BEHIND THE SCENES

BEHIND THE SCENES

“We got a bleeder here,” shouted Vince as he whipped out the clean cloth from the apron tied at his waist. He rushed over to where Karl stood swaying, looking shell-shocked, over the cutting board at the stainless steel kitchen counter; the blood dripping from his hand. Vince quickly bound the hand with his towel as he tried to calm down Karl.

“It’s ok Karl, You're gonna be fine.” assured the sous chef, Vince.

“For God’s sake,” shouted the Chef in irritation, “don’t get blood in those potatoes. They are Le Bonnotte potatoes from my homeland of France and they cost more than three hundred dollars per pound Karl; which is probably more than you make in a week.” Chef put the finishing touch on the dish he was working on, sturgeon caviar, sturgeon ceviche, and sturgeon mouse. He piled the pickled sea vegetables into a tower and garnished the plate with mango and pomegranate. Nodding with satisfaction he handed the plate to the server who scurried into the dining room to deliver the offering.  “C’est super! Absolument fabuleux!” Chef gushed.”

“Order up,” called Kelly as she walked through the double swinging door into the kitchen and placed the order on the stainless steel wheel which probably hadn’t been used in a decade. It was a novel experience; the restaurant had changed to a tech-central restaurant and all orders were on computer these days.  The problem was that the computers were down today, and Head Chef Pierre DuMond was even more in a tizzy than usual.  Upon hearing of the technical problems and the need to revert to pad and pencil, he had gone on a ten-minute tirade. Probably not a good day to ham it up.

“I fail to see the humour in our present situation Kelly,” stated Chef. This is not a local diner or some greasy spoon where we say, “Order up.” It behooves you to remember your position here. I would remind you that The Clarington Hotel is a prestigious hotel and the Riviera Restaurant is its premier restaurant, one that holds the prestigious distinction of holding not one, not two, but three Michelin Stars. Is this understood?

 “Yes Chef,” she said smartly and succinctly.

“I realize that our computer system is down and we are forced to take orders in notepads like our primitive ancestors,  but please have the decency to …

“Excuse me, Chef,” Vince interrupted loudly, “but we still have a man bleeding to death over here. I strongly advise you call a medic.”

Vince turned to a stunned Karl and whispered, “It's ok, you’re really not bleeding to death, a few stitches at best.”

At that moment Kelly turned and saw the bloody towel covering Karl's hand, blanched, and covering her mouth with her hand, exited the restaurant kitchen poste haste.

 Exiting the double swinging doors she took a moment to stabilize her emotions. Blood was not her thing. She didn’t even like it when she had to deliver a rare steak swimming in red juices to a guest.  Chef was obviously having a bad day; come to think of it every day seemed to be a bad day for Chef Pierre. Chef Pierre, that's rich she thought, more like Chef Peter. She remembered the day she had surprised him as he stood by himself just outside the back door of the kitchen talking on his cell phone. He had his back to her so he continued his conversation without a hint of a French accent and revealed more of his real life than he would have liked. He was obviously using an accent to enhance his reputation as a French Chef from Paris. A chef from France, the pinnacle of fine dining, had more clout and prestige than Peter Mond from the other side of the tracks who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps and bettered himself.

Kelly had to give credit where credit was due, and Head Chef Pierre DuMond might have a fake French accent, and his real name might be Peter Mond, but he actually did have a Michelin star and a James Beard award. Since his arrival five years ago he had raised the level of fine dining to a new level in the dining scene at the heart of the city. His meals showed vision, presentation, and perfection to those who had a discerning palate and lots of money. Food critics from around the world were always eager to dine at the Riviera Room and were never disappointed.

 Taking another deep breath, she checked her neat little bun at the back of her head and adjusted the cuffs on her crisp white tailored shirt. She looked around the restaurant, her eyes sweeping the room with pride. She had come a long way from her days at the golden arches as a teenager, to her current position now, working in a five-star luxury restaurant.  But her past was her closely guarded secret. I guess the head chef wasn't the only one with secrets.

 The Riviera Room was a large restaurant situated in the heart of the city. People waited for weeks or sometimes months to obtain a reservation. Everything was of the finest quality, from the decor to the linens to the furnishings. The floral arrangements were top-drawer. The silverware, flatware, and crystal superlative. The Riviera Room offered creative menus that not only enhanced the senses but also emptied the wallet. The guests were proud to pay and all felt they received good value for the dent in their credit card.

Kelly took a quick glance around her section, making sure that all the guests in her section were lacking nothing. It was her responsibility to make sure her guests had everything they needed and had an enjoyable time without her hanging needlessly around their table.   She darted over to retrieve a napkin that had fallen from the lap of an elderly gentleman. Upon rising, and acknowledging his thanks,  she glanced out the window as a stretch limo pulled up in front of the hotel. She saw Jacque, who actually was French, hurry over to open the door.  He wore his concierge uniform of a three-piece coat and tails with a black tophat.  He doffed his hat and bowed to the ladies getting out of the limo. Kelly gave a short gasp, one of them was Rachel Ward-Evans, the celebrated actress slash singer, who had recently won an  Academy, Emmy, and a Juno award this year. There wasn’t anybody hotter on the planet right now.

