Turning Tables

“Pick up ten. Vite, vite.” Chef Claude was already tired of this waiter tonight. “If the sauce breaks before it gets to your table, you’ll be wearing it. Do you understand?”

“Oui, Chef.”

Upon hearing this, Chef’s ears burned. “Speaking French doesn’t make you a garçon, remember that.” Chef Claude was in a particular mood this evening. 

“Americans.” The acidic words flowed effortlessly off his tongue. “Life is so easy for you until you actually have to work.”

His staff heard Chef’s quip and anxiously looked at him, hoping he would offer more derision so that they could sneer along with him. His staff rarely smiled. None of them dared to look as if they were enjoying their work.

Despite the beauty of the finished products placed on the plates they had perfected; it was more important to perform for Chef. Each person behind the line had learned to minimize their movements. They were surrounded by pots and pans like a drummer with no space to set up.

Nobody’s shoulders moved. Their heads were down looking up periodically to check on the next item up. The skilled hands that sliced and julienned vegetables made precise cuts with knives that never banged on a cutting board. They were delicate instruments. Sauté pans were not given the same gentle treatment. Moving to the stove allowed legs, stiff from standing to stretch, and tense arm muscles could relax momentarily. The sound of pans scraping on burners continued the symphony.

Oil was ladled onto the pan and allowed to warm before adding the first item that would sizzle and release the aroma of fresh ingredients before turning into a mélange of flavors. Then it would pass to the next station to be finished before plating. 

There was no music besides the rhythms and sounds made by the food being prepared. If it was a good night someone would call out a table number and say, “order up, Chef”. On less tranquil ones however, the thunder of Chef’s voice could be heard piercing the air.

“Where is my salad for six?” Occasionally he would taste something that wasn’t quite right. He would say things like, “Would you serve this to your mistress? Never. It’s salty and has too much garlic. This is what you give your wife!”

Anything deemed wife food was destined for the waste bin. Chef had recently been through a nasty divorce that cost him his restaurant forcing him to work for someone else.

When Claude became executive chef, he wanted everyone to know where they stood in his eyes. On his first day, he hung an embroidered scroll beside the time clock. It was made of cotton duct and thick thread that would never be considered refined.

To survive in my kitchen you must learn your place -

Executive Chef

Chef De Cuisine

Sous-Chef

Party Chef

Commis Chef

Kitchen Porter

Dishwasher

Bartender

Waiter

The kitchen staff was equally oppressive. It was their chance to give grief to those beneath them. They enjoyed being able to proffer Chef’s attitude toward waiters, even if they were not allowed to use his words. 

Tommy was unphased. 

“Yes, Chef.” His eyes were fixed on the medium-rare, Steak Diane sitting on the line. If it weren’t for the scent of his cologne, Chef would have picked up the metallic smell of resentment.

“Mon Dieu. Why are you still here?”

The line stopped what they were doing to glare at him.

“Yes, Chef.” Tommy, the new waiter, who had been there two years, picked up his order and escaped into the din of the contemporary dining room. He straightened his spine and moved gracefully towards table ten, where he gingerly placed the perfectly prepared piece of beef his customer had ordered.

There was easily a 15-degree difference in temperature between the kitchen and the dining room. Perhaps Chef had a reason to be overheated. 

Tommy loved the restaurant business and wanted to be part of the region’s best eatery when it opened. He dedicated himself to learning about French food and wine. When he finally believed he was good enough at understanding how flavors blend to make the perfect meal, he applied. 

His first interview was rigorous, but Tommy knew how to set a formal table of seventeen pieces, right down to the fish knife and fork. They wanted him to come back.

He was allowed to shadow for three nights. Next, he had to return to be a busboy for two dinner services. His last test was filling in as a dishwasher for a shift. After the restaurant got a full week’s worth of free labor from him, Tommy was offered Tuesday lunch and dinner.

Gradually he secured five dinner shifts. It had taken two years, but he had earned his spot. He knew his check average was the highest in the place. He also understood Chef secretly loathed the idea that an American waiter made more money than his fellow countrymen. 

There were times Tommy felt mixed about his efforts.

“Madame’s steak, medium-rare with a Bearnaise the color of the sun and as light as a cloud.” Tommy smiled with cast-down eyes like a proud parent showing off their child while trying to appear humble.

“Oh, you. Even if this steak wasn’t delicious, which of course it is, you would make me believe it was unmatched anywhere.” Madame had a bit of a crush on the gentle redhead with sad blue eyes. 

She enjoyed being able to brighten his day with little compliments. She loved to see his eyes crinkle just a little when she said nice things. More than the meal itself, she believed they fed each other.

“But Madame, it is unmatched."

His internal conversation was more honest. It’s made by a man unmatched for the venom he’s allowed to spew in the name of mastery. Anyone can learn to make a Bearnaise, it’s a recipe for God’s sake. What I do is art and craft; I sell this stuff.

After arranging the table and freeing it of anything that may offend the visual appeal of the meal, Tommy stepped back. “I see you may need a glass of red wine to accompany your steak. Would you like one?”

Glancing at her empty champagne glass, Madame agreed. “That sounds perfect. What would you suggest?”

Tommy took a deep breath. “This beef is grass-fed and often takes on herbaceous undertones. That’s why our Bearnaise works so well with it. Tonight I have two good choices for you to consider.” He loved this part of the sale. 

“I have a full-bodied French Cabernet that cuts through the unctuous aged steak beautifully. It is an appropriate pairing. An equally wonderful choice is our 2015 Grand Reserve Rioja which fills your mouth with leather and smoke. The question is, do you feel like being proper or rebellious?”

The Rioja was three dollars a glass more.

She blushed. “What would you have me do?”

Tommy appeared to consider her question as he took a quick look around the dining room to see if his other tables needed his attention. Then he glanced at the kitchen.

Looking back at Madame he said in a conspiratorial tone, “A rebel has no regrets.” His palate became tinged with a bittersweet flavor. Rebels also don’t accept abuse. 

“You see what I mean? I can’t resist your teasing. The Rioja it is.”

Pleased with her selection, he excused himself to put in the order at the bar. 

He had cooled off during his interlude in the dining room. No longer sweating, Tommy ventured into the kitchen to check on his appetizers for table seven. 

“Checking on seven, one escargot, one Caesar, two bruschetta.” The table was given their cocktails seven minutes ago. According to Chef, the apps should be at the window, now. He was not happy with the customer’s choices.

“What stupid idiot comes to a French restaurant and orders Italian food? It is an outrage that it’s even on the menu. Did you explain this to them, American Imbecile?”

“Yes, Chef.” Tommy thought to himself that it is unfortunate for Chef that the owner didn’t agree.

“Where’s my escargot?” Chef was miffed that any server had to check on an order. Hearing this one ask, made him boil. “I need it at the window. Now!” 

He looked at the cold station for the salad and tomato compote-laden crostini. The fresh herbs were being sprinkled on the top of the appetizer making it look picture perfect. “And they ordered it anyway. I should put ketchup on it.” 

“Yes, Chef.”

Claude waved off Tommy imperiously. “Go, are you happy now?”

Yes, Chef.