My journal entry from my first night started like this: "Welp. I didn't burn myself, break any dishes, and the busboy who had to go to the hospital in a taxi? I had nothing to do with that, I swear."
I had arrived there a little early, walking slowly along the small alley to the back entrance. I felt flat-out scared. I hated the butterflies flitting through my innards. Loathed them. I wished I could turn myself invisible and walk around inside undetected, so I would have a little time to suss everything out before seeing everyone for the first time. I wanted the luxury of having an idea of where everything was stored, and not look like a total clueless broad off the street, wanting to play cook. Which, almost anyone already in the profession would argue, perfectly defined my situation.
I had tried to come prepared. My freezer at the time overflowed with frozen mountains of Zip-Lock bags full of diced, julienned, and thick cut potatoes, which I practiced making with the help of a Knife Skills book from the Culinary Institute of America. They were starting to turn black, having been in there for more than a month. Despite my attempts to train before showing up, I knew I had no escape from experiencing the awkwardness of a first day. I walked through the heavy service door and down the back hallway that connected the dining room to the rest rooms, and the kitchen to the bakery. I popped out into the dining room, and found it mostly deserted. People wouldnÕt be thinking about dinner at four p.m., let alone fleeing work for happy hour drinks. Only two people sat at the bar, and one couple conversed at a table.
A few of the cooks were eating their staff meal, sitting together around a larger square table. From the waist up, they looked identical in their white chef jackets, baseball caps on their heads. From the waist down, they were all wearing different chef pants; patterns of hot peppers, pasta shapes or loaves of bread gave them a sense of personal style. One guy had pants like mine, the simple white stripes on black. My brain retreated to a fourth grade level of sophistication, and I cheered silently at my brilliance for wearing a pattern someone else had. I wanted to fit in from the start; if everyone had wacky pants except me, I would have felt like a button-down loser.
I walked up to their intimidating huddle and said hello, explaining that I was there to work. Blank stares returned my announcement. Had they not known about me? Had no one told them anything? I introduced myself, feeling awkward and out of it, their blank stares stopping any momentum and squashing any confidence I had scrounged up. I quickly asked where I could find Juan, wanting to get out of there to a safer retreat, away from where my grand experiment had failed to register amongst those who were to teach me for the coming months. Nick had introduced me to Juan the day of that afternoon meeting; therefore Juan suddenly became my best friend at Palio. Figuratively, I clung to him, my giant net in this world where I knew no one, and no one even expected me. Nick wasn't even there my first evening to take me around to meet the others, and it seemed pretty clear he hadn't mentioned me at all.
"Juan? Where is Juan?"
One of them pointed behind me. Poor Juan, as evening sous chef, he now had daunting task of making me productive that first evening. I knew nothing at all except how to hold my knife, and even that was a precarious judgment call. I feared even he had forgotten about me.
I found Juan back behind the counter on the line, checking out his mise en place, the French term for his prepped ingredients required at his station. He smiled at me, and his familiar face filled me with such delight, I latched onto him like an insecure girlfriend at a Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. He took me downstairs to put my stuff in the office, and took me then to a smaller room with racks of chef whites. I selected one in size medium and put it on over my tee shirt. In Nick's long hallway of an office, a pile of aprons towered overhead, folded on a high shelf. I grabbed one and tied it around my waist. He gave me a few towels; soon enough I would have all the symptoms of a towel addict, with all sorts of strategies to get and hoard more for me, even if it meant stealing them from someone else's stash. In the restaurant world, towels are one hell of a commodity.
I stopped and looked in the cracked full-length mirror hanging in the dim hallway at myself. A geek in cook's clothing. Later, after Juan had left me with Enrique, I snuck back downstairs with my digital camera to take a photo of myself in the mirror. Back upstairs we went. He had a few items of business to go over with the others, so he brought me a menu to peruse. Nick had suggested to me in an e-mail that I should learn the menu to a high state of understanding, and that made sense. Juan clearly thought it a good starting point as well. If I were to be able to whip out two Insalata Mistas and an Insalata Caprese, I needed to know how to make those, what the ingredients are and how to assemble them.
