My first Day in the kitchen!

                Have you ever gotten that tiny little sensation where it feels like butterflies tickle your stomach? Normally that would mean you’re feeling anxious, nervous, or just worried about what’s to come, but I’ll be honest…This, was different. It was my first day working in a real kitchen—and not just one of those run of the mill restaurants that you see on the side of the main road in any given city, but actual fine-dining! I was static, like I was at the top of mount Everest! Yet at the same time, I was falling from the summit at speeds that would shatter the earth, forming a crater so big that could make the moon blush!

    Arriving earlier than what I was told too, I found myself inside of one of--if not the wealthiest country clubs in my hometown. A place where all kinds of rich folk roamed around, either with their families, mistresses, or simply alone for the day relaxing with their buddies. A country club, as the name implied, is a place where golf is mostly played, but different events can happen throughout the day and night! Banquets, weddings, private occasions, and parties of any kind---Anything and everything the members could want, was granted, as long as they had the income to pay for it all and trust me---they did.

     After spending a whole year learning how to cook in a trade school, I was ready to tackle what was in front of me. I was determined to see what the culinary frontier had to offer, and nothing was going to stand in my way---or at least that’s how I felt, just moments before I met my new leader. My commander in chief, the Chef of the kitchen---Chef Fou.

“You must be Andrew.” These were the first words he spoke to me, after I stood for over an hour by the side of the entrance to the first kitchen. He locked eyes with me, staring me down---up and down for about five seconds, give it of take, before he followed with the words, “You look fresh, you sure I hired you?” Honestly, I couldn’t get angry at him for asking that kind of question, after all, I asked myself the same thing all the time in the days prior to getting this job. I was new. A rookie. Absolutely zero experience when it came to working in a professional setting. Sure, I knew the difference between a blender and a robo-coupe, but I didn’t know what was like running against the clock while preparing, cooking and plating the different meals on a menu---let alone having to handle expensive ingredients such a caviar or truffle, even saffron is expensive, it blew my mind when I found out!

 “Yes---Yes sir, you did! I promise I won’t let you down, I’ll do my very best!” I stuttered like an idiot; couldn’t even remember the last time I was that nervous.    

“Good!” He started. Putting his right hand on my shoulder, “Two things you need to understand, kid. One. You will always, at all times, answer each question or command with, yes Chef. Second, and get ready for this---Working in here, places like this, really----Is hell! Pure, merciless hell! Not metaphorically. Not symbolically---but literally hell! You see son, it’s one thing to work in a fast-food restaurant, like a burger shop or a taco place. It’s another to work on this hellhole! There’s no such thing as having a life outside of work, nor seeing the light of day for that matter---You are expected to work fifteen-to-eighteen-hour shifts, and that’s for the rest of the cooks, I expect even more coming from you! Is that clear?!”

I swallowed the biggest gulp of saliva combined with sorrow that I have ever gobbled down my throat as I heard those words. I expected my life to be full of long hours, sunken eyes, and a sudden acquirement of a type of addiction having to do with either alcohol or cigarettes, but not that! I sighed deeply, as I wasn’t going to let a slightly overweight middle-aged man discourage me this early on my career, no, I looked at him straight in the eyes, and with the little strength that I could mustered from the back of my throat---I replied, “Yes, chef!”  

“Good.” He smiled. A large grin formed under his nose, as he pulled me up the stairs and into the second kitchen of the building. The country club were proud owners of two kitchens. The one on the first floor was a restaurant, exclusive only to members and guests. The one on the second floor was for banquets and events, and to be honest, for a kitchen that catered dozens upon dozens of events a month without fail, the place was rather small in scale. Every piece of equipment, from the ovens to the mixers were completely outdated, fossils from a long-gone era, which in reality wasn’t more than ten to fifteen years old. I exaggerated slightly, but other than the strange backroom, where tables and chairs were stored, the kitchen felt---cozy. Oddly enough. I stood behind a long wooden table, waiting for the Chef to bring and place in front of me--a strange moving box. It didn’t move abruptly like a lamp that stored a genie, but it did move often enough to be noticed.

