Five-Star Fried Face

I’ve worked in a lot of different kitchens in a lot of different restaurants, and I can tell you that they are all the same. They tell you all the rules that they’re legally obligated to and expect you to forget all of them by the time their little show is done. So many rules and there’s only one thing that I know is true in the kitchen: You either listen to the fat man eating or the fat man telling you what to cook.

Both know how to complain, and both know how to end your career if you aren’t careful.

I’m listening to the latter as we get orders rammed down our throats faster than you can say food.

“If those scallops aren’t ready a minute ago then someone is gonna get a boot up their ass!” Diego screams to nobody in particular, while he stands with his hands behind his back.

“Yes, chef!” The kitchen shouts in unison.

“Would help if he actually cooked something instead of just standing there, wouldn’t it?” Vanessa whispers to me as she prepares a wellington.

“You know that he just gets paid to shit on us or any of the poor souls that come to this shithole,” I reply.

“Do you numbskulls think that we got these stars,” Diego points to the Michelin stars underneath the Diego’s Fine Food logo. “By being lazy, incompetent, slow slobs?”

“No chef!” The kitchen says in unison.

“Then where is my risotto for table 4!?” He shouts so loud that I’m sure every customer in the restaurant hears him.

“He should ask the microwave that’s heating majority of the food,” I whisper.

Vanessa snickers and Diego sees her.

“Is something funny, Miss Laschelle?”

Her face goes pale, and she immediately stops laughing but she doesn’t answer him. This causes Diego’s face to go so red and the veins on his forehead to stick out so much that I am sure one of them is going to pop. My mind creates vivid images of the vein exploding and Diego falling to the ground, newly headless, while everyone just carries on cooking.

“Are you deaf, or just stupid? I asked you a question, Miss Laschelle!” Diego screams directly into Vanessa’s face.

“No, chef!” She shouts, concentrating on what she is doing rather than the tomato-faced man standing in front of her face.

“Next time I ask you a question you better answer me, or I’ll make sure that you can’t even get a job at McDonald’s when I am finished with you!”

Vanessa doesn’t say anything, just carries on cooking, this infuriates Diego even more. He clenches and unclenches his fist as he scowls at her.

Vanessa is saved when one of the front of house staff comes into the kitchen and whispers something into Diego’s ear that changes the expression on his face from rage to panic.

“Everyone better be on their A-game! Martin Jos just walked into the restaurant! Michael, go do quality checks on our pre-prepared products.”

“Yes, chef!” Michael says as he rushes off to the chiller.

I sneak a quick glance at Vanessa and meet her eyes as she does the same to me. We both know that ‘quality checks’ only happen when a food critic comes in, and Martin Jos was a big one. He would definitely check every inch of this place and wouldn’t be happy if he found out that all of the things that Diego’s Fine Food promises to be is just one big lie. Like I said, I’ve worked in a lot of different kitchens in a lot of different restaurants, and I can tell you that they are all the same. Every kitchen has their dirty secrets, whether they want to admit it or not, and the only difference between a 5-star restaurant and a 1-star restaurant is critic reviews. You get a bad review from a critic and you might as well pull down the roller shutters, boot up the old laptop and start looking for another job. This industry is cut-throat, and Diego must have pissed someone off.

Normally he would get a notice on when a critic was coming so we could get rid of all the product that should have been thrown away the week before, and change the month-old oil. I’ve been in this situation before and judging by Vanessa’s look she has too. We both know that there isn’t any way that we’re gonna be able to pull this one out the bag. We’ve lost this war before it even started, and there’s one thing I know for sure – Diego’s not gonna take the blame for a damn thing.

“Might as well pack our shit up right now,” I whisper.

“We could do that, or we could beat him at his own game, Pete.”

“That never works out, Vanessa.”

“We’re on the way out anyway, Pete.”

“Do you really want a reputation as someone who snitches on the boss when they need you the most?”

She stops cooking and looks at me straight in the face.

“You know Pete, I’ve been doing this a long time and I’m really starting to get pissed off at always being the one to take the shit. Doesn’t matter what you do in this line of work, at this level you’re always the one to take the blame but never the one to get the credit. How is anything ever gonna change if we keep playing by the rules that put us in this position in the first place?”

“Yeah, I know what it’s like, but you and me aren’t gonna change that. We’re just gonna get swept aside like the rest of the people who were stupid enough to try.”

