food
If I could clear up some of the complications of working at the Broyhill, I would go back in a heartbeat. The work was hard, the hours were long, and I had to fight to get at least one weekend off a month, but Danny described it best as "a wonderful sickness". In Kitchen Confidential, Bourdain describes how he worked his way up from a dishwasher to an executive chef over the course of about thirty years. I like this book so much because, like my time at the Broyhill, "deglamourizes" what most people think of when they go to eat at restaurants. I've seen things, and done things to some extent, that definitely change the way I order in restaurants. The fresh catch isn't fresh on Mondays, menus sometimes lie, and never order meat well-done. And the cup of soup? Sometimes the same size as the bowl. I liked it, though. There was something about it that made me feel like I was making an honest living. There's a tiny scar on my left wrist I'm particularly proud of; it's from when I picked up a hot saute pan on the line one night. I think of it as my battle scar.
This isn't even mentioning the people who cook your food. Bourdain says he graduated from the CIA at Hyde Park "before it was a four year professional institution". He expresses his preference for dishwashers and line cooks who never went to culinary school, stating that grads have a tendancy to be egomaniacs and love to hear themselves talk about "how Pacific Rim cuisine turns them on". Typical line cooks, and to some extent even the sous chef, are uncouth and foul-mouthed. We swear, we yell, and we talk shit. We bitch about past customers, and occasionally save the worst cuts of meat and fish for people who order it well-done (see?). We yell at each other. Bourdain regards women line cooks with a certain respect. We're a rarity. James, another line cook, told me once that I was the first woman cook he'd worked with in over ten years. I talked as much shit as the guys. My whole perspective on restaurant cooking was changed. You're putting something together, not necessarily creating, but things need to be put together well. There were drugs, there was alcohol, and sometimes they were done while food was being prepared. Restaurants are sketchy places when they're closing down. Walking home was always slightly unnerving.
The day Bill hired me, he told me I would end up making sacrafices for my job, but he didn't explain what they'd be. My second day of work I pulled a ten hour shift in the dish pit. I came home sore, smelly, and exhausted. I called Walker and relaxed a little, and the next morning went into the kitchen again. The next Saturday, I pulled my first solo round on the pantry (the cold line... Desserts, salads, etc.). The next day, Danny reported to Bill how well I did for it being my first night alone. I began thriving in the kitchen, and I was convinced I could end up working my way through the ranks. Even Jim, who is the nicest person employed by Appalachian State, thought I'd be running the place by the time I graduated. There were scheduling conflicts, but I was able to work them out. I was able to make time to see my parents and Walker.
My roadblock came when Ralph died about a month after I was hired. Ralph was my mother's father, and although we knew that he was very sick, death is never an easy thing to deal with. The sacrafice they were asking me to make, leaving my family in their time of need, was not one I was willing to make. I began to resent my job. And I resented myself for resenting a job I had wanted for eight years. Walker and I had problems, which were complicated by me coming home ornery and exhausted. I probably gave him more shit than he deserved, and looking back on it, he was kind of what kept me sane throughout the whole ordeal. I slipped into my own stereotypical haze. And I didn't get out of it by the time the year ended and I quit working there. I watched Danny drive off my last night washing dishes, and I felt like somehow I wasn't done yet. Yes, I had left two carts and six racks of silverware left in the dishpit, but I like thinking it was something deeper and more meaningful. Now that the boredom of summer has set in, I really wouldn't mind going back.
It's nearly two thirty in the morning, and I'm watching Iron Chef America, which I've held a grudge of sorts against, being a staunch fan of the original Japanese one (not to mention my intense dislike of Bobby Flay). When I was 10, I wanted to be where Cat Cora is. I wanted to be the Iron Chef. Realistically, I don't think I'm the type of person that could be a chef for a living. I talk a lot of shit, and that's all I am. Talk. It also ties in to the fact I feel like I'm in a different place in my life right now, one where I have to make a difference in this world because I have the priveledge of going to college. Maybe one day when I'm worn and weary from life I'll go back and work in restaurants. Maybe I'll go back to work at the Broyhill. Whatever I end up deciding to do with my life, I feel like I've been a part of something great.
