My Hand-Modelling Days Are (Still) Over
Posted on December 4, 2006
‘Twas a mildly salty night in the kitchen for me. This is good, actually. I was due for a roughing up. In my two weeks back on the line, I’ve had it relatively easy. In the professional kitchen, this results in feeling like the pegboy in lipstick on the pirate ship, the guy to whom the sea hasn’t yet handed his ass on a dirty, chinked plate. I finally had the opportunity to dust off some of my dormant kung fu, to demonstrate that I am completely entitled to a measure professional respect and can be a formidable middle finger on the scarred hand that is our kitchen staff. There’s nothing rough about that, though. It was the surrounding circumstances and a few incidental occurences that put the black into the night.
We have a 300-person catering job booked for tomorrow, so in addition to humping and bumping to keep our stellar weekend crowds happy, we’ve stuffed 600 mushrooms, panned a metric ton of Penne d’Angelo (named for its inventor, Beverly d’Angelo), and roasted off 20 prime ribs. At 14 ounces (about a dekagram short of a half kilo, for my non-American readers), our prime rib is a spectacle to behold on the plate. Hell, it’s a spectacle to behold on the cutting board. If you can’t stand the site of bloody food, please avert your sensitive eyes while scrolling past the grisly images.
Anyway, since there were no orders for the grill, our esteemed grill man, James, went in back to help with banquet prep. I was left to contend with rotisserie and sautée duties for five measly tables. I can’t say I handled it with grace and aplomb, but I did get to dance the Herky Jerky a little. James came forth to help me finish plating the remaining tickets and noticed we were low on sautéed zucchini for the vegetable medley. He inquired if I had zucchini cut.
“I do not!” was my retort, and in the same instant I whizzed without a second thought back to the walk-in for the green goblins. I returned and got about two zucchinii into the task before shearing off a portion from the top of the Angry Finger of my left hand. I don’t foresee the flap growing back. I’m scarred for life. Again. Look away, it’s hideous!
Note the singed knuckle hair. I think it’s time to burn it all off again.
Just as sure as horseshit in Cheyenne, the First Aid box had been raided and emptied by the Band-Aid Bandits and I was forced to swaddle the finger in a napkin and duct tape. Yes, babies, of course I threw out the tainted zucchini, sanitized the knife, the cutting board and the tiles on which I was standing at the time of the incident before getting back to work. We also take it a step further in our kitchen when human blood is shed on the line, just to be safe. We ring a bell and a rabbi comes out of the closet to sprinkle kosher salt all over everything. We think this extra precaution sets us apart from the pack.
I got through that portion of the night, was cleaning up and looking forward to going home when the Allergic Family came in, a full ten minutes before closing time. If you cook professionally, you know who I’m talking about. They are allergic to flour. They cannot have onions or garlic, which rules out the use of every single sauce on the steam table. Their filet mignon must be cooked to a charcoal-like state (a delicate 45-minute undertaking) because they are allergic to blood, and their vegetables must be steamed in bamboo because metal oxide residue agitates the fine lining of their mucous membranes when it has been transmitted to broccoli by water vapor.
Parents, for the sake of the world’s restaurant professionals, pay attention to your children so that they do not grow up to torment us with a barrage of special orders ten minutes before closing time. I definitely believe in giving the customer what they want - and I always do to the best of my ability - but some people simply do not belong in restaurants. They belong in intensive care units, sterile-environment plastic bubbles, or 12-Step programs for neglected inner children. If you tell me that you can’t have flour, salt, oil, garlic, oregano, hard cheese, water and a host of other things, I will always be tempted to tell you that you simply can’t have food and that you should derive your nourishment intraveinously…
…and then I will silently cook whatever it is you order, exactly as you’ve ordered it.
» Filed Under Work, food and drink
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screw that, tell them to starve. i hate that shit. it happend to me the other night. anyway, just wanted to say screw the “Allergic Family”. I’m out, MIKE RYAN