Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

It’s a Chefs Life

Backbreaking and relentless, this chefs life is not a glamorous life.

You’re in early, thinking that somehow you’ll be able stay on top of the workload, but somehow that quiet cup of coffee turns cold while the delivery trucks line up at the back door and soon your pristine fresh jacket is smeared with dust from cardboard boxes and smells of fish that drips from ice-filled polystyrene boxes.

That old twinge in your lower back surfaces as you bend over to pick up a crate on the floor, and you wince in pain. Breathe. Push on through, nobody cares that this is your life every day.

The plaster on your finger loosens as you wash your hands for the 5th time in an hour, your skin remains dry no matter how many tubes of lanolin lotion you find in your pockets, and soon fresh drops of blood rise to the surface.

Either you exist in a basement or your workspace is enveloped by metal and iron, not a window in sight to bring in the light or fresh air. Your skin is pale from the absence of sunlight since your working hours begin at daybreak, ending well after sundown. Your break room is a back alley next to the overflowing dustbins, the pavement littered with cigarette butts, or the dungeon cafeteria, dirty with discarded coffee cups, plates uncleared and sticky with leftovers.

In your prized workspace, your head should be clear at all times, always thinking of the next thing- stir the pot of Savoyarde cheese and cream so that it doesn’t stick to the bottom, and turn that pot of potatoes down to simmer. The oven timer is about to buzz alerting you that breads are ready, and you have fifteen minutes to prepare a staff meal before service starts. Has the fish been scored and is the beurre blanc – a lemony emulsion of butter and cream barely cooked over flames but residual heat and served warm, but not hot and never to be reused later- ready? The scent of whole chickens roasting in the oven begins to fill the workspace, their skins glistening and golden, and on your prep board, your knives are lined up in wait.

Soon the printer will begin spitting out orders, your relay of commands and demands at your lips, you’ve learned to wait patiently for the appy who is new and can’t figure out his Cos lettuce from an Endive. In these modern ages you no longer get to bully the youngsters, you have to be like a mother- gentle and considerate- and like a father- strong of hand, all in one body, one battered body whose wrists burn in pain and whose back twinges if you turn a certain way, whose knees creak when you’re running downstairs. And then when a fresh face falls down, and cries, and gets let off, you do nothing else but breathe and put your head back down. And carry on.

Those lucky ones waiting for a meal on the other side of the door don’t care that you managed to spend 15 minutes with your children over a rushed bowl of cereal, that the next time you’ll get to touch their hair is as they toss and turn in their beds at midnight and you’ve just arrived home from the sweat and glory of dinner service.

Is there even glory? Certainly there is. If you’ve managed to spend twenty percent longer on assembling a plate before the rush kicks off. Certainly there is when the drops of sauce fall in the correct place, when the salad has not wilted in the wait, and the waiters are not screeching for their orders.

Certainly there is when you hear the rumble quieten to a murmur, and you know in your heart that you’ve done well, because you’re good at what you do, that next time you get a day off, you’ll be able to do it all in peace and you’ll get to enjoy the perfect plate of food. And you’ll want to lick the plate clean like your children do, because it’s not just a job. It’s your life. Your passion. Your raison d’être.