Familia
“Before you leaving,” Sixto said to me in lilting English the other day, “be very sure that is what you want to do.” He paused, continued. “Because you have a -how you say?- family here at the restaurant.”
When I told my mother this on the phone, she laughed and laughed. “Oh, a family! A family!” Her voice was dripping with delicious sarcasm.
To be fair, the only view of the restaurant she has is through the lens of my teary-eyed 1 A.M. calls after 15 hour-days. She is not the restaurant’s biggest fan. But she has a point. If the restaurant were a family, we’d be cripplingly dysfunctional. I don’t think my real family would tell me to shut up, or call me a pig. I don’t think they’d be so critical of my plating abilities, and I don’t think they’d ever make me clean the plancha.
But despite all my complaining (it’s a lot) and whining (it’s more), I do care deeply for everyone I’ve worked with. I want to see them succeed and, despite appearances, actually like spending time with them. People who work in kitchens, I realize now, have a special sort of bond that transcends any familial relationship or even friendship.
I thought about all of this last night as I plated innumerable duck rices. It was hot in the kitchen and I was beginning to get dizzy from the familiar high of a well-oiled service. I was feeling almost conflicted about my decision to move on when Chef gave me the stink eye.
“No! Sloppy! Look at my plate. Look at your plate. Your apricot puree is so wrong! You’re really batting zero there, cowgirl.”
I sighed and fixed the offending fruit smear. As I wiped the edges of the plate clean, I had a surprisingly crystalline moment of clarity: Yes I loved them, but no they weren’t my family. And hell yes was I ready to leave.