In The Weeds

A clean, crisp white double-breasted chef’s coat hangs neatly in the closet. Folded leg to leg and draped over the wooden bar, under the jacket, are black and white houndstooth patterned pants. I pull the end of the pant legs and slide them off the hanger. Anxiously and a bit off-balance as I insert one leg into a loose pant leg and then the other. I tuck my white t-shirt into the elastic waistband while sliding my feet into the black clogs that sit before me on the floor, enjoying how the cushiony insole conforms to my tired feet. I take the jacket from its hanger and put it on, slipping the white knotted cloth buttons through the holes and smoothing the front with the palms of my hands. The fingers of my right hand nervously trace the embroidery stitching of my first name on the left chest.

I hesitate outside the kitchen door. I take a deep breath in and slowly exhale, trying to relax. I extend my arm and place my hand on the door, stopping once again before pushing it open. Pausing, I close my eyes for a moment and have my very own internal pep rally.

I am ready.

I am capable.

I am good.

I am going to be just fine.

Holding my chef knife bag in my left hand, I push open the kitchen door with my right. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the stark white light bouncing off the gleaming stainless steel equipment and work tables. The heat from the kitchen slaps my face immediately. The pots half-filled with water sit atop the blue burner flames pumping out steam. The aroma of sautéing onions and roasting garlic wafting through the air sweeps through my nostrils and immediately calms me.

I am ready.

I am capable.

I am good.

I am going to be just fine.

I walk to my station and set down my knives. I turn the knobs on the char-broiler to get it to temperature and ready to go before I step over and grab an apron from the stash. I tie the apron around my waist and tuck a folded towel behind the apron string, letting it hang on my left side. I check the supply of tongs, spatulas, and sizzle platters. I open the top cooling drawer and find it well stocked with vegetables and garnishes for grilling. Below that are drawers with hotel pans equally stocked with steaks, chicken, and fish kabobs.

I am ready.

I am capable.

I am good.

I am going to be just fine.

Service begins. I embrace the bustling kitchen’s calculated chaos. The loud call-outs of “behind,” “hot,” “sharp” become a pleasing kitchen melody. The clanging of pans, clamor of dishes, and the sizzling of meat on the grill is the sweet melody of a well-oiled machine at work. Orders are entering and leaving the kitchen in rhythmic perfection. Meat is searing on the grill. I take a moment to close my eyes and inhale the savory, salty, flavorsome aroma.

A violent thunderclap jolts me from my fool’s paradise.

This is raw!

This is burnt!

You muppet!

Get it together, or get out!

My face is red from a combination of humiliation and heat. Hurriedly with head down, I grab the tongs and face the blistering grill, the loud racket of the sizzle platters slamming on the stainless steel table, and the enraged outburst from the head chef are screaming echoes in my ear. Sweat drenches the hair under my hat to the point that I am sure if I removed it, a flash flood would cause the kitchen to go under faster than the Titanic. My clogs no longer feel pillowy soft but like stepping on jagged rocks as I navigate a narrow path adjacent to a cliff. Food stains paint the front of my chef coat, standing out from the bright white backdrop like a neon sign flashing against the pitch black of the midnight hour.

I long for the final ticket to enter the kitchen. I feel a flutter of excitement with each shouted order ending with “all-day,” anticipating the order is the last, but the hungry demands of the customers keep coming. I work steadily and nervously at the grill, inspecting each piece of protein and garnish before I bring it to the pass and anxiously scan the Chef’s face for anger. Taking a subtle glance at the black and white analog clock hanging on the wall near the dish station, I quickly and quietly return to my station.

We are only 45 minutes into dinner service, and the end is nowhere in sight.

I am ready.

I am capable.

I am good.

I am going to be just fine.