Now that we have developed a routine and a good understanding of the mis-en-place, I find myself less panicked in the mornings when I wake up. The language barrier has become less of an issue—knowing a certain amount of kitchen words is enormously helpful. If I ever start to feel frustrated and challenged, however, I think of Masa.
Masa is a very slight Japanese man from Tokyo—just a few inches taller than my five feet. In place of a chef’s hat, he wears a white baseball cap that is fashioned to look like a smaller version of a toque. Masa is always happy and smiling, which I find remarkable considering that he is almost fully deaf and speaks only Japanese. He has so much courage to have come here; I feel humbled around him. I can’t imagine how lonely and isolated he must feel not being able to communicate with anyone here, not having the chance to talk with someone in his flat about his day. If he suffers from these feelings, he doesn’t show it. He has developed an extensive list (8 pages long!) of kitchen words in both Spanish and French that his roommates helped him to put together. They are very protective, inclusive and encouraging of him. In our group, we talk to Masa through our own version of the game, Pictionary. Through his work, it’s obvious that he is talented.
Our physical work—the mis-en-place and plating—is not tremendously difficult. I was anticipating the opposite before I arrived. At the end of the day, it comes down to having good knife skills and the patience to make things precise and perfect. There is not a lot of actual cooking that takes place on our parts. Even in the carnes and pescados groups, the stages must stand throughout service. They are lucky if they are asked to help plate. The only groups in which stages are given responsibility are primeras and pastry.
The workload is also easily handled due to the fact that there are an overwhelming amount of us in the kitchen—too many, way too many. People almost trip over each other trying to get things done. We are never in the weeds.
The biggest challenge we face is mental. Sometimes I wonder, whether or not the restaurant overstaffs the kitchen to inspire competition and aggressiveness. Undoubtedly, you’ve got to fight to gain responsibility of any task. This doesn’t bother me, except for when we clean and people steal brooms, floor brushes, and mops out of each other’s hands. Let’s be serious…
It is clear that I will only get what I work for throughout this experience. Nothing will be handed to me. Because we are so limited, initially, in what we can and can’t do, we are forced to fight to get information, to cook, to plate, to command a station. It’s tiring, especially when I’m trying to navigate this combative of an environment in a language I can’t speak, but, again, I didn’t leave my family and friends for three months for nothing.
At times, I feel defeated, like this evening for instance, when our chef instructor screamed at us to mop the floor and then screamed at us to get brooms. I apparently didn’t move fast enough and she thought I hadn’t understood her because she tore the mop out of my hands and threw it on the floor. (We haven’t been through one single service with her throwing something on the floor—mop, broom, food item, mis-en-place, side towel—anything within her reach or that she doesn’t like). It didn’t stop there—when I bent down to pick up the mop to exchange it for a broom, she stood on it. It wasn’t the sweetest moment between us.
The privilege and reward of this experience, however, is having the opportunity to be inspired by the plates that the kitchen puts out. Now that we have a developed routine, I feel freer to look around at what’s going on around me. I try to imagine what I might use in place of the oyster filling inside the fatback canelon, or how I might use fatback sliced in the same manner with a different protein, or in an alternative shape, or perhaps with just vegetables, or where I might use tomato gelatin in a dish other than a salad.
It was slow again tonight and when it’s quiet in the restaurant, they turn football on the enormous flat screen television that is positioned so that the executive chef can easily view the screen. (By football, I mean soccer—sometimes they will put squash or handball on if there isn’t a soccer match that evening). This evening, the executive chef sat at his table in the center of the kitchen, barked that he was hungry and within minutes had a full, roasted bird, salad and cocktail in front of him. He feasted, like a king, while his minions stood at attention all around him. I felt like a sentry, standing up straight, not leaning against the wall, with my arms behind me. I was posted next to the walk-in door and a pastry stage walked by me and asked me if I felt like I was guarding Buckingham Palace.
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