Appreciation of Art

From one o’clock to the beautiful chimes of midnight, I was on my feet; on the run. As soon as I disrobed into that drab chef's jacket and apron, like a cat being declawed, I was defeminized of all that was girl. The fellow cooks greeted me with light and friendly perverse gestures. The only girl on the line, I was accustomed to the austere filth that was a man’s mouth and mind. If I didn't have seven brothers, I might find some offense to their remarks instead of humor.

A restaurant line consists of stations. A standard restaurant line would entail cold appetizer, hot appetizers, sides, meats, and desserts. Each cook is responsible (and accountible) for their station. In my case, I have proven my worth by slaving my way three notches up the line. Regardless of the station, it was all the same, my mise en place (fancy word for ingredients) and all reinforcements best be ready by service. When the stations are orchestrated correctly, like witnessing all the dishes come together like Mozart’s Concerto No. 10 in E-flat Major.

I was on the "side" station which worked very closely with the meat. It was my first time working on a flat top, friend and foe, which was like staring the sun blatantly in the face. A flat top is so scorching hot that it cured my hangovers almost immediately through sweating. Instamatically, my body was quenched with sweat within the first fifteen minutes of exposure. Shrug, I was conveniently rewarded with twelve percent body fat. For the next twelve hours, I was imprisoned in a heat box fit for roasting pigs. Stage name: Sweat Master.

As I fervently prepare my station, all cooks will tell you the same thing, there is never enough time to get your station ready. Never. There's a gradual under tow of anxiety that strengthens as seconds sprint by, but I always found time for a smoke break. The key to a finished station is "passion." If you don’t have it, than all you have is half ass shit. There are two kinds of cooks in the kitchen: the one that has the "love" and "patience" always on the move for improvement and the one that is covering his ass just so he could make it through service. I found myself somewhere in the middle as I could always use improvement in my time management.

Chefs, where do I start. Chefs are the maestro and composer to all that is the menu. Chefs have a love and hate relationship with perfection, it is never good enough. Chefs demand absolute respect. Chefs come equipped with tempers triggered by expectations. I’ve seen it so many times before service, middle of service, after service. Dodge, to avoid that Misono from your shoulder blade. At the same time, compliments were medals of valor and was worn with pride.

Line work is by the very definition 'harsh'. It’s degrading. Cooking in an open kitchen, watching “foodies” strutting their food network prowess, unaware of the components that contributed to the dishes set forth. Do they appreciate the medley of vegetables that are perfectly sliced in brunoise fashion? Do they taste the symphony of salty, sweet, heat, acidity? Do they know the labor intensive process to produce that streak of reduction? And just like that, the art is gone in one swallow followed with a sip of wine that complements the flavor.

Today my biggest life irritants could easily be resolved by one splurge. Fine dining. There's a still vacany, if I do not splurge one night a week. Unlike the usual San Francisco foodie, I appreciate a fine meal. I am privy to the labor and love it entailed to produce such excellence. Especially when a server sets a dish before me I can’t help but admire the plating and the accompanying aroma. I’ve been known to buy the line, each a shot of patron for a superb meal.

I have retired my chef's jacket years ago. Although my short stint in the industry was just a spit in the span of my life, but it was an experience unforgotten. I was a runt amongst cooks striving for the success of chef some of them hailing from the likes of Bouley, Jean-Georges, Wylie Dufresne, DiSpirito, and Bottali. I was humble and I held my own under their guidance.

Gone are the days of twelve hour shifts of cussing, constant sexual harassment, cigarettes, cussing, cooking, cigarettes, burns, cussing, cussing, cigarettes, midnight happy hour, and more cigarettes. I miss the hurly burly of cooking in a restaurant. I miss the challenge it put forth and the glory at the end of service. I miss the company of cooks in all their haute ego and modesty. I have learned that simplicity is complex. I have come to understand the complexities of the never ending creation and master to the art. Instead, I embelish my quiet nights to the likes of "Top Chef" or "No Reservations."

Time to time, I'll receive emails from my old cronies. Some opened their own shop, meanwhile others to French Laundry, Cru, and El Bulli. I am fortunate to know that there was a time in my life that I rubbed elbows with greatness.

This is Shellie breaking my sauce back to you Bob at the studio.