0 to 60

We went from 0 to 60 this Saturday. After multiple services that were incredibly slow, we were booked out for both lunch and dinner. I was both apprehensive and excited. There is such intensity to plating one single dish that I had trouble imagining how much more intense the atmosphere in the kitchen would be when various dishes from different stations were being plated at once.

The day didn’t start out particularly well—Saturday is our group’s bathroom cleaning day. The restaurant bathrooms must be cleaned three times between the time we arrive and depart. I was part of the first cleaning rotation. Although this wasn’t my first time cleaning the bathrooms, I was especially disgusted Saturday. I had trouble getting over the fact that I was paying, in some sense, to scour shower stalls, dislodge scum and small hairs, all the while being trapped in fumes of bleach and other assorted cleaning products. Our chef instructor came down to check on us, tore the mops and brooms out of our hands, threw them on the floor (check for first floor-throwing of the day!) and screamed at us because we weren’t cleaning in the right order. Go figure.

Once my bathroom shift was behind me and I turned my hands a vibrating red from washing them, I was better able to focus on the upcoming services. There was definitely a frenetic energy in the kitchen. Although it was quiet as it usually is, people moved faster. Instead of walking rapidly through the kitchen they moved at a pace just below a run. Bodies hurdled over countertops as opposed to walking around them. The excitement was contagious. It’s been four months since I’ve had that adrenaline rush from the anticipation of a busy service.

What unnerved me was the fact that our chef instructor does not allow us to cross-train on the group’s different dishes unless she verbally permits it. Consequently, the majority of individuals in our group only know how to plate the one dish they’ve been assigned to. It was slightly nerve-wracking to imagine how we would be able to help each other out when time was of the essence. For example, at db, when I worked the burger station, I might drop pans for the entremetier or help the sous chef plate if it was a busy service. On the line, we were all expected to know what was going on around us and anticipate what someone’s needs may be and to help each other. This made for a smooth, efficient service. Here, I was afraid that by restricting us to just one dish, our chef instructor was ultimately inhibiting our group’s overall performance and success. I think she deliberately does this unfortunately, to maintain a measure of control. At db, my chef pushed people to do as much as they were possibly capable of in the kitchen. He wanted us to move through stations as soon as we were ready. On more than one occasion he told me to always learn the work ahead of me, that as soon as I was promoted to a new station, I had to learn the work of the next one. This created a competitive environment in the kitchen, but one that was also rewarding and full of dedicated cooks.

Within one moment, we were in the thick of service. The restaurant does not have an electronic ticket system—everything is handwritten. The waiter will come in, call the ticket, post one copy on a central board and give a second copy to the heads of each station. The heads of each station will recall the ticket within their respective group and post it on the group’s board. That means that 12 people (in our group, specifically) are fighting to see one ticket. It is frustrating. Unfortunately, when you have a group that speaks as many languages as ours does, numbers get lost in translation; it’s risky to rely on verbal communication especially in a restaurant that accepts only perfection. The best and most accurate way for me to keep track of my canelon dishes is to simply check the tickets myself, every time.

With all of our group’s dishes being plated at one time, our chef instructor was unable to lord over each independent station like she normally does. It was freeing. Considering that she makes us feel as though we can’t do anything without her, it was gratifying to work together as a team and create beautiful dishes. I felt confident; I had control over what was going out, what I had left to send and what I needed to prepare for. I didn’t feel lost.

I was still permitted to fry the oysters. At one hectic moment, she thrust the spider at me (the tool used to extract the oyster from the oil), which was already covered in oil and then screamed at me for getting oil all over the kitchen, unintentionally doing her best imitation of Zoro. I reminded myself that I had now fried the oysters many times, knew what color the oyster had to be and remained calm. In fact, I’m finding that the more crazy and physically wild she becomes, the easier it is to stay composed. At another chaotic moment, our chef instructor screamed at me that I almost burned her with the oil. The thing is—she practically holds my arm when I fry the oysters. She can’t help herself; she can barely stand not having total control. Good thing for the language barrier—I wanted to tell her that if she came any closer, I would burn her with a drop or two of oil.

I’m desperate to try the oyster. It is panko covered and fried and rests on a small dollop of a spinach hollandaise mixed with pearls of pink and white grapefruit, fresh orange juice, minced oyster and walnuts. A small spoonful of tart blood orange granita rests at its foot. I’ve heard that frying the oyster for only a few seconds keeps the oyster cool and creamy within it’s hot crunchy exterior.

Our chef instructor allowed Valentina, the 20-year-old girl from Argentina, to fry a couple of oysters during the service. I was jealous. Smoking jealous—just like the oil we fry the damn things in.

Given the pace, it was the fastest and most tiring day we’ve had in the past three weeks. I felt like I received a full body walloping at the end of it. I think others did, too—Las, the tall, lanky man from Mali, accidentally tipped over a barquette of salt taking out our group’s very last plate of the evening to the servers. He immediately got kicked out sent to the production group.

And just when I thought our successful evening was going to end on a bad note, Flo’s new boyfriend, Pacquito, who works in pescados, snuck us two perfectly cubed squid ink ravioli on squid ink crackers to sample. They are wrapped so tightly that the first puncture causes the hot ink to literally explode all over the inside of your mouth and on the back of your throat. It was heavenly—a serious treat after a very long day.