Sneaking into the Back of the House
I was charring peppers on the grill at work on Friday, talking to my chef as he cleaned chanterelle mushrooms. Fridays are slow for us – they’re typically spent cleaning up the mess of the past week, readying for the coming one.
“I don’t know, man,” he said, peeling back the stem with a paring knife. “I wish I had done what you’re doing – gone to the French Culinary Institute, learned the right way.”
I looked at him incredulously; he’s cooked in some of the best restaurants in the city. He works faster, cleaner, smarter, more accurately than any chef I’ve met.
“Yeah, but you’ve done some incredible stages.” I flipped the peppers over, revealing a crackled layer of black skin.
He pulled apart a mushroom with his hands, showing me how, if you’re gentle, it will separate naturally and cleanly. “And you should too.”
I pushed out my bottom lip and nodded. “I know …”
“You work here during the week, but you could do a Saturday internship at a restaurant.”
“I have school on Saturday nights!” I pointed out, hoping it would get me off the hook. That was true, but I was mostly just scared to start at a real a la carte setting. I’ve been putting it off since I started culinary school, preferring the warmth of a classroom environment. At school I’m supposed to ask questions, no one expects me to produce perfection and even when my chefs make me cry, I know it’s hope it’s because they really love me. Restaurant chefs are scary.
He pointed his knife at my chest and waved a chanterelle. “Saturday mornings, then.”
“But where would I go? Where would I do it?” I was whining now, as I transferred the peppers to a hotel pan and covered them with plastic wrap.
He rattled off the names of my favorite spots to eat, as if it was the most obvious question in the world. “I’ll be your career manager!” he laughed. “From now on, I’ll manage your future, if you promise to mention me, give me a little shoutout in your book.”
My ears perked up. Books! I loved those! I wanted to write those! But, I reminded myself, no one seemed terribly interested in paying me to put my words on paper. And besides – writing came easily to me. I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to learn. When I admitted it to myself – when I really thought about it - I wanted to cook.
I picked up the peppers, along with a hot sheet pan. The heat of the metal felt more familiar and warm than scorchingly hot. My fingers were becoming accustomed to new degrees of heat, my arms steadily stronger. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Good. Now go peel the skin off those tomatoes,” he said, glancing toward the hundreds of oven-dried fruits we’d worked on earlier.
“Yes, Chef,” I said, and I was happy to do it.