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Recipes, cooking lessons, tips, tricks, food blog, and more.
Recipes, cooking lessons, tips, tricks, food blog, and more.
20 years later, some kitchen memories make me smile. This one does that. Flying clogs, beef stock, irascible chefs, Chrismas, it's all there!
23 December 2009
Some chefs have been known to be somewhat temperamental... You just have to think of Gordon Ramsay on TV, and you have a good idea of the abuse that can happen in kitchens. In my years working in the foodservice industry, I've been lucky to only encounter one extreme case, and managed to gain his respect, to boot!
Sometimes I wonder just how much of the abuse Ramsay hurls at the people on TV is just for show, and how much of that is his true nature. The guy might know how to cook, and might know how to turn a restaurant around, but I have exactly ZERO respect for him. What he does is abusive, pure and simple. But I'm not pointing my finger at him specifically - he's just a handy example that most people will have seen in action at least once!
The problem is there are many people working in kitchens who are irrascible, stressed out, overworked, underpaid people, who are prompt to anger and yelling. It's not on. It should never be allowed. One should never stand for being bullied that way.
I know in my early days in the kitchen, I did let myself be bullied this way. My chef was an older guy, a short, nervy French guy. He started as an apprentice when he was 13 years old, in Lyon, just before WW II. He was never verbally abusive.
Although he was very secretive. In a kitchen of nearly 30 staff, he'd not share his knowledge much at all. The Sous-Chef got the benefit of things, but the other staff, we never saw what the finishing touch on a sauce was, or what the special ingredient that made his dishes were. He never worked the line, but he did do last minute prep. Then he'd play the role of the "aboyeur" - he'd bark orders to the staff as they came in during service. Aboyeur is the French word for "to bark", and an aboyeur is a legitimate role in a kitchen. He'd stand on an upside-down plastic milk crate, clogs firmly planted on the edge of the crate, not a spot on his apron, not a crease on his embroidered chef's vest, necktie perfectly tied, fabric tall hat starched to a crisp edge at the top. In a voice you could hear over the noise of the industrial fans, above the banging of the pots against the stove, the sizzling of meat on the grill, he'd bark orders at us:
"En commande - Un magret, un agneau et une sole. On enlève - deux Caesar et un tartare"
("Ordering - A "magret" (duck breasts), a lamb, and a sole. Picking up - two Caesar salads and a steak tartare")
He had one habit nobody on his staff liked: When he was really upset, he would make a kicking motion with his foot, as if he was hitting a football. And when that happened, his clog went flying. To my knowledge, he didn't really aim at anyone in particular, but he didn't much care who, much less what, was in the flight path.
One day, shortly before Christmas, my thigh was the target of a flying clog. I was monitoring a batch of beef stock. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw something coming at me. It hit me on the thigh just as I realised what it was. It hurt. I mean... IT HURT! I didn't really think. In fact, with the wisdom of hindsight, I can safely say that I didn't think at all. I bent down, I picked up the clog, I looked at Chef, long enough to catch his eye. I then put the clog in the stockpot, used the paddle and sunk the clog as far down in the simmering stock as I could!
Chef went red, then he went a dark shade of purple. He shook, obviously trying to restrain himself. I was thinking "oh crap oh crap oh crap, what have I done???". Chef turned around and walked back to his office, with a strange gait - Walking with only one clog does make it hard for someone to retain their dignity as they walk away.
At this time, Sous-Chef comes over and asks what happened. I tell him. I could see he wanted to burst out laughing. His lips were quivering, his eyes shiny with a tear in the corner. But he couldn't let pass what I'd done. I was told what to do next, in no uncertain terms: Drain the stock, ditch it, ditch the bones, and start a new stock again. Fair enough. I thought about asking if I should retrieve the clog. But it occured to me that adding insult to injury might not be good for my health.
I think Chef went home that day. I didn't see him for a few days afterwards, despite the busy season.
I apologised to him, briefly. My pay was docked the cost of the stock, though I don't regret it, the satisfaction was cheap at the price :) Chef *never* said a word about the incident. He did get new clogs, with a closed heel this time.
And wonders of wonders, he took me under his wing, showing me little tricks here and there, how to finish his secret dishes, etc. Quite odd how these things go sometimes...
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Once, during prohibition, I was forced to live for days on nothing but food and water. W. C. Fields
OH MAN - this had me in stitches. What a great story... you're lucky he didn't kill you outright!
Comment by: Stephanie - Wasabimon - December 24th, 2009 @ 6:13
Hey Steph, glad you had a good laugh at this :) I was indeed lucky ;)
Comment by: Nic - December 24th, 2009 @ 10:06
I've been pretty lucky - I have had a couple of mean chefs but mostly they took it easy on me although I've been teased for being the only girl. This is hilarious! Well done, wish I'd thought of it first, watch out meanies! ;P
Comment by: Your Name - May 11th, 2010 @ 0:58