Will Work for Food

The discreet wooden sign by the side of the road read, "Peaceful Cove Hotel." Under it, a less discreet sign announced, "This week only, Pierre Maitriser."

I eased my bike off the road and studied the sign. I didn't care who was singing in the lounge. I wanted a meal. My last five bucks had gone into the bike's gas tank. I'd rather ride with an empty stomach than push with a full one.

I didn't know what back road I was on. It didn't matter. I'd be moving along soon. It's easy to run away from mistakes. Mine had been tossed into the trashcan of who-even-cares long ago, but it's hard to escape the demons inside.

I idled around the circular drive and angled into the staff parking area. The rattle of metal-on-metal and the odors of spice, hot oil and dumpster told me I'd found the kitchen. It was early for the lunch rush, but this hotel might be busy enough to need an experienced cook willing to work cheap.

I eased my knife bag out of the panniers. The Culinary Institute of America logo was faint and faded. It had been ten years since I'd traded their hot grills for the cold streets.

A degree from the CIA opens doors, but I walked out those doors faster than I walked in. Cooking is my passion. Mediocrity is not..

This kitchen would be the same as others--a clot of second-raters jockeying for status. I'd cook some meals, maybe even stay for a few months. Eventually I'd be fed up with people who wouldn't even try to reach their potential, voice my opinions, and head on down the road.

Some day, I might land a gig worth keeping, but I'd stopped expecting one.

The building was old, perhaps dating from the 1920s. The dark-green wooden door frame wasn't quite square, but the aluminum screen door was modern. It was screwed in place with plenty of caulk and weatherstripping to prevent bugs from sneaking in. Behind it, the thick, wood door stood open. Steamy vapors drifted through the screen: fried onions, hot butter, and toasted bread.

I squinted into a kitchen that matched my expectation: a half dozen men in double-breasted white coats wielded knives as they dashed back and forth around stainless steel counters. It was an improvisational ballet of controlled chaos. The only element out of place was a gentleman in civvies, chewing on a pencil as he sat in the back corner with a book in his lap.

I studied the staff. They wore side-vented cotton coats instead of cheap, unvented polyester. I revised my estimate of the restaurant up a notch for spending extra bucks for the staff's comfort and safety.

"Any dead dish to spare?" I called. "Maybe something dying on the pass?"

A portly man in his mid-fifties, probably the head chef, stepped back from supervising the line and glared at me. "No handouts, but if you can wash better than the kid I just kicked out, I'll make it worth your while."

"I've been in a kitchen before. I can do scullery as well as the next guy."

He nodded his approval, so I stepped in and placed my knife set on the bench by the rack of chef's uniforms. I wouldn't be chopping today.

I grabbed the nearest jacket, glanced at it and tossed it into the hamper.

The head chef raised an eyebrow.

"Stained," I told him. Call me a prima-donna if you want. I've been called worse before I stormed out of a kitchen that wouldn't meet my standards.

The next coat was clean. A few seconds later I was in front of the sink. First, I checked the silverware in the drying rack.

Spots. There were actual water spots on the first spoon I checked.

I dumped the entire rack into the sink. The clatter echoed over the normal cooking noises. Two cooks nodded approval. The head chef smiled.

"House-special sandwich for our new washer," he called.

Just like that, I was a member of the team. The lowest ranking member, but I was "our" washer, not "the" washer.

Behind me, a spatula cracked into an egg. I glanced back as a duck egg with a dark orange yolk hit the griddle. A slab of ham and two slices of buttered challa followed the egg. The sandwich would be done soon. I needed to scrub fast.

My hands flew: wash, rinse and into the drying rack. When the rack was full, a final hot-as-hell rinse and into sleeves, ready for the dining-room staff.

I reached for the last set of mixing bowls as a line chef spread hollandaise on the grilled bread and assembled my sandwich. I dried the last bowl as the expediter garnished it with a twist of orange. Passing my plate through the expo was a nice touch. Most places only put the extra effort into customer dishes, not staff meals. It was a level of professionalism I didn't often see.

I raised my opinion another notch. If the food matched the ingredients and care--which it should--this would be a meal to relish. My mouth watered in anticipation.

As I placed the last bowl onto the rack, the main door crashed open. The maitre'd rushed in, eyes wide as he swept his hands through his hair.

"Boss wants an early lunch. He's in a hurry, so I need to wax the table fast. What's on deck I can grab?"

The head chef studied the line. Several half-ready meals graced the stainless steel, but only one was plated. Mine.

"Give him the special," I offered. "I'm in no hurry."

The chef flashed me a relieved smile, and turned to the maitre'd "I've got a house-special sandwich, a la minute."

The expo popped a cover onto the plate as the maitre'd grabbed it and strode out the door.

The head chef nodded at me as he left. "Thanks. I'll make this up to you."

I shrugged. It was the right thing to do. The boss outranks a dishwasher. A year or two ago, I'd have made the same offer, before I hit the road in disgust. But, today I was hungry, and willing to put up with more than normal. And maybe I was a little more forgiving, seeing how close this establishment came to my standards.

