Dear You

Without you I’d be standing on a curb somewhere holding a sign that says “will cook for work”. I’m looking at you, customers.  What we have here is a sort of Stockholm Syndrome;  you keep me from my loved ones and the light of day, yet i continue to go back for more… approximately 6 days a week from the crack of noon until 15 minutes after my girlfriend has fallen asleep. I want to tell you a little bit about my people, and I’d also like to talk to you about your people.

Every night, without fail, the kitchen gets an order from somebody with an allergy. We also get orders without them, only to be told at the END of the meal that one of you had a serious nut/shellfish allergy.  When we get an allergy bill, one of two things happen: either we get nervous, or we get skeptical. Here’s why: what the fuck is a salt allergy? I happen to think it means you’ve been watching too much of the news, and everybody else in the kitchen thinks you’re full of shit. Don’t call it an allergy if it isn’t, my friend.

Regardless of fact or fiction, the team gathers its collective strength and starts cooking your meal… salt free. We aren’t wearing big floppy hats. We aren’t wearing chef jackets either. In fact, the chef is wearing jeans.  The uniform is actually a t-shirt with a pig on it, and you can see the definition of our ribs pressed against the fabric. We are skinny, yet our kitchen does contain many stages of beer belly. Actually, since we don’t have it printed on our jackets, rank can mysteriously be determined by belly girth. With great power comes great responsibility, and many years of responsibility leads to many post-shift pints.

Every bit of food that emerges from my station gets tasted. With a spoon. By me. I’ve eaten your dinner before you, just to make sure that you’re going to be satisfied. There’s also a good chance that there’s a little extra butter in there for the exact same reason. Why are the vegetables “soooo good”? Animal fat, that’s why. Somehow though, after eating a tiny bit of everybody’s dinner, I’m still not satisfied. With the rest of the staff in the same condition, we lazily point the finger at some lucky cook to make the team some dinner. With all of that wonderful product lying around, you’d expect this to be an easy task. No such luck.  The good stuff is for people who pay. We’re feasting on scraps tonight, and we’re fine with that. Miscellaneous risotto is always a hit.  But if that isn’t on the menu, we’re eating bread and butter.

So, we pandered to your imaginary allergy and guess what? You had a lovely night. In fact, you had such a lovely night that you drank SOOOOOOO much wine that you think it’s a great idea to come say “hi” and “thank you” to the “ever-so-happy-to-see-you” kitchen staff. You, cock eyed and slurring, stumble through the curtains and tell who you think is the chef but is actually the garde manger that your well-done steak was the best you’ve ever had (despite your best efforts). You pat us on the back, oogle all the crazy equipment, and stumble back to your table. I’m going to let you know that we would much rather have you order us a pitcher of beer and have it left at the entrance with a lovely little note attached. We LOVE notes.

I think one myth that needs to be extinguished is the one that we’re always either yelling or being yelled at. That’s the stereo that you’re hearing.  And the sous chef brought his iPod so it happens to sound like a domestic dispute. Other times it’s smoky and all you hear is reggae. We like to mix it up.

So we’ve had our staff drinks, some more than others, and we lock the doors. Fresh air only tastes this sweet when you’ve just finished a 12 hour shift. We said goodbye to daylight at around noon, and we won’t see it again until it pries our little eyes open the next morning. The patio was busy, so that means that it was a nice day. I, unlike you, haven’t had the sun on my skin for any longer than it takes for me to walk from my illegally parked car to the kitchen door in quite a while. Instead, I work hard so you can play hard, as per our arrangement. I have only one favour to ask of you, my dear friend: next time I’m at the bank and you are serving me, please don’t look at my awful hands and the terrible arms they’re attached to like they belong to a lunatic. I’m a cook, not a crack-head.

While this may sound like a big old rant, it’s actually just a bunch of quirks that I find completely annoying yet bizarrely endearing about you people. The thing is, you guys make it possible for me to get paid to do what I do. And although that fact is far from the front of my mind when all of you decide to show up and order at the same time, it is still present, albeit someplace in the back. So please, keep showing up so I can keep standing behind a stove and not on a curb holding the sign that i mentioned earlier.

Warm regards,

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Line Cook – Jacob Galbraith