   “There are no banquets planned for today, but you can help the line downstairs.” He said as he removed the waxed coated top of the box, revealing what could only be the cutest animals of the sea... In my discreet opinion, “For now, you have two tasks, kid. Boil the lobsters, and once you remove the tails and claws, use the rest for lobster stock. Savvy?”

“Yes…Chef.” I muttered almost in a whisper, as I stared down at the poor, bugged-eye critters of the sea. My heart sank as I slowly understood what was being asked of me, and I felt even more terrible watching them wake up from their slumber that was given by the peaceful dark that brought the newspapers placed on top of them. “You are sure, you know what you’re doing, kid? Tell me now if you don’t because the lobster tail needs to be done by five-thirty, tonight.”

“Yes, Chef. I won’t let you down!” That was all I said before being left alone with my thoughts, in a kitchen that suddenly felt larger than what it really was. It was time to get to work. My first day on the job, I wasn’t going to be slowed down by my own feelings, so--- I began by getting my mise en place together. Beginning with a giant, almost half my size pot, with a thick iron bottom. I may have been inexperienced, but I still remembered the basic components of a simple boiling of living seafood. Fresh herbs, sliced lemons, and good old salt—among other things--- was what I needed to start the death chamber that was now awaiting the poor lobsters who were otherwise, completely clueless to their impending doom.

 “Oh, you poor bastards…” I said, as I looked down at them, one last time before the slaughter began. These defenseless creatures that couldn’t even put on a fight with their claws being snaped shot, by rubber-bands that acted like shackles, except for the one that was livelier than the others, as it spent more time coated by the light of the room. It even regained enough strength to not only set itself free from the imprisoned box but also to leave behind its chains. ‘The one who escaped!’ I thought, as I chuckled slightly. I couldn’t stop myself from cheering for the little guy, for his admirable effort! ‘I’m going to call you, little Geronimo!’ I giggled with a silly smile on my visage, as I held the little fellow with my right hand. I did it for some time until I didn’t anymore… “You son of a bitch!” I screamed. As my brain suddenly remembered the reason why rubber bands are wrapped tightly around the claws of lobsters. I wish I could lie and say that I it broke my heart, boiling the lobsters that day, but the truth is----Geronimo ruined that for the rest of the lobsters as I became the bringer of death to the poor dozens of other critters that were alive that day, in the banquet kitchen.

Two hours came and went, I had already ripped apart the lobsters, placing the tails and claws in an ice bath. The leftovers were all thrown in a pile, inside of a busser tub, as I waited patiently for the water that would eventually become stock to start to boil. I on the other-hand---reeked of lobster juice, lemon, and a bit of embarrassment as I didn’t dare to let my eye wandered around the room. It was a bloodbath---if lobsters had blood to begin with---but what they lacked in blood they made it up in guts, as the floors and wooden table contained prove of that! My pristine, double breasted chef jacket was no longer the shining example of what cook should strive for, instead, it wore the shame of my actions, as well as the stench…

“What the hell, happened here?” Giggled an unfamiliar voice coming from a corner of the kitchen. Her name was Elizabeth---a paled woman who thanks to her hair, many claimed she no soul. She was an energetic thirty-two-year-old who I eventually would come to learned, she constantly thought of sex, and lust, and everything related to the said theme. Her voice was sweet as honey, and surprisingly, she seemed to be more entertained by my work rather than annoyed.

“Hello.” I muttered, as I couldn’t bear to look at another cook who was far more experienced than me in the face, as I only had a pile of mess behind me.

 “I’m guessing you’re Andrew.” She smiled as she extended her hand towards me. “You’re going to spend a long time cleaning this place!” I could only nod, knowing fully well that was the first thing on my list once I threw the leftovers of lobster into the pot. She searched the room for the lobster tail and claws, and after grabbing the hotel-pan with them in it, she turned towards the pot in front of me. A quick stare down the metal giant, she grabbed some salt and herbs and threw them down the hole. “Don’t forget to skim the top after the first boil.” She said, before sending a playful wink in my direction, “Hey, I hope you last longer than the other guy, he might be cute, but he was a giant jackass!” Just as she came up the stairs, she went down and away into the other dimension that was the downstairs kitchen.