I studied the menu until Juan came back. He collected me and took me on an extended tour, showing me where everything lived in the kitchen. At the pasta station, he showed me where to find the dried and freshly made pasta, the raviolis and mezzalunas, little half-moon shaped pasta with filling. The day shift churned them out and then put in the freezer, popped in for a few minutes when ordered. On the counter, a large container full of the basic marinara sauce sat to the side, along with small bins full of prepped ingredients, chopped garlic, sausages, basil, peppers, salt and pepper. Opposite the counter sat the range, a behemoth with many gas rings with pots lined up full of boiling water, ready for dunking in pasta when an order fired.
Juan then showed me around to the other side of this range, where he showed me the pizza station. The station existed as a little island unto itself, with a cool, smooth marble counter for stretching out the raw dough to form the crust. Under the counter, neatly stacked refrigerated trays of pizza dough waited for when the orders came in. Bins here contained sauce for the pizza and toppings, cheeses, anchovies, basil, balsamic vinegar and oil. The oven was a large bricked affair with a half circle opening to slide the pizza in, also to put the wood in. Inside, the wood burned in a pile placed on the left side of the smooth circular surface, leaving space on the right to place the pizzas, far enough away that they wouldn't cook too quickly.
Juan then led me back along the short passageway to the main section of the open kitchen. Across from the pasta station lived grilling and saute. As with the other stations, Juan recited all the dishes made there and what components made up each of them, while pointing to each bin full of ingredients. I had no chance of remembering all the information flying at me, my mind completely overloaded, but I hung on and hoped I could recall most of it later.
Juan and I moved on and visited the grill station where a cook held court.
"Lucas," muttered Juan. I watched him, large and full of deft moves, remove grilled slices of zucchini off the grill, and then quickly slice up more to put on the heat. To his right sat a large bowl of crumbs for coating the calamari before frying. The bins held oysters, clams, onions, many smaller ingredients, aioli, some dressings and sauces. Lucas dominated the scene, a large man, easily the largest in the kitchen. He seemed friendly, though on that first day, none of them knew what to make of me, and said simple hellos and not much else. I didn't mind. I knew that once I became more familiar they would start talking to me, once they acclimated to my presence in their all-male kitchen. Eventually, it would happen.
This all slammed into my brain with the force of water through a fire hose. All of them had competent English skills, compared with my beginner-level Spanish. I understood most of what they said to me in English, and I suspected that would get easier as I became familiar with their accents. It helped me with Spanish, listening them talk in heavily accented English. I learned how they say their "g," for example, by how they pronounced English words with the same letter combinations.
During the evening, I did fair amount of work, considering it was my first shift; it was a slow night. Palio had a few parties going on, and some regular diners. I made two salads during the evening - one called a Romana, comprised of lettuce and goat cheese with some walnuts mixed with chopped dates, and two Insalata Mistas, simple mixed greens with a lemon vinaigrette. What I needed to learn was portion sizes, and how much dressing to put on a salad, for example. The two Mistas needed one handful of mixed greens each, and almost a half ladle of dressing for each plate. But how much lettuce amounted to a handful? Should I grab a large handful, or a conservative one? I had so much to learn.
I hung out a fair bit over with Enrique and Siro that first night, and in the following few days. Enrique showed me the ways to make a few salads that were on the menu, and on my first evening entrusted me with my first real task in the kitchen: making the crostinis. Siro asked me the most questions, and helped me as I tried to make a pizza. I bounced from place to place trying new tasks and performing horribly at some, good but awkward at others. It was a day of rough experimentation. The goal seemed not to gain any expertise, but to be introduced to the tasks in each place.
After destroying a round of pizza dough, I continued to hover around Siro, who I soon learned was in charge of pizza and the pasta station. I watched him make more sauce, and toss pasta in pans filled with already heated sauce. A little garlic in the pan, sizzling quickly, some sauce, then any add-ons: haricot verts, salt, pepper, a little water and a chunk of butter (oh, man, they really DID put butter in everything in a restaurant!). Siro lifted the pasta out of the boiling water and finally added it to the sauce, where it heated and mixed with everything else. Everything had "VIP" that evening, meaning the diners got a more fancy plate. The regular pasta plate was a shallow disc, simple and white. The VIP plates had wider rims with patterns on them, making for a more elegant presentation.
I survived; all I had expected of myself that first evening required surviving. I knew the first night would probably not require many physical tasks; it would mostly be an evening for becoming acclimated to the people and the kitchen. The goal of survival remained in place for the first two weeks. I arrived home that first evening giddy in a way only achievable by learning something new. Like the first flush of love, it heightens your senses, causing goose bumps in extreme cases. I often think of the mind as a series of rooms, each connected by a door. As we learn and experience life, different rooms start to fill up with ideas and knowledge, evidence that growth is occurring. There's nothing quite like the first time you open a new door, pull on the fluorescent bulb hanging overhead, and with an echoing click, you see the empty potential in front of you now illuminated.
