Sous Chef: 24 Hours on the Line (18 page)

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” you say. It crosses your mind to bring up the virtue of trial by fire, but it’s usually
best to just defer to Chef in these situations. He has been evaluating cooks much longer than you have, after all. But something in you wishes to disagree with him. “Raffy is just
such
a shithead, though,” you say. “And frankly, I’m tired of having to jump in for him every time he decides to tie one on.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Chef says, pinching your cheek, giving you a light smack. “We’re cooks, don’t forget.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Listen,” Chef says. “I’ll have a talk with him this week, after the weekend’s through. In the meantime, let’s get an ad out and see who’s out there. Never know, maybe we’ll get someone good.”

“That’s true,” you say ruminatively. “I hadn’t even considered that.”

Suddenly the idea of finding someone new shifts from being a problem to being an exciting prospect. Your instinct is to go for homegrown talent, to cultivate from the ground up, rear cooks from
commis
through
chef de partie
and onward. But who knows what blue-chip fish cooks are out there looking for work?

“All right, anyways, whatever,” he says. “We’ll figure it out later. But now I need to get the hell out of here. What time is it? Shit, eleven-thirty? My wife’s gonna kill me.”

“Wife? Maria?”

“No, Julia.”

“Oh, ex-wife.”

“Technically we never got divorced.”

“What happened to Maria? I liked her.”

“She thought I was cheating on her.”

“Who’d she think you were cheating on her with?”

“My wife,” he says.

“And now you’re meeting up with your ex-wife?”

“I only have one wife. Julia. It’s the same person. Listen, it’s a long story,” he says. “Anyways, whatever, I’m out.” He grabs up his bag and heads for the door. “You’re on brunch tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say.

“You’re in early, then, right? What, eight, eight-thirty?”

“Sounds about right.”

“All right, just keep an eye on the pass until Stef’s done with inventory and then get the hell out of here.”

“
Oui
, Chef,” you say.

You love working the pass in Chef’s stead, getting a taste of what it’s like to drive the bus.

“Oh, and Hussein was saying something about there being dick for staff meal today?”

“Right, yeah—”

“Just make sure those guys get something. Herring, pasta, whatever. I don’t give a shit. That’s just the last thing I need to hear outta Marcus’s stupid mouth, some shit about staff meal. I’ve had it up to here with that guy.”

“
Oui
, Chef.”

“Oh, and another thing,” he says. “Rojas told me he found a pan in the garbage can out back today. Any idea what’s up with that?”

“Oh, yeah,” you say. He’s talking about the pan you broke toasting the filberts. “The handle broke off.”

“So you throw it out?”

“Yeah, I thought—”

“Your girlfriend gets sick, has to have her tits chopped off, you gonna throw her out, too?”

“No—”

“Come on, baby,” he says. “If you ever wanna make the big bucks, you gotta start using your head for something other than a hat rack.”

“
Oui
, Chef,” you say. “Sorry.”

“All right,
papi
,” he says. “Whatever. Don’t worry about it. Have a good rest of the night. And, again,” he says, slapping you five, “nice job on the line today.”

“Thanks, Chef,” you say.

“Later,” he says.

And out he goes.

With Chef gone and service rounding to a close, you have a minute to take a breather in the office and ready yourself mentally for the morning. Brunch is always a catastrophe, usually right out of the box and always right to the bitter end. Tourists show up early; leftover partygoers stay late. And they all want their food fast, so you turn tables quickly. You’ll do another three hundred covers—at least. But whereas Friday night dinner service is a seven-hour meal period, the three hundred you’ll do for brunch tomorrow will be crammed into a five-hour slot, ten to three. So it is important to be well prepared, well in advance, to keep the ball from rolling away.

Rogelio and Brianne get a head start on brunch mise en place on Fridays. They do the bulk of the heavy lifting, usually saving only the à la minute work—hollandaise, circulator eggs, etcetera—for you in the morning. When it’s busy, though, as it has been today,
they tend to accomplish less of this work, because they get caught up in resupplying the line. You’ve instructed them to leave a note for you on such occasions, so you know what you’ll be walking into in the morning. You grab up your clipboard and see what it says:

So they’ve managed to crack the eggs, dice the potatoes, and sheet up the bacon. There is still plenty to do, of course—the sliced mojama, the pulled duck confit, the coriander puree, the herb yogurt—but it could be worse. They have gotten
some
things done. Some of the bigger projects, actually. Anyway, both of them are due in for doubles tomorrow at 0600, so they’ll have four hours before service starts to put together the rest.

That should be plenty of time
, you think.

You notice an arrow drawn in the bottom right corner. You flip the page to find another message, this one from someone else altogether. It’s a hyperrealistic pencil drawing of a penis, complete with a hairy pair of testicles. From the head of the penis springs a dialogue bubble in which are inscribed, in very neat, almost architectural script, the words
Sac up and get some drinks with me tonight dickface.
This note is not signed, but it’s got Stefan’s name written all over it.

It’s ten till midnight now.

You begin to realize how little sleep you’ll be getting.

So much for getting out at ten o’clock
, you think.
So much for meeting up with Vera. She’s gonna be so pissed
. You pull out your phone and type her up a message:

You hope it’s not all gone to smash. After the way today has gone, you could sure use a drink with Vera.

