Aldea
One time, when I was portioning pork belly, Carl crept up behind me. “See this piece?” he asked, picking up a square and shoving it into my line of vision.
“Uh-huh,” I said, with the slightest tinge of annoyance in my voice.
“This piece is good. Make every piece just like this one.”
“Uh-huh.” I kept cutting.
He wasn’t finished. “Because last time, the belly … it was total shit.” He was laughing a little bit, but I knew he was entirely serious. “Every piece has to be the same.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said.
“Maybe at a mediocre restaurant, things like that … thing don’t matter,” he said in an increasingly thick Chilean accent. “But this is a great restaurant. You don’t want to be mediocre, do you?”
I didn’t. “I don’t.”
“Okay, well then good.” And with a wink and a swift pat on my rear end, he was gone.
I studied the small squares of belly I had acquired thus far. Well, they were sort of uniform. But “sort of” definitely didn’t cut it, so I evened them all out before forging on.
—
This Wednesday was my last day working at the restaurant. And, true to form, I ruined pretty much everything I put my hands on. Beets were overcooked, port wine over-reduced, pork terrine cut too thickly. I was frustrated – why did those things seem so much easier for every other cook? I knew what I was supposed to do (coat beets in olive oil, salt and pepper, put in a hotel pan with water, cover with foil, roast), but why couldn’t my hands communicate with my head? (Beets came out wrinkly and charred. Tyler was not pleased.)
After a solid 9 hours of serious kitchen fuck-ups, I was exhausted and sad. I’d been at the restaurant for three months – had I even made any progress? Had I learned anything? It didn’t seem like it. And after a stern talking-to from Chef, I was even more defeated. And so I did the one thing I promised myself I never would. I slipped into the hallway, crouched down next to the boiler room door, and I cried.
I gave myself three minutes, and then I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and walked back into the basement prep area where Tobias was using the cryovac machine and Sixto was cutting mirepoix.
“Hey lady, what’s up?” Tobias asked.
“Meerrrrrr,” I said, my voice cracking and my eyes watering again.
He put down the bag of duck breast he was handling and looked at me. “Yo, I’mma tell you something. You just gotta do your best, and no matter what, at the end of the night, you can’t let anyone get you down.”
I sniffled.
“Because if you go home upset every day, guess what? It ain’t right.”
I breathed in deeply and nodded.
Sixto continued chopping, but he gave me a look of sympathy.
As I began to bread croquettas for the last time, Michael bounded down the stairs to grab a handful of herbs. “Hey,” he said. “Are you, um, okay?”
I nodded and felt my eyes well up and shine.
“I know you’re trying really hard,” he said. “They expect a lot out of you here, and you’re not … used to it. But I know you’re trying.”
I buried my nose in his bicep. He, slightly uncomfortable, patted my back a little bit. “It’s okay. Are you okay?” he repeated.
I nodded and hugged him hard.
—
As I finished the croquettas, doing the very best job I could, I thought about everyone at the restaurant. God, I hated them sometimes. But, I had to admit, I’d miss them all.
Tyler: uncompromising and short at times, but always encouraging and, at the heart of it, the best leader a kitchen could hope for.
Roy: mean with a nasty mouth – but a damn good cook, and, when you least expect it, a thoughtful, kind teacher.
Carl: humorously spastic, but patient and smart. A graceful, intuitive cook.
Michael: at times selfish with a serious case of tunnel vision, but funny, sweet and good-hearted. Excited about cooking in a way I can only admire.
Tobias: spacey and a bit quirky, but genuine and real – and a true perfectionist if I’ve ever met one.
Jimmy, the newest addition, hired to replace me: territorial and independent, but with killer time-management skills and calm under pressure.
Molly: Green as St. Patrick’s Day, but indefatigable and loyal, with a real hunger to learn.
Claire, the pastry chef: Strict and uncompromising, but truly invested in her work and the progress of others. Able to make stunning art out of sugar.
Sixto: Prone to bouts of grumpiness and introverted slouch, but intricate, precise, and always willing to take on more than he needs to.
And Chef: stoic, sometimes distant and cold – but a true visionary with the imagination to dream up something beautiful, and the talent to make it real.
—
I let the memories I’d made with them all buoy me through the rest of the night, and sure enough, by the time I untied my apron, I was feeling better.
As I pushed my way out the door for the very last time, I thought about what Carl had said weeks ago: Yes, Aldea is a great restaurant. But it’s the kitchen that is truly extraordinary.