  “Lobsters are in the pot. I found a sanitation and soup bucket, and time to clean!” I cleaned the kitchen like my life depended on it---from the floors to the table, I scrubbed and wiped, even the walls upon which stains have somehow gotten attached too. It took the better half of a minute before I noticed another unfamiliar figured staring at me, from the other side of the kitchen, where the door that led to the banquet hall was located, stood a man that was tall and brown. He sported a scruffy beard, and a cap that has seen better days. He had his arm crossed, and his grin just yelled, “I’m judging yo internally!”. His name was Brian, and he was considered to be the lady’s man of the country club.

  “What’s up man, I heard you already made a mess of the kitchen, and you haven’t even been here half a day!” He laughed at his own statement. “I’m Brian, who are you?”

“I’m Andrew. Nice to meet you.” I said, stretching my arm as far as I could. “And yeah, Lobsters hate me.”

   “Apparently! But hey, making messes is part of the job, even if some messes are bigger than others. Take it easy, guy. It won’t get easier from here on!” As rude and prude as he was, Brian turned out to be an okay guy. Later on in the future, he would end up skipping town with one of the servers, but as far as memory could recall, no one working in the kitchen could say that they disliked him in any shape or form. Except for maybe the husband of the server that he ran away with… Just before leaving me to my thoughts, just like Elizabeth before him, he passed by the lobster-stock in the making, and after a quick stare at the pot, without uttering a word he added salt to it. Then with a walk that could only be seen in the great lands of New York city, he vanished from my sight.

       At this point I was sure, someone else was going to appear from the nether to either poke fun at the mess that was no longer there, or to simply say hello, but at the end---no one came… Which gave me the liberty to erase any evidence that proved I was ever in that kitchen, once I was done with cleaning, I set my mind to look for more work. I was high on the rush of helping the downstairs kitchen, and perhaps a bit of that rush had to do with the satisfaction of giving a swift yet ironic death to a certain Geronimo, but I knew for a fact that I wanted more! Setting the stock to a very low flame, I jumped into the void that manifested itself as the stairs and left to look for the Chef.

 I could feel the air from my lungs leave me slowly, as I stared at the three cooks working the line during dinner rush. It was like watching the climax of an opera, or the final dance of a ballet play. It was a heart racing experience watching the trio create wonderful pieces of art, one after another. The screeching sound of the ticket machine constantly spewing orders left and right, with a full row of twenty plus or so tickets already lined up in front of each station. The way everyone knew what to do at any moment was truly empowering---the only thing that made my experience better than what it was, and what it was, was already at its peak, it was when Chef Foe called me to help around in the line. I was over the moon, hearing those words, and even though all I did was fetch things from the walk-in and freezer, it was still an experience that I will never forget!

The start of my shift---and the end of my first day being a cook for that matter were a different story. Humans like to---edit---for a lack of a better word different segments of a memory. We like to think that something great that happened on a particular day was all that took place on that said day, but we never remember as much the bad, awkward, or strange things that also took place. My day ended when I had just finished helping the cooks clean their kitchen. I felt accomplished, even if I only accomplished—very little. I was heading out for the night, until a loud, almost fear inducing voice screamed from above, “Andrew, Get the hell up here, right now!” Said the Chef, his voice coming from the steps that lead to the second kitchen. I knew a sound like that could definitely mean nothing good, I quickly made my way towards him, only to find an ogre waiting for me. “Taste that!” he commanded, pointing slightly to the lobster stock that had been simmering for about six hours from that moment. My brain ran a thousand miles a second, remembering every step of the book that I could remember where it explained how to make a stock, I was sure I made it correctly, aside from one or two unimportant mistakes, yet as soon as the plastic spoon touched my tongue, I knew I was in trouble.

After a good ten uninterrupted minutes of obscenities and curses that would make even a sailor blush, Chef Fou made something very clear to me. “You always taste whatever the hell you’re making---before, during and after you make it!” which in my defense was something that was drilled in me from my time in culinary school, but for some reason I never thought about it until now. It wasn’t until I walked towards my car that night, feeling horrible about myself and my life choices, when I realized that I wasn’t the only person that seasoned that stock, Elizabeth and Brian also did it, and they also never tasted it to see if it even made sense to add any more seasoning. “Too many cooks can spoil a broth!” I said aloud. “God help me, as I can only imagine what tomorrow has to offer… Also screw Geronimo, you were delicious!”