You’re waiting for her response when Hussein pokes his head into the office.

“Chef,” he says, “we need you on the line.”

“Come on, Hussein,” you say. “You can expedite, can’t you? I’ve been here since nine in the morning, man.”

“No, Chef,” he says. “It’s Chef Juan. He need your help with the fish.”

“Ugh … Orders?”

“Yes, Chef. Many orders.”

“Son of a bitch,” you say.

Out on the line, Warren is getting rolled. A battery of tickets has piled up on the fish side since you’ve been gone. He’s doing his best to get it all done, but he is struggling. He is utterly flummoxed. All the garnish is set and he’s attempting
to prepare the protein to go with it, but he’s having trouble volleying both at once. He can’t do it alone. He’s clumsily arroséing a skate wing when you arrive. The butter has gone black in the pan, and the skate is without sear, a pale white save for the scorched butter solids collecting in its crenellations. Some wrecked accoutrements lie cold and moistureless on a drop tray; an emulsified sauce boils at full tilt on the flat-top, shattering into a million pieces. It’s a real hatchet job here.

“How you doing, bud?” you say, clapping him on the shoulder. “You okay?”

“
Oui
, Chef,” he says. “Just workin’ a couple orders.”

His ears have gone a vibrant red. There is a deluge of sweat pooling on his crumpled brow, dripping into his eyes. He blinks it out with his long blond lashes, fixes his eyes on his work. He is trying very hard and failing. Chef was right—he’s not ready.

“¡Oye, sous jefe! Limpiarlo?”
Julio says, bumptiously. “
¿Que pasó Juanita, todo bien? Quiero limpiar!
You no ready, baby?”

“Fuck you, Julio, you fucking mutt!” Warren says.

“Yeah, chill, Julio,” you say, throwing over a glare. “Not the time.”

“Okay, Chef,” Hussein says. “I need it table 14. They wait very long.”

“For fuck’s sake, Hussein, give us a second,” you say. “What’s with you people? We’re not fucking
pulpos
!” You smack a fresh set of pans down on the flat-top. “Come on, Warren, let’s do this shit,” you say. “Me and you. Don’t listen to these guys, it’s just me and you here.”

“
Oui
, Chef,” he says. “Thanks.”

It sounds like tears in his voice.

Just then, as you’re reaching into the lowboy for a fresh piece of skate, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You take a quick look. It’s a message from Vera:

God damn it
, you think.

Stefan materializes at the pass. “Everything all right out here?” he says.

“Livin’ the dream,” you say.

“You get the message?” he says.

“What message?” you say.

“What do you mean, what message?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? What fucking message, guy?”

“The one on your clipboard,” he says, with a full-faced grin.

“Oh. That. Yeah,” you say, humorlessly.

“So?” he says. “Drinks?”

You look back down at the message from Vera. You look at Warren’s incinerated skate wing smoldering on the stove.
What a mess
, you think.

“Yeah,” you say. “We better get some drinks.”

O
F THE MANY APHORISMS EMANATING FROM THE KITCHEN
, one of the sounder ones is the notion that you are only as good as your final plate. It doesn’t matter how well you’ve performed throughout the evening if you can’t offer the same level of care and execution to the last diner that you did to the first. Judging by the dishes you’re assembling now, you feel comfortable believing that you are good at what you do. Your fish is cooked perfectly, your plating is debonair. This meal is soigné, as are the people waiting to consume it.

“Service!” you yell, and Hussein and the back waiters scuttle over to retrieve the plates. As the food walks, you unfasten the top button of your coat. “Start breaking down,” you say to the cooks.

“
Oui
, Chef,” they say.

“LOI, Chef?” Warren asks.

“Not sure yet,” you say. “You know the rig. Don’t throw anything out. I’ll go have a look now.”

You trudge through the kitchen doors and into the dining room to determine whether the last order is in.

Out front the atmosphere is alien. Lamplight and candles
offer a sharp contrast to the kitchen’s fluorescent wash, and it takes your eyes a minute to adjust. When your vision has come to, you take in the scene.

Guests are sparse. The few that remain are mostly two-tops, couples scattered here and there engaged in intimate colloquy and canoodling. A stray quartet of burly, steak-eating men huddles around a distant table, merrily guffawing over tall glasses of dark beer. A small gaggle of pert college girls giggle and gossip with Marcus at the far corner of the bar. The mood is generally pleasant, and over the murmur of quiet conversation can be heard the tinkle of jazz. On each face is a look of serenity. Everyone is happy. It might bring you joy to think that these guests are happy because of something you’ve provided them, but sheer exhaustion prevents your thoughts from wending that way.

You spot Hussein standing beside the service bar, surveying the dining room with great attention. In this environment he carries himself with an aplomb that goes unnoticed in the harsh light of the kitchen. His posture is erect and respectable, his countenance cool and collected. He is dignified out here despite his rank.

“Talk to me,
papi
,” you whisper. “LOI?”

“No, no,” he whispers back, waving a finger. “I think one more order.” He directs your attention to the group of underage gigglers at the end of the bar.