Fast/Good

When I first started work at the restaurant, Molly, the pastry cook, briefed me on the politics and rundown of characters.

“It’s a hard kitchen,” she said, herself a recent culinary school graduate. “Trust me. You will think you’re doing your best, and they will be watching you, saying ‘That’s not good enough; you’re not fast enough.’”

Good, I thought. I need that kind of experience. I want that. I can handle that.

–

Two months later, I haven’t heard those exact words from anyone’s mouths, but Molly was right. It’s a hard kitchen.

–

“Um, think your cumin is burning there, little girl,” Michael said once as he cut celery root.

Frustrated, I scraped it out of the pan. “But I asked you how long to cook it for, and all you said was ‘Until it’s done!’”

He didn’t look up. “Yeah. Until it’s done.”

I wiped out the sauté and started again with a fresh layer of cumin, and this time, Roy watched me from start to finish, arms crossed. I grumbled the whole time, whining about Michael’s lack on instruction. It wasn’t my fault, I thought. He’s not being very constructive!

—

Another day, after curing two pork bellies, I packed them in deep hotel pans, labeled them properly and pushed them into the walk-in. I was patting myself on the back for a job well done – I’d even made extra cure for the next few times – when Tyler came bounding up the stairs, clipboard in hand.

“Did you cure the pork belly?”

“… Yes?” I said. I’ve grown wary of questions phrased as such. Whenever someone in the kitchen asks if you’ve done a certain job, you can be sure it’s not because they want to congratulate you on it.

“Okay, well you have to store it in bus tubs, not hotel pans. I actually think I’ve told you that once already.”

I didn’t remember, but he probably did tell me. My brain’s felt like a wet sponge for the past two months, soapy and filled to capacity.

Still, I found myself protesting. “I don’t remember you telling me that. But next time. Next time, I won’t! I mean, I will! Definitely. Thanks!”

–

I’ve been scolded for too-small chive tips, too-big chive tips, too-fat shiso chiffonade, too much sea lettuce, too sloppy brioche squares, too dark brioche circles, too small ficelle toasts, working slowly, poor time management, stupidity, and a general lack of competence. And the worst part is that even though every criticism was warranted, I protested them all, refusing to admit that maybe the problem was me. Michael HAD told me to make my shiso thinner, and though I tried and tried and tried, I just couldn’t seem to make mine look like Tobias’ or his or Carl’s. What kind of idiot can’t cut bread straight? What kind of moron doesn’t know that too much sea lettuce will overpower a dish with salt? But I was trying and foolishly thought that was enough.

–

Last night, I worked in pastry at FCI, a comparatively easy kitchen that’s more about learning and fun than sado-masochism. Chef A sent me to cut pineapple on the industrial slicer, and though it was occupied, the cook using it assured me she’d be done within minutes. Enjoying a moment of quiet after two days and 19 hours on my feet, I leaned against the counter and waited. Chef R walked by and scowled at me. “You’re wasting time. Go do something else.”

I began to open my mouth, but he didn’t want to hear it. “Come on, Rochelle,” he said in a tone of voice that meant I should definitely know better.

He was right; I did know better. The second I pressed my hips into the steel counter, I knew I was acting selfishly. But I was tired and thought I could maybe – just maybe – get away with it. I sliced the pineapple and dutifully wiped the machine clean, then went back to the pastry kitchen where Chef A put me to work painting rose petals with egg white and coating them in white sugar.

She watched me work and then corrected me. “Make sure you get all of the flower with the egg,” she said. I nodded and coated the petal. She frowned. “But not so much! A thin layer!” I nodded again and kept painting. I didn’t have the energy to protest or explain myself or even apologize. I just let my wrist continue to move in trance-like rhythm, stroking the brush over the flower. Inside my head, I heard a voice that sounded surprisingly like mine. Though it started as a soft hum, when I listened harder I understood that it was chanting: That’s not good enough; you’re not fast enough.

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