86'd

86’d

Working in the restaurant industry, it is not like any other career or like any other customer service gig, because it is the closest a person can get to having pure freedom when they work. This a place where no matter what you did in your past if you leave your problems, relationships, and weekends off, firmly on the outside of the door before you clocked in, and worked your ass off they were a chance you could survive another day.

FIFO (First In, First Out)

At this time, I have currently seven years' experience in this line of work, with a five stint at a place called the Liberty Bell; a wine bar located on the ‘Bricks’ of downtown Nac. I was hired on with the first round of hires and did ‘training’ for this place and lasted till the bitter end when we had to close to do things that were about my pay grade. But none the less I was one of the hardest working, dependable even when lacking sleep, hungover, still drunk, or ‘coming down,’ I did my duty. My typical day starts like this at the height of this place.

9 o’clock; The truck is headed to drop off the food order.

I unlock the restaurant’s only door to the Kitchen, that has finally let me have a key, it is 9ish, I have had a bowl, a beer, or a couple of shots, and even before I turn on the lights I got to the POS (Point of Sale Computer/Machine) and clock in cause I do not work for free. While I wait for Ben E. Keith/Sysco truck and the food order that had been placed the day before, I slowly began to ‘turn the kitchen on,’ turn on the lights, fill the warmers and place the food in which I had just the night before cooled down while I was closing. Turn on the flat top to start cooking 20lb of highly-priced bacon which after a while of working bacon is very unappealing when you go home at night and can still smell in your coat. As I am setting up the line, I also check my proteins and began to thaw whatever one I am low on. While all this is going my speaker is belting out NOFX, HIM, Type O Negative, Comedy, honestly anything to keep the bullshit that is depression and other problems at bay, there is an eerie feeling when you work alone.

9:30 The truck arrives.

I take a swig of my wine I keep from my station, to keep my wits about me and the FoH manager who is also a part of the original group, shows “Hey T-Dawg” he yawns at me while he clocks in and begins his duties. I hear the brakes outside “Woot” I sigh as I slowly go back to my three fridges and my two freezers to move things around and make room for the order. The man in the blue uniform with his dolly loaded down with cases of beef tenderloins, six logs of 20lb hamburger, vegetables, and fruits, a few boxes of Guinness fish fingers that we put in fish tacos, and the ‘Dempsey Sandwich’ something the owner ex-husband came up with to honor Clint Dempsey a soccer player from here. I am slowly checking the list like Santa making sure that ‘Chef’ looked at the inventory check I did just two days ago after I had scrubbed and detailed the tiny greasy kitchen. The delivery guy has finished putting down the third stack of the order when a waitress shows up, and one of my other cooks just in time to begin checking his station and giving me a hand putting things away.

10 o’clock one hour before we open.

“Nay Nay” I chime from the kitchen, “Yeah?” “Wanna check the order in case J missed anything?” He walks from the bar with a tray loaded with tools and stuff he needs to run the bar and plops I the dishwasher closing it with a “Clang and Whissssh”, I hand him the order while I continue to cook off bacon, “Naw, I think we are good for the day, I’ll send Hollie to the store if need be.” “word” as I slowly finish putting the order away and breaking down the cardboard boxes. My other cook show ups, “Hey, Chef”, “Sup, Skril”, The first guy was ‘my’ right-hand man, and Skrill is our prep cook whose a Vet and a bit of lush like all of us but, he gets the job done and is good for a story and a cig. I begin to look over my station, “Carrots, veg mix, squash, bruschetta” I muttered trying to get a prep less going for what I need to prep for my station while I also made a bigger prep list I can work on after the rush.

30 minutes!

I call a ‘safety meeting’ a quick sesh, or cig break just so we can have a reprieve from the madness that is an hour and a half away because normal people eat Lunch. “So, Skrillz how does salads and stuff look?” “Alright I just pulled some logs to work on later and I just filled the dressings” I take a soft drag on the bowl, “Ricky how you are looking?” “Good chef, just pulled my fishes and chickens” I nod in acknowledgment, “Cool so the only thing left for me is to make some French Onion and I need chips” I cough and head back in, slowly sighing making sure I’ll remember what I need to work on. I turned on my two frying pots covered in a layer of dried cooked grease, while I pull out several bags of frozen pre-cooked chips(not in the sense that they are precooked but like getting fries from a fast-food place). I glance at the Bud Light digital clock at the wall we open in ten minutes and I am feeling right while the music is giving me some dopamine.

11:11, the first order of the day.

“Brhhhhhh Brhhhhhhh” The Epson Printer machine that rings in, this sound is both our livelihood and hell.

It a sound that does not escape most of whom had served, it could be twenty years since you have been a line-dog ‘Head down-Ass up’ but the sound of that machine could be sound of memories ranging from happy to a purely hellish flashback of 10-13 hours of grueling work and precision. This industry is a hard one, you must willing to show up and outperformed ‘yesterday you’ meaning you can't skive be, look at your phone off in a corner, expect someone else to do the work for you, you must like an athlete training to run or swim push yourself.

