Being a Chef, you learned a thing or two.
1. You work well with your hands.
2. You're not afraid to get down & dirty.
3. You're all about pleasing.
4. You can satisfy every taste bud.
5. You can go on for hours without breaks.
6. You know how to han...
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"Lobster tails are down," Julia says.
"Tell me, how long do you need?" Another cook calls out.
"I need eight minutes," Julia responds. "No seven minutes."
How do you need seven minutes to cook lobster tail? I can't believe this kitchen. It should be three minutes to the window.
When I arrived downstairs, I thought I would be headed to the cafeteria, but the joke was on me. I was escorted to the adjacent building to help at one of the restaurants the company owns. An utter shitshow. None of these cooks looked like they knew what they were doing. I watched in silence as they moved around the kitchen frantically. Julia seems to be sticking out like a sore thumb. She has argued with two other cooks for no apparent reason—I'm assuming it's because she is the youngest and thinks she knows it all. I'm itching to knock her down a peg or two. The chef, I suppose, who is taking charge right now, walks back.
"How long for the risotto?"
"Four minutes, chef." A cook calls out.
I can't watch this any longer. This is breaking my little chef's heart. Where did they hire these people from?
"Hold on," I shout, the kitchen quiets down, and all eyes are on me.
"Oh, Ms. Mathis, I see you have arrived." The acting head Chef looks at me, exhaling a sigh of relief.
"How long does the lobster take?" I ignore him, needing to school these cooks.
"About seven minutes," Julia responds with confidence. She had a smug look on her face, which made my blood boil. When you're in a kitchen, you move as a team; smugness and cockiness needs to be checked at the door, I want to shout, but this isn't my kitchen after the week is over.
"No, it doesn't. Seven min—no, it doesn't." I look at her. "How come the lobster's taking longer than the risotto? It's a three-minute pick-up for the tail, not seven. If you can't move faster, work as a team, and lack the basic knowledge of a kitchen, get out. Do I make myself clear?" I look around the kitchen, and the yes Chefs start rolling in, and everyone returns to cooking.
I move around the kitchen, spotting another cook stirring what looks like fucking vomit. I move closer to him. Oh my fucking days.
"What's your name?" I tap his shoulder.
"Lawrence."
"Lawrence, what is happening? Seriously, this looks disgusting. It's eggs and pasta, for fucking sake. Not that hard." He mumbles a sorry Chef, and the next sound catches my attention, the risotto is about to walk, and I'm moving quickly to the window. The acting Chef is about to plate some carbonara, and I stop him. Tasting it first.
Fucking gross.
"Ah, what the fuck." I grab the pan walking it back. "I need everyone to stop and come here. Stop what you're fucking doing and come here!" I snap, and they all start moving like flies to me. This is salty as fuck, and look, its fucking scrambled eggs. How do most of you still have jobs here? You would never make it in my kitchen. This is horrible. Let's try this again!" I grab the pan tossing it in the trash.
