Never Say Never

That I ended up in the back of house is contrary to everything I ever said I would do with food. No matter what the culinary career goal du jour—food writer, food editor, recipe tester and developer, test kitchen director, food stylist, culinary producer—one thing remained constant; I would never work in a restaurant kitchen.

What could I possibly be attracted to? Absurdly long hours? Missed holidays? Inadequate pay? Groundhog day-like repetition? Perpetual emotional and physical exhaustion? Swollen feet? Throbbing calves? Sweltering heat? Constant sweating? Smelling like a grease trap? Scarred forearms? Sliced fingers? Cutthroat colleagues? A mandatory penguin-like appearance day in and day out? In sum, it all seemed terribly unappealing. If a match.com existed for day jobs, at first glance, line cook would be my perfectly imperfect match.

To date, my front of house experience far outweighs the time I’ve spent in the back of house. For eight summers throughout high school and college, I worked as a busgirl, hostess and then waitress in a small seaside restaurant in Falmouth, Maine. I loved every minute. I was addicted to the energy, the frenetic pace, the physical exertion and wildness of it all. I was caught up in the gossip and drama—the Peyton Place atmosphere that divided and unified the management, kitchen and wait staffs depending on the day—the instant camaraderie, the partying and requisite post-shift drink.

And I was obsessed with the inner workings of the kitchen. I was in awe of the line—their speed, fluidity and harmony—and the way they were simultaneously graceful and barbaric. I was fascinated by the rigid systems that shaped their team and enabled a dish to move from conception to plate to diner. Our executive chef transfixed me. No matter which side of the pass he stood guard, he possessed absolute control of every person (mostly sweat drenched line cooks), ingredient (fire-truck red lobsters, salmon pink arctic char filets, ice cream scoops of butter) and utensil (acquiescent fish spatulas and dented sauté pans), so that no movement was ever wasted.

I savored the impromptu demonstrations he gave on breaking down a whole fish, the technique for battering halibut, and the method by which to create shrimp scampi. I felt a certain triumph when I mastered the use of the blowtorch and could create as many layers on my walk-in pilfered crème brûlée as I wanted.

I think an unconscious prejudice prohibited me from acknowledging both an innate and carnal attraction to food and envisioning a career as a restaurant chef. None of the kitchen staff had been to college (aside from the executive chef, who was a graduate of the CIA) and very soon, I would attend and then graduate from an elite private liberal arts college. Embarrassingly, I never even considered pursuing a job within the food industry.

But here I am, almost seven years following my college graduation, having spent the past year working as a line cook at Daniel Boulud’s db Bistro Moderne and on the eve of a three-month stage in a three star Michelin kitchen just south of San Sebastian, Spain, in the country’s Basque region.

In my unending pursuit of the aforementioned culinary career goals and a hard (but apparently not unyielding) determination to stay out of a restaurant kitchen, I became acutely aware that I needed back of house experience to accomplish my objectives and resigned myself to the one thing I was adamant I would not do; I began working as a line cook and I loved it. When I examine my post-college trajectory, I see now that it was inevitable. Every utterance that I would never work in a restaurant kitchen and every action made to avoid it just brought me closer to being in one.

The absurdly long hours? A conquest. Groundhog day-like repetition? A perfect method to develop better knife skills. The perpetual emotional and physical exhaustion? A strengthening of determination and will power. Swollen feet, throbbing calves and constant sweating? A great work out. Scarred forearms and sliced fingers? A proud array of battle wounds.

I’ve now left one back of house for another. I’m excited to see what this Basque of house is all about.