“Nothing stupid about trying to do the right thing. I mean come on, Pete, look at the food we put out, day-in-day-out, we both know it isn’t 5-star quality. Those people out there just wanna feel like they’re experiencing something that everyone else isn’t, so they’ll lie – even if they don’t enjoy the food, they’ll say they loved it, pride ruins all things my friend.”

“Truer words never spoken, but I still don’t think we can make a difference. Only difference we’ll end up making is a difference to our quality of life, and it isn’t gonna be for the better, Vanessa.”

“Well, I’m not sticking around and being part of the problem anymore, I’m gonna expose that fat son of a bitch whether you’re with me or not. Either way I won’t blame you, whatever you d-”

Vanessa stops talking when we hear the heavy double doors swing open and the room goes dead silent as Martin Jos walks into the kitchen. It’s so quiet that it seems like even the oil is scared to sizzle.

“Martin!” Diego says with a smile on his face that spreads from one ear to the other. He walks towards Martin with his hand out, waiting for Martin to shake it – he doesn’t.

“I’m just here to see the kitchen that’s gonna be making me my ravioli,” Martin says as he rubs his sizable stomach.

“Of course, my friend!” Diego doesn’t miss a beat. “Why don’t I get Michael to show you around, he is the best chef that we have!”

“Best chef, and you want him doing something other than cooking?” Martin walks while Diego stumbles before walking with him. Rivulets of sweat start to form on Diego’s forehead.

“He knows everything about everything in this kitchen, Martin.”

“5-star restaurant and you got people in this kitchen who don’t know everything about everything?”

Diego is running out of things to say as Martin seems to be questioning every statement he makes. Vanessa sees this as her opportunity and takes it.

“I can show Mr Jos around,” she says, smiling broadly at Diego.

He looks into her eyes and can see the malice, but he knows he can’t refuse, or Martin would just question him more. Without many other options he chooses a tactic that I have seen a million times before.

“Of course! When I said Michael will walk you around, I meant Vanessa! She is a great all-rounder, Martin, and next in line for a promotion!”

I can see that this takes Vanessa by surprise, her confidence in her plan begins to fade as she thinks about the difference the pay rise would make to her life.

“Can you take over here, please Pete,” she says to me as she smiles and gestures to the wellington.

“Delegation at it’s finest, a vital ingredient to being successful in restaurant management, wouldn’t you agree, Martin?”

Martin grunts as he is unimpressed with the charade.

“Sure,” I mumble.

For the next hour I am run off my feet as orders come in thick and fast and Vanessa walks Martin Jos around the kitchen, with Diego. They laugh at regular intervals, and each time they do I can feel my anger rising as I struggle to keep up with the demand.

It is even harder to keep up considering the fact that we are actually following the procedures instead of reheating food and using sub-par cooking methods to make the orders fly out the kitchen.

They are still walking and laughing when I see the double doors swing open and a man walks into the kitchen.

I am closest to the door, so he comes straight to me.

“We have been waiting for over an hour! It is my anniversary and I wanted to spoil my wife, but because of your fucking incompetence we have sat arguing for the last 40 minutes!”

“I’m sorry, Sir, we are doing the best we can,” I say as I carry on working.

“That’s not good enough! Honestly, if I told my boss that I was doing the best I can and it wasn’t good enough then I would be out of a job! That’s what life is like when you aren’t flipping burgers for a living! I’m so tired of you thick fucks not being able to do a simple job!”

My anger boils over. I take the nearest pan and smack the man across the face.

He recovers quickly, and before I know it, he pushes my face against the stove.

I feel my flesh sizzling as he cooks the side of my face.

Out of the eye that hasn’t melted I can see Diego tackle the man. Vanessa turns off the stove, my face is stuck as the skin that is still intact sticks to the stove plate like tar.

5 minutes later the ambulance arrive and I am taken to the hospital to be treated for my wounds. I am too scared to look in the mirror, too scared to see what I look like. One day I am visited by the police. It turns out that the man I had hit with the pan was some corporate hot shot and he has good friends in the force.

The police tell me that when I am fully recovered, they will be taking me into custody before I get trialled for assault.

Their voices drown out as I hear Vanessa’s voice in my head, “you’re always the one to take the blame but never the one to get the credit.”

It’s a damn shame that she had to be so right.