Kelly moved gracefully and furtively around the room and watched as the trio of women with Rachel in the lead, make their way across the  Italian marble-floored foyer,  under the vaulted ceilings held up by Corinthian columns embellished with gilt and under huge crystal chandeliers, with their thousands of gleaming prisms.  In silhouette heels, they sashayed past the waving palm trees, and overstuffed Moroccan leather furniture, and into the Riviera Room. Kelly’s heart beat a little faster; she was used to celebrities, dignitaries, rock, and even grunge stars. But Rachel was la creme de la creme,  real celebrity royalty. She stood in an alcove and watched with trepidation as the maitre d’ showed the three women into the room. Kelly was certain that they had not made a reservation but knew that it was hotel policy to always fit in major celebrities. No way would anyone turn away Rachel Ward-Evans.

 The Riviera Room’s VIP private room was to one side of the main room.  The servers took turns serving in this room as the tips were usually high. Kelly had been told when she started her shift that it was her turn to work the room, however, no one had booked the private room tonight. Figures. Mario, who took reservations, had never liked her ever since she had rejected his advances several months ago and took every opportunity to remind her of it by making sure she seldom if ever got to serve in the special room. However, the restaurant was packed tonight and you didn’t keep Rachel  Ward-Evans dangling her awards at the bar.  Kelly gave a short prayer to the man upstairs. Cha-ching.

The  VIP room was fabulous and made the main room of the restaurant look dowdy. The private room boasted a fabulous leather banquet, a babbling fountain that flowed into a small river that led to a mini waterfall and koi pond. Tropical plants and flowers abounded everywhere and the centerpiece on the table, although it had a narrow base so people could converse with ease,  rose to an impressive five feet of sheer elegance and beauty.

Taking a calming voice but with her heart pounding and her voice wavering slightly she welcomed her guests and took their order. Making her way through the in door to the kitchen she left the world of glitz and glam and elegance personified and entered the world of mayhem and chaos.

Vincent was still standing over Karl who was now lying on the kitchen floor crying. Smoke was pouring out of an oven and Juanita and Maria, the head pastry chef, and her assistant were yelling at each other as usual about who was responsible for the burnt food.  Juanita was a culinary expert who had unparalleled skill when it came to all things pastry, her visions were creative and delicious, they enhanced the senses with their taste and design.   There was a begrudgingly amount of respect between  Executive Head Chef Pierre and the Head Pastry Chef. Chef Pierre would bite his tongue when Juanita became so involved in creating a Croquembouche, or a creme brulee that she would forget about it in the oven or on the stove till, like today, the kitchen became very smokey and the smell of burnt choux pastry permeated the kitchen.

 Benny the busboy and factotum, was waving a crisp, linen napkin in the direction of the smoke. Chef Pierre was berating his underlings, which meant everyone in the kitchen. Pandemonium reigned supreme.

.

 In kitchens across the planet, there is a kitchen hierarchy that was probably carved in stone by the head cook of some long-dead king or ancient pharaoh.  The head Chef is like the king or pharaoh or at least they like to think they are.  Kelly never really understood the need for the head Chef to bask in constant glory and have his underlings bowing and scraping and acknowledging his every command with a “Yes Chef, No Chef.” I mean it's just food, thought Kelly. You eat it,  yes, and enjoy it; especially in a five-star restaurant; but face it, some hours later it ignobly leaves your body and ends up in the toilet.  Yet many will pay almost a king's ransom for this dubious privilege.

 Benny, the busboy had given up waving his white linen napkin like he was surrendering to the enemy and was now stacking dishes. A sudden crash had everyone in the kitchen shouting “Opah” like it was some great big Greek wedding. It's funny, no matter how many times a dish gets broken, and the ensuing, collective “Opah” have sounded, it never seems to not amuse everyone. I guess we have to take our amusements where we can, thought Kelly, and oh, just to prove her point, Chef Pierre started yelling at Benny who, of course, is the low man on the totem pole, Chef’s curses emulate those of a long-shore man.

Benny, his face crimson, rushes to clean up the shards of white china with a flurry of apologies and genuflects to his lord and master Chef Pierre.

 “A new order just came in,” said Kelly as she walked over to Chef Pierre. “It's for the VIP room.”

“Yes yes, what is it,” said Chef in a bored voice.

Kelly knew that Chef Pierre was a huge Rachel Ward- Evans fan.

She started humming Rachels's signature song loudly and he paused, mid-stir, and said “ NOOOOO!”

“YESSSSS,” she replied.

“Not Rachel?” Did his accent falter there?

 “Oui! Yes,  C’est Rachel.”

“Do you hear that everyone,” shouted Chef. We have an angel in our midst tonight. Everything must be perfection. Perfection I tell you.” Chef’s eyes lit up. “ What did she order?” 

“She ordered the gold honey-glazed Atlantic Seaboard Lobster tail with Noai caviar, served with Jersey oysters swimming in one-hundred-year-old balsamic vinegar, as well as puff pastry fishcakes. For dessert, she ordered strawberries and cream panna cotta supreme.”

“Excellent, excellent!” Chef Pierre Dumpnd rubbed his hands in delight.

“Her friends ordered…”

“I care not what her friends ordered, give their requests to Vincent. Oh, I see he is still taking care of that useless piece of flotsam on the floor. Henri, give the details to him. I will prepare Rachel's plate personally, and serve it to her as well.” Chef Pierre started barking out orders to his underlings and cursing those who got in his way.

“Okey Dokey,” a touch of rebellion filled Kelly and she thought the sky could come crashing down tonight and Chef Pierre would not notice. Protocol be hanged.

After giving her orders Kelly pushed open the heavily insulated swinging door marked “exit only” and return to the well-ordered, genteel, and rational world of fine dining where patrons refined conversation and refined laughter prevailed.