The symbiosis of mind melding hash slingers
My first executive chef, “yes CHEF!”(…yes, his name was ‘yes chef’.) stood by his Sous chef at the pass and philosophized about synergy. I had worked in a deli before this and my brain was desperately trying to understand what I had gotten myself into.
I was in my early 20’s and thought this whole scenario was right out of a dramatized soap opera. Over the many years of working in multiple kitchens and finally in culinary school, I realized how privileged I was to have that “first” hard core kitchen experience.
Chopping vegetables for 10 hours a day, 5 days a week; was grueling and made me think I was being punished for being so green. 1/8 inch, quarter inch, Juliane, half inch, shredded, triangle curl, peal, puree, mince, chopped, skinned, diced, sliced, batonnet, chiffonade, tournée, blah blah blah fancy French lingo blah. The whole “synergy speech” didn’t seem like it applied to me. I was just bombarded with, “do this, this way. Don’t do that. Stop doing that. Does this, look like this? Don’t answer. It doesn’t. Do it like this.” It wasn’t until I was thrust onto the line 2 years later when the whole “work as a team thing” became a reality. I felt like a fifth squeeky wheel. Then there was the screaming, and yelling. Redoing almost everything; because it was too early or too late, very sloppy, not enough this, or too much of that. It was very negative and aggressive. But, this is a big ‘but’ too. After every kitchen close, ‘yes chef’ would pat us on the back and do a huge mood/personality switch. His words of encouragement and soft hearted jokes lifted us from our stress and anxiety. Then we deep cleaned to heavy metal for 2 hours until everything shined so we could do the same thing the following day.
A decade later and a bit more kitchens, it finally clicked. I could sense the so called “synergy”. Granted, half of the kitchens before that realization were $#!+ holes. Dives with such a high turnover rate that a lot of the time, cooks got the job and then never showed up for their first shift.
Convicts with anger issues. Drug users coked out of their mind, screaming, throwing pots, pans, knives, and raw frozen food. Alcoholics that were an hour late most days and showed up when they weren’t scheduled to work. Most of the time, drinking beer while cooking. Timid recluses that went slower than a dead possum during a buffalo rampage.
As a reflection now, during the 90’s, the tv show Hell’s Kitchen, doesn’t hold a candle to the chaos I witnessed back then. Granted, HK is what a fine dining kitchen is like most of the time. Minus the glitz and glam that Vegas shines on it. I know, I lived there. Hole in the wall, inner city kitchens are the real make-or-break dens for willpower and stamina. I won’t even talk about the health violation nightmares. You can watch one of Chef Ramsey’s shows for those gems.
School was like a powder puff cakewalk of calmness and cluelessness when compared to line work (granted lower rung cooking schools are all theory and no hands-on experience training). Most people really don’t get the whole being a “chef” thing. Just because you learned your craft at a cooking school doesn’t automatically make one a chef. 3/4’s of the self proclaimed “chefs” that came into the kitchen’s I have worked in, never set foot on a real kitchen line. Within two to three days most of them either washed out, or cut their fingers off on the meat slicer. I saw one numbskull stick his hand into a hot fryer to grab for his thermometer. It doesn’t matter if you have great idea’s and recipes that seem like they should be consumed by gods. And no, there is no real “chef certification” that proves you are a real chef (except for that pompous process ran by the ACF. If you are putting yourself through that, you most likely have already paid your dues in the kitchen to be, respectfully named, a chef). Your resume, where you have worked, and for how long; is your pre-certification. Proving yourself to your Grand-Pooba chef boss, makes you a chef. But quite honestly and to the point, the one in charge of the kitchen, shows his respect and honor of your presence, by referring to you by the title, chef. If he calls you by your name, you are just a cook. No matter how much schooling you have under your belt, or how many kitchens you have worked in.
When you hear someone called “chef” in a high-end fine dining kitchen, they earned that title. It is their species. They were a grunt cook for years, and learned what “synergy” meant from failing 1000’s of times before getting it right more than a few times. They know all the rules, all the short cuts, all the flavors of crap, good, great, and transcendent. They can spot inconsistencies from across the kitchen and tell you how to solve the problem before the entire system grinds to a halt. The intricacies over every position in and outside the kitchen are electroplated on their hearts. It is a muscle memory that is as easy as breathing. They never compromise on cheaply prepared food. Let alone accept less than prime fresh food to start out with.
That is a chef.
Funny hats and stupid pants aside. A true chef that is arrogant and a lot of the time, an a$$#°/€, is the only kind of cook you want running a kitchen of hive mind drones.
Sort of like a Hot Fuzz meets Invasion of the Body Snatchers sort of vibe.
“Sergeant Butterman, the little hand says it's time to rock and roll.”
“AUAUAUAUAUAUAUAUHHHHH!” 🫵😦
