I've been scrambling all day. I started with a triple espresso and a little milk at 11:15, trying to calm the little whirlpools of dread in the pit of my stomach that mark the start of each 12 hour day here. It never works. Since then I have made two gallons of ice cream, 30 tart shells, biscuit dough, apple confit, bread pudding for 60 (last minute party), and zested almost a crate of oranges. I have placed the dairy order, checked my inventory of desserts, and looked at the book. We're going to get killed tonight.
I am five months into my first real restaurant gig. The food is elegant with French and Mediterranean influences. The pastry-wrapped lamb with gnocchi and picholine olives is 34 dollars. My desserts are 7 dollars each. I am paid 9 dollars an hour. The Executive Chef, a 30-year-old ex-surf punk from San Diego, lets me know several times a day that I am lucky to be paid at all. So although I feel a warm swell of pride every time I put on my spotless white chef's coat, I describe the job to most of my friends as "hell" and fantasize daily about hitching a ride to Iowa or Arkansas and cooking behind the counter of a truck stop. Or anywhere the food is served hot and brown and no one knows what a picholine olive is.
Our Los Feliz restaurant is new and has quite a bit of buzz, so other chefs sometimes come around to see and be seen. They come, ostensibly, to show professional support. But mostly they come to eat, spy, gossip, and then drink anything they want in the lounge until the bar closes. The day I met one particular visitor, I had just finished my third attempt at traditional lemon curd. My chef had thrown the first two batches in the trash and then stood over me, vulture-like, to comment on my sloppy technique each time I started again. The third time he made me hold a dinner plate under my arm, pressed against my body, while I whisked the hot mixture over the stove. Apparently this was to ensure that I whisked with my wrist only, not my arm, just as they do in France. I was still mopping my forehead and cursing the French under my breath when this visitor introduced himself two months ago.
Even in my ragged, beaten-down state, I was immediately impressed by this visitor's good looks, knowledge of food, and quick wit. I pegged him right away as the kind of guy who constantly tests his boundaries...not surprising for someone who went from dishwasher to executive chef in 6 years. He would lean in close while telling me some story, incorporating "secrets" into the conversations so he could speak right into my ear. He was unnerving and completely addictive. Normally I would challenge this kind of guy with body language of my own. Normally I would look him defiantly in the eye and not concede an inch of personal space. Normally I would smirk and laugh and call every bluff. But I am not my normal self anymore. I work in a kitchen now. I am a chef. Or at least I'm supposed to be.
So today when the two of them strut into the kitchen, I am in the middle of my second triple espresso, and buried as usual. As I chop chocolate and pretend not to notice them, I notice that my chef is pulling my pink grapefruit sorbet out of the walk-in freezer and grabbing for spoons. "You gotta try this."
Something is upside-down here. The man who makes a living out of criticizing my techniques, my ideas, my desserts, and my general reason for being is offering something I created to one of his colleagues. These two came up through the ranks together, competing for years in some of the toughest kitchens in the city. They are young and cocky and at the top of their profession. I turn from my task to watch. I am having difficulty breathing.
They each take a spoonful. The visitor looks me right in the eye as he tastes it. There is an almost imperceptible movement of his tongue inside his mouth. I hold his gaze, mostly because I am frozen with fear. They both dig in for more. The visitor winks at me.
Somewhere beneath my perpetually shattered-and-rebuilt ego, I know that the grapefruit sorbet is perfect. The flavor is pure and bright and perfectly balanced. The texture is smooth, the color sublime. I squeezed every grapefruit by hand. And like a slap in the face, it hits me. My chef has just paid me the ultimate compliment. The sorbet isn't just good...it's good enough to be an example of his overall vision. By offering it to another chef he is saying: "See? This is what we do here." It takes me a second to process this. I feel a glorious relief, which gives way to pride, which feeds a small flicker of confidence. Then the light bulb clicks all the way on: I deserve to be here.
"Is that supposed to mean you like it?" I ask the visitor, fiercely holding his gaze. I raise one eyebrow. I feel a cocky smirk surfacing.
"That means I like you." His eyes bore into mine. I do not look away.
"I already know that."
He laughs and I turn back to my task. My chef is shooting me quizzical looks, which I ignore. I feel triumphant and completely giddy, but my face shows nothing. Confidence is everything back here. After a few long months in a fine dining kitchen, I know it is the key to survival. When I don't have enough of it, I will keep my ears open, my mouth shut, and my face unreadable. There will be many days in this business when I feel unworthy, uninspired, and totally useless. But not today.
Today, I am a chef.