As my sandwich swept out one door, a busboy clattered in through the other. He shoved a cartload of dirty dishes with one hand while he mopped his face with a napkin.

"We're really in the weeds out there," he gasped. "I don't know when I've seen it so busy. Pierre must be pulling them in." He grabbed the bin of silverware I'd just finished prepping. "Thank heavens these are ready. We're almost out."

And he was gone.

The head chef glanced at the man in civvies who nodded once. I wondered briefly who he was. Perhaps an inspector? Maybe top management? He obviously to carried weight.

"Butterfly a sirloin," the head chef called. He waved at me. "How fast can you process that cartload?"

"About as fast as a steak can hit medium rare,"

The steak slapped, then sizzled as the line chef seared it. Meanwhile, I did my imitation of a whirlwind, sluicing leftovers into a bin with one hand, and tossing plates into the sink with the other. Then a vigorous scrubbing, rinse, dry and stack. If this were a normal rush, I'd use the dishwasher, but no machine can match a trained escuelerie.

From the corner of my eye, I tracked my steak as the cook folded it around fried mushrooms and bleu cheese crumbles. I could almost taste it as I finished the washing. The expo plated my meal, arranged two boiled, red potatoes and a basil leaf to the side. He carried the dish to the counter and gently set it just beyond the newly-cleaned dishes.

He wished me "Bon apetit," as he returned to his station.

The back screen clattered.

"Could I get something for my dog?" a girl's voice called.

All heads rotated. A teenager waltzed through the back door with a muddy-footed spaniel.

"Dog!" the chef shouted. "Get that dog out of my kitchen!"

"It's okay," the girl replied, much too calmly. "He's a companion dog. I'm training him. Companion dogs are allowed everywhere."

"Not in my kitchen, they're not. Health regulations! Inspectors!" The chef was almost frothing. "Look at his feet! Mud in my kitchen!"

The dog took the waving arms as an invitation. Its front paws slapped the counter as it nabbed my steak. It was out the door before anyone reacted. All it left behind were mud splatters on the dishes I'd just finished washing.

The girl shook a fist at the chef. "Now look what you've done. I'll have to start training him all over again. You shouldn't tempt him when he's still learning."

She was out the door, calling for her dog, before anyone could protest.

The head chef's double chin jiggled as he shook his head back and forth, surveying the damage.

"I'm so sorry," he told me, waving at the the muddy counter, soiled dishes, and dirty floor. "I will make it worthwhile. I swear."

I laughed out loud. I hadn't been in the kitchen five minutes and I'd watched two meals vanish before my eyes. I'd have sworn I'd seen every possible kitchen mishap. I've spent time as a short-order cook in a mining camp and been sous chef at the Ritz-Carlton. I even worked my way across the country in an Amtrack dining car, feeding everybody from dowagers who thought it was still Diamond Jim Brady's gay 90s to hipsters who only ate trendy, holistic food.

I could have screamed at the chef for not locking the back door to prevent disasters like this. Instead I laughed.

Nietzsche said when you stare into the abyss, the abyss looks back. The road does the same thing. You spend enough time on the bike and you have to look inside yourself.

You don't have to like what you see. I knew I was a perfectionist, and I knew I was arrogant. Eventualy the road convinced me I was more arrogant than was justified. I'd been the last one through that door. I saw it was unlocked, and I left it that way. It wasn't my job to lock the door, but still.

So I laughed. I laughed at the situation, the head chef, the girl and myself. This was a story I'd be telling during breaks for years.

While this went on, the waiters kept posting chits on the rail and the line cooks kept passing food to the floor. A little chaos won't disturb a well run kitchen. This was well above normal chaos, but it didn't disrupt the line.

Was this level of chaos normal here? It might be worthwhile hanging around just to see what would happen next.

I dumped the muddy dishes back into the cart and grabbed a handful of towels for the counter. A wet one to wipe away the mud, a dry one for the water, and a final one to sanitize the surface.

As I wiped, I called over my shoulder, "Maybe you should mix me a yogurt and nutritional yeast smoothie. Nobody likes health food, so it might not run out the door."

The head chef shook his head. "Not a smoothie! I can't watch a guy work the way you do and feed him some cheap-ass smoothie."

He tiptoed across the kitchen to the man sitting in the corner. He held his hands in front of his stomach, as if praying. "Pierre," he pleaded, "please, before you start tonight's signature dishes, would you make one of your omelets for this young man?"

Pierre closed the book, glanced around and frowned. The book's cover read "Pierre Maitriser: A Master's Menus".

"For him? An omelet? Non, I think not." He flipped the book open and pointed with a finger. "For him, my special crepes. Broccoli and cheese to begin, slivered beef, GBD sauce, and scallions to continue. Finally, cream and fruit pour le dessert."

He tore three pages from the book and passed them to the head chef.

"Vitement, I teach you how to make my special crepes."

He nodded at me. "Keep a clean plate. When Pierre cooks for a man, I promise you, that man enjoys his meal." He nodded at my knife roll. "And ready your knives. After you taste my crepe, perhaps you will be pleased to prep for Pierre."

Perhaps I would. Perhaps I'd finally landed butter side up.