“I need 5 Liberty Burgers, drop 4 asparagus, 5 orders of fries. From salads, I need 4 small houses, reggae. And everything else is on me”

Your station becomes your life/wife, and you can forget time-off and holidays; in five years of working I could the number of days off and sick leave on one and a half hands. This is not something to be taken lightly. It hard to find a work-life balance in this field when you are the on-call guy after you have clocked out on a Thursday night already with 43 hours for the week and the Truck will in at 9 so you can restock (FIFO) and have a plan for what is to come for the weekend.

“Oi, Mel, foods ups” The waitress who has been a lifelong friend of Chef comes into the kitchen to begin to tray up. She says the lunch is beginning to file in, while another waitress shows up to give her a hand if needed. Timing is everything. A few minutes too long in the window can cost not only it to become backed up (not having enough room to place orders ready to go out) but also anything cooked to specify temperature (med – rare steak) to overcook. This is can be the biggest problem we as chefs face when the FOH is just jerking around on their phones and you just want one of them to take this as seriously as we in the BOH do.

“I need runners for this food PLEASE! I don’t care if it not your section it all your section when comes to getting this fucking food out my window”

This is mostly on a Friday/Saturday night but for right now no need for yelling.

You can burn not only your flesh; popping hot grease, sticking arms inside 400-500° broiler and ovens, slip-ups while cleaning the flat top at the end of a shift, but you can burn yourself out, it comes in the form of dread that I think any number of people who have worked in the field will tell. It is waking up in the middle of the night because you dream of the rush and the printer and suddenly you are drowning in the ‘weeds’(when the tickets of food orders are beginning to stack up and panic may begin to set in)

You will stare at your kit and wonder why I do not just quit; I am so close to snapping I want to beat the fuck out of my six-burner Viking stainless steel range that I have spent the last hour taking apart and cleaning and reassembling because no one else has and I am tired of it catching on fire. A clean and well-organized station is key to be able to perform well, making sure we have enough fodder to feed the hungry, middle class some who think that this is not a career choice but a stepping stone while going to school, those who will belittle the 19-year old waitress because it gives them power, oh and fuck Brunch while I am thinking about it. I will give a quick glimpse into the kryptonite of BOH everywhere.

‘Sunday Brunch’

This is the hell on Earth, not only because of the church crowds who are taught to be kind and forgiving, will descend upon us at 1201 to destroy all that shit in an instance.

“Are you ready to order?” the cute guy who you positively adore who is going to the Music program on campus asking the 12 top the hostess just sat.

The oldest and most Karen answers; “Yes, we’ll have 4 pitchers of Mimosas, do you guys have a booster seat for my niece’s cute baby?”

“No ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it then, Umm, Can I get just a waffle? Also, I have a gluten allergy so tell the kitchen please”

“Yes, Ma’am”

“I need 5 eggs benedicts, 3 Chicken and Waffles on one to those can we have more bacon instead of the grits?”

“I can ask the kitchen” (He knows full well that extra bacon is upcharge)

“So, Diane says she was not hungry, Jeff what did you say you wanted?

Jeff,” Ummm yes, may I get the build your omelet with Chicken, Bacon, Bell Peppers but no onions, both kinds of cheese please”

“Certainly, Sir, Alright, (he repeats the order verbatim) I shall go place your order it may be a bit of wait like 20 minutes at least will that be a problem”

“Not at all dearie, take your time we are in no rush”

(My waiter is unsure if they are a bunch of pricks or not.)

So, he places the order,

“Sorry guys 12 top orders coming through”

Our cries of “Fuck, Shit, really did you tell them that there is a definite 20-minute wait?”

“Yes, lovely I did”

“Thank you, Dear”

I call out, “Drop me three chickens, ten crab cakes and the works for that, do you have enough waffles made, ‘Yes Chef,’ Salad I need 3 fruit cups and Chef did you see that fuckin Omelet order, Jesus”

My station is this; open the lid on top you’ll find starting further left-hand corner top row is my diced bell pepper and onions, carrots, squash and zucchini blend, broccoli, the next row below that is; raw shrimp, bruschetta mix, cheese blend for topping chilaquiles and grits, a large third an of eggs because sauté is where I make poached, sunny side up, over easy, the list goes on. In the lower part of my station are the last 20 salmon in the whole building, the last bag of shrimp, two energy drinks, and a tiny pinch of hope that we will get through this in one piece.

That tiny bit of hope and that the feeling of when the cute waiter comes back from check on the 12 tops about five minutes after running their food to them to tell us.

“Good Job guys, they said it’s good and they are happy”

A positive comment like that can give even the most exhausted line-dog be they hungover or still drinking that shot of dopamine to get to 3 o clock and freedom. But that is not always the case when I bolt up in bed out of my drunken haze because I had a Guinness, a forty, a hot shower, and laying and falling asleep in a towel. A thought like this can sober anyone: “Shit, did I forget to turn the heat lamp off, did I bump the surge protector mopping, did I remember to put away the iced soups and mash…etc.”

A few hours drag on till the afternoon and the restaurant is empty except for their music and our, I ask Skrills and Ricky what we may need for the evening or a least what we can just skive off with. They give me a bit go over; I nod and send them on break while I prep and take stock while I wait for my relief to come ‘hopefully.’