief.
"GET IN THIS OFFICE NOW!!!"
Now I just want to cry.
Really. Just cry and cry.
Not out of sadness. Not even out of frustration or pain.
I want to cry because it takes the least amount of energy and it's quick and easy to hide.
FYI: Note though, I don't cry at work. I may WANT to cry, but I don't. Actually, I never cry at work. Crying is weakness. I don't have time for that. I'm sous. Sous's don't cry. Actually, no chef should cry. Just bad form. This is what I signed up for, I chose this life! It's my birthday and I had no second thoughts about where I'd be today. Not because I wouldn't want to be at home being pampered like a baby by my parents, or eating birthday cake or taking shots at the club! Of course I'd love to be doing that, but I'm in the business of making people happy with food. And that makes me happy. Yes, my social life is shot to shit. Yes I'm money rich but time poor. But I love to cook! I really do!!
I begin to unbutton my jacket. My tank top is soaked with sweat, my hair matted to my skull from the pill-box cap I wear. For the first time tonight, I just walk to Kevin's office.
"Inventory is done, Kevin. Just we need to clean out the freezer next week if we're getting that ice sculpture in,"
There sat Michael on the floor, shoes kicked off, baseball cap in hand.
Capone was sitting in Kevin's chair surfing the internet.
Danny was standing leaned up against the wall, toothy grin and a side towel around his neck.
Kevin stood in front of me and was sleepy eyed and smiling.
In his hand was a 6 pack of Moosehead Lager. My favourite beer. He pulled one out and handed it to me. "Birthday ladies first!"
I propped the cap edge on the side of the desk and swiftly slammed my palm down. The bottle popped open. The boys had their own ways of opening bottles, for me this was mine.
"Happy Birthday, Carte Blanch! Good service and you didn't lose your cool. Must be that maturity thing I keep hearing about!" Kevin says.
"Thanks!" I say, raising my bottle.
The clinking of bottles continued. I look at my watch and it says 12:17am. No longer my birthday. Happy nonetheless. Wouldn't have changed it for the world.
xo,
The Girl who Likes to Cook