The second night made me far more nervous than the first. Nick would be present that evening. My opening night, he had to go "take care of some shit," so I had been on my own. I knew that I became more nervous learning something new in front of friends who were experts than struggling in relative anonymity. Despite the advantages of having an expert friend nearby while learning, I tend to do better at when scrutinized by strangers, compared with friends.
The second evening looked to be busier than the first, so I would have opportunities to jump in and help. Slow business that first evening led Juan to suggest I leave a little early. I left an hour earlier than I had intended. The second evening, I showed up and prepped on my own, since I knew where everything was stacked and stored. I plunged right into the thick of it, and like any new kid on the block, I went through a mini hazing. They gave me the onions.
It felt as if I had been put on KP duty. I arrived and went downstairs immediately, where I ran into the pastry chef, Jim, whom I had not met yet. I put my stuff under Nick's desk and changed into my pants and t-shirt, put on the jacket and the apron and grabbed some towels. Back up the stairs I went. I had left my knife kit in the pantry area when I first arrived, still in street clothes. I walked through the dishwasher area, and there stood Nick, who saw me and broke into a big smile and started laughing at me, all dressed up in The Restaurant Outfit. I suppose I did look out of place, but what the hell was I gonna do, not dress like everyone else? All the time IÕd known Nick, IÕd been a computer geek to his chef. I'd make fun of him and his AOL e-mail account, and here I was on his turf, in his label and clothes, looking a part that I was not. His turn to laugh.
I hugged him hello, suddenly nervous and shy. As I have said before, I perform better and more easily if I am not actively watched by people I know, which seems the opposite of how it should be. Nick spoke excellent Spanish and talked to the others around me for a while. I felt almost like a deaf mute; I couldn't speak the language and I couldn't understand it. I just worked as instructed and spoke when I had a question, or when someone spoke to me in English. I still felt like an outsider; I didn't start up personal conversations, sticking instead to the questions and terms of the kitchen for my conversations. I felt awkward and guilty, forcing them out of the language they all spoke and shared. I put a strain on them. It was an added argument to pin to my status as an outsider, something I ridiculously gave as many supports as possible.
Nick gave me a bunch of paperwork to fill out. Even though I was not getting paid, I needed to fill out a W-2 and proof of citizenship. I went out the backdoor and sat on the steps behind the restaurant that went down into the alley. Over the previous year, I stared wistfully at cooks outside their places of work on breaks. They leaned against walls, smoking, staring, sitting, and resting. Filling out paperwork didn't have the glamour of loitering, but I got a little thrill from standing out behind a restaurant in the whites. I had arrived; I now lived what I had seen, and dreamed of. How many moments do we have in our lives such as these?
I filled in "Slave" as my position. Nick signed everything, and then he and Lucas grinned. A disembodied voice yelled "Onions" from back in the prep kitchen, and there awaiting me were a large plastic cutting board, a couple feet wide, two empty silver bins, and one large plastic bin, full of yellow onions. I am talking 50 of them, far more onions than I had ever had to work with before. "Show her what to do, Juan," said Nick. Juan took an onion in his experienced hands, placed it on the board. He cut off both of the ends, then turned the onion on one side and cut it in half. On each half he peeled off the outer skin, then set down again. "Julienne each half," he said, quickly slicing through the onion in even small slices, then throwing them in one of the metal bins in front of me. I watched, then took up my own knife and grabbed an onion. I turned around. Nick stood peering into the open window area at the prep kitchen. I must have blushed, so self-conscious in those first evenings. I had cooked for Nick before, but never had he watched me do something that he was an expert at. Now he would see the struggle to the end result. I started slicing through my first onion.
"JUAN! Are you watching her?" I cringed. He grinned. "You have to watch her, or oh, she will cut herself, and then oh, my God, the worker's comp...."
I held my onion wrong. I knew to put my fingertips away from the knife, but the onion had no steady grip with my thumb, and I did not use my knuckles as a guide. My knuckles were there to guard my fingertips, but I neglected to cut right up against them, helping to measure my cuts. Nick took my knife and sliced through a half in seconds, his hands perfect and his cuts even, using his knuckles as a guide. I half-scowled, half-smiled and started in on the other one. Nick walked away, and Juan followed, leaving me with Enrique, who appeared to be cutting up large chunks of bread or cheese on the other side of the room.
