Recovering Line Cook, pt. 1

My first foray into food service began innocently enough.   My high school friend and I had just finished eating lunch at a popular bagel shop in my small hometown.  I hadn't frequented the place too often, but I knew they had a reputation for hiring cute, teenage girls and their drug-dealing male counterparts.  As I returned to the counter to purchase a second bagel, the owner, a smiling man of wookie-like stature and imposing sideburns, was conversing with one of his less than sober male employees about musical preferences.  The last of track of Tom Waits' "Closing Time" was winding down and although I can't recall for sure, I have no doubt that the phrase, "where are we going from here?" was uttered by the owner.  Whether due his indifference, his contempt for the owner and his music, or the difficulty of operating an old fashioned cash register while answering questions, the young man barely acknowledged his boss.  Clearly in good spirits-most likely having already imbibed some good spirits- the owner diverted his query to me.  "I'm digging the Tom Waits, to be honest."  A warm smile came across his face, and we chatted further about music for a few minutes, after which I was offered a job.  I worked over the spring break of my senior year, and then again through the summer and fall.  Eager to please, and excited to be working around good music, sexy women, and some truly funny guys, I quickly became depended upon to cover shifts, open the front of the house, and even assist in doing the mid-morning and afternoon bakes.

As we moved into fall, those headed to college, did so, and I was offered the opportunity to take over running the front-of-the-house, or forgo my cut of the tips, and the burden of dealing with a greedy public to learn how to actually make all the food we sold.  At the time my decision was an easy one to make.  I'd long felt that if there was nothing new to learn in a job, and the money was not incredible, I ought to move along and broaden my skill sets.  I'd already become proficient at working with difficult customers and handling a fast pace of business.  Baking and preparing cold items for the deli case seemed to be a more rewarding use of my time, and it would put me in the company of the funny older guys who were known to slip the odd Molson Canadian to cooler members of the crew.  I think back that moment often, especially these days.  My motives were largely pure and my logic solid, but little did I know that throwing in with the back of the house would consistently guarantee me lower pay, harder work, longer hours, and little gratitude.  The owner and I got along well.  I was raised being repeatedly told, "I'd rather you were dead than lazy," which has led both my brother and I to be incredibly hard workers and poor businessmen.  As such, I was valued-if not, at times, exploited-for my earnest approach and disdain for complaining.

Years passed, I moved around the country, traveled abroad, dropped out of more than one college, and continuously found myself back in kitchens.  I even helped the owner of the bagel shop open his Italian restaurant.  For one who has never cooked, the satisfaction of not just surviving but thriving through a busy night of service is hard to explain.  The disconnected feeling of accomplishment or failure in academics is so cerebral.  When I fail an exam, the teacher stills gets paid, I go home knowing I've neither added or subtracted any real value in any meaningful way.  Success or failure in service is very visceral.  People are depending on you, and as simple as all the little tasks are, you must be prepared to consistently responded to new demands, adjust your priorities, and move quickly and cleanly all the while dealing with stresses and pressures applied by your fellow workers and the ever-hungry public.  When a cook screws up, the customer's food is wrong an they are understandably upset.  Knowing that their tip will suffer, the server absorbs the energy from the customer and relays it to the cook, who then must take time away from the food he is currently cooking to address the immediate needs of the server, who is also needing to address new situations as they present themselves.  If anybody allows their temper to get the best of them, their ability to multitask and push food out suffers.  And the tickets continue ticking away, a seemingly endless rush of demands that must be met precisely and without haste.

Serving is a different matter.  It can be difficult and requires a level artistry to do well, but for the work servers do, they are more than fairly compensated.  The tips made by servers can be very good indeed, and if they are fortunate enough to work in an area that offers them minimum wage, the discrepancy between their pay and that of their kitchen counterparts resembles more of a caste system than the product of a just economy.

I can recall working for a couple of years at a very busy brunch hotspot in Portland, OR.  I was responsible for opening the kitchen, making buttermilk biscuits daily from scratch, cooking all manner of eggs: poached, omelets, scrambles, over easy, sunny side, whites only (that one is annoying and will literally murder your pans), over hard, basted... I would work nine hour shifts, and walk home each day with less money than the nineteen year old hostess who was only there for six hours.  Servers, friends of mine, would regularly travel to South America, the east coast, wherever they wanted. One girl I remember would take cabs to and from work everyday.  I could barely make my rent, mind you.  And not to mention, my money was TAXED.  I will try to find a piece of writing I enjoyed enumerating the various cruel indignities of the tipping pay structure, and provide the link.  The anger is clouding thinking.  Going running...

So It Begins...

I didn't sweat my cancer diagnosis too hard. Two balls seemed like a redundancy from the start.  Besides, by the time I dragged my uninsured ass to the hospital, the sick one was pretty much solid tumor, swinging low; a kiwi-sized bell-clapper of creeping death, bullying and berating what remains of my manhood.  Over the years, the dynamic duo formerly known as my testicles had been responsible for more bad situations than good.  I was glad they were able to accelerate me through puberty.  I can't imagine what it would've been like if that process had dragged itself on any further.  Despite the thicket of asshole hair I've been tending since the sixth grade, it's only been in the past couple of years that I've been able to grow a respectable beard.  Since escaping the loathsome years of adolescence, I've neither been aesthetically or practically attached to having nuts, in the plural.  I was never one of those guys blessed with the magic-eye like symmetry of a balanced scrotum.  Mine was always more like the scales of justice, perpetually tilted and inspiring of distrust.  Too many mornings have I found myself sneaking out of my own bed, trying to nimbly skirt the creaking floorboards so as not to awake the slumbering sloppapotamus with whom I'd fornicated during the prior night's debauchery.  One time too many have I put off a creative endeavor in favor spraying my issue all over my sheets and collapsing in a pile.

Truth be told, my libido took a backseat to my chemical pursuits years ago.  Loads needed stroking and I'd willingly do the legwork, but sex outside of a relationship was sporadic and usually motivated some ill-conceived attempt to bolster my crumbling ego.  Given the choice between a trio of high school prom queens brandishing baby oil, and quarter pound of bud with high-speed internet, nine times out of ten I'd go with the latter.  So it was, on the end of Mayan calender, December 22nd, 2013, in my twenty-seventh year, I was gassed, shorn and cut.  Thinking nothing of it, allowing no room for no real change.

So what the hell's so different now?  What residual ripple has tilted me so far from my prior lifestyle and belief system?  I'm not sure, and I don't know that I will articulate it clearly anytime soon, but something has changed, and I intend to work through it here, along the yawning indifference of the world wide web.