I started in on the onions, going slowly at first. Nick had recommended cutting and peeling a bunch of them at all at once, and then slicing them later, saving time and motion. I dutifully followed his procedure. He came by again about 10 minutes later to comment on my horrible posture. "Stand away from the knife. Bend your knees. This saves your back. And I know it sound strange, but the faster you go, the easier it is. He plowed through one more half.
"Do one more," I said. I wanted to watch his thumb, to see how it grasped the onion to keep it steady. He sliced one more half and threw the slices in the bin. I saved one on the side to see how thick it had been sliced, to use as a goal. And then I worked. And I sliced. Nick emerged from the downstairs office one more time, this time in street clothes. "Don't worry about them being perfect," he said. "We are going to cook the shit out of them." He waved and was gone, out into his nighttime world of martinis and women.
As I bent to my task over the next couple hours, I watched and listened to the life in a restaurant kitchen. Soon enough the radio changed from Mexican music to the evening's soccer game. All the staff followed Mexican soccer matches with a frenzied fervor. Even though I couldn't understand much other than "GOOOOAAAAAAAAAAL!" I enjoyed listening. It added to the experience and made everything seem more real.
I liked the environment. The kitchen had a socially relaxed yet professionally busy air, the flip side of the fine dining experience going on out on the floor. I sliced and listened to words I couldn't understand, the jingles sung between goals and plays. Sometimes someone would come through the pantry to get a plate or a handful of strawberries and sing along. And still I chopped. My right hand was starting to hurt. I filled one bin of chopped onions and doggedly kept going. Lucas, the grill man, came by and handed me two more onions that he had already peeled, an innocent smile on his lips. Evil. I had been at this task for at least an hour and a half, solid.
Slice, slice. I got faster. I got better. I learned to turn the onion when it got too slippery, coming in from a different angle. I didn't always have to do this, but I learned to sense when it would help. Juan or Lucas occasionally peered into my slowly dwindling onion pile. And eventually somewhere in the depths of the soccer game, while Enrique cubed his bread, stopping to make salads and plating desserts as the orders came in, I threw my last pile of onion in the second bin. I cleaned my knife and wiped the board and the steel table. I brought the board to the dishwasher, laying it on the side reserved for cooking pots and tools. I went over to Siro, working the pasta station.
"So," I said. "Tell me, how do I say 'I finished the fucking onions' in Spanish?"
He blinked at me, started to tell me. He halted when he got to the "fucking" part. I nudged him. "Come on...."He smiled, started the sentence once more, and then stopped again. I hand motioned to go on. Finally he spit out the entire phrase. "Yo termine las pinche cebollas." I repeated this several times. He opened up and told me a few other words, more worldly terms. I could now call people fucking whores. This was something to be proud of, I felt, even if I never did the deed. I patted him on the shoulder. "MUCHOS GRACIAS!" I went up to Enrique and dutifully recited my onion sentence.
He loved it. He laughed. He told me to go tell Siro, who had just come in the room. "Siro is the one who taught me this!" I said. Enrique bent over, laughing, and pointed me out to Lucas. I traveled to everyone in the kitchen, proudly announcing that I had finished the fucking onions. They all loved it. Even the dishwasher heard it, making a sweep through the kitchen to see what there was for him to clean. I helped wrap up the two bins in plastic wrap, and into the walk-in they went. Las pinche cebollas.
When I trooped down into the dark cellars of the building to change clothes and go home, I left Nick a note in his whites pocket on his chair downstairs. In badly written phonetic Spanish, I had written: "I finished the fucking onions."
Twenty-four hours later from my first culinary battle, my hands still reeked of onions. I should have rubbed them on stainless steel, or dribbled lemon juice over them. Both of those techniques work wonders for releasing kitchen odors from hands, but a day later was too long to induce those magical behaviors. I gave it a good try as soon as I had gotten home. I scrubbed my hands in the shower with bristles, and tried covering them with grapefruit-scented lotion. This made for an interesting combination, food smellwise...but within 20 minutes the onions had overpowered the lotion. The next day, hunched over my computer at my geek job, I received a single sentence e-mail from Nick:
"Buen trabajo con las pinche cebollas."
I had made it through my second day.
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