Strange and Bitter Fruit

A few weeks after using Urban Diner to host my very first public airing of the “c word”, I’m bringing you some thoughts on a big old “b word”: bitterness. What follows may come off as bitching, but what I’m trying to do is explain the expression that’s permanently painted on every weathered cook’s face. It’s something that has been known to sneak up on every cook intermittently throughout their career, and I am among the army of kitchen folk who have been afflicted by its presence. Bitterness is seemingly as essential to professional cooking as knowing how to peel a carrot.

Before anyone decides to become a cook, they should get used to opening an envelope, staring at the contents and saying “I worked harder than this!”. The money that we earn is only part of the problem, and it probably would never be an issue if we weren’t surrounded by people who are wealthy by comparison. I’m referring to the well-heeled customers, and the smartly dressed/wine-savvy people who serve them. Contrast is everything, and the restaurant provides plenty of it. The customers escape most of the scrutiny because we have no idea how it is that they’ve managed to find themselves so nicely situated. We know only that it must be nice to be them.

The official company word about the front of house is that we just plain don’t like them, and it’s because we don’t understand them. We share a workspace with these people who often double our earnings despite only working half of the time. I’m looking at you, servers. And I’m looking at you with eyes that could really use some fucking glasses, so this means that I’m squinting. I’m not going to outright say that they don’t work as hard as us; it’s a futile argument that rages on whether or not I weigh in on it. What I will say is that the current arrangement between cooks and servers everywhere isn’t even close to being equal. It’s terribly obvious. Unfortunately we are co-dependent, and for the balance to weigh in favour of one side or the other only leads one side to believe that they’re more important, and are therefore entitled to more. I mean, who wouldn’t want to eat at Marxist Burger? Knife and fork, meet hammer and sickle.

Thankfully, I’ve managed to get my foot through the back door of many kitchens without having to attend a cooking school. This isn’t to say that the experience wouldn’t have been valuable. In fact, I probably would have been a lot better, a lot sooner if I’d done it. My serpentine path from dishwasher to journeyman cook may have taken a little longer in terms of acquiring a certain skill set, but I did it without having to take out a massive student loan. Actually, I got paid. I can’t thank myself enough for this decision, even though I kicked myself every time I saw somebody who chose the other path excelling. It isn’t uncommon to find a kid fresh out of culinary school with a diploma in one hand, and a big huge receipt in the other. Now, this would be acceptable if they were heading into a situation where they would earn a wage as fat as the debt. Instead their earnings are likely to remain as skinny as Kate Moss until they do one of two things: leave the industry for a well moneyed one, or sell out. It’s a terribly unrealistic way to get started in this business; the bitterness I’m currently tasting would be tenfold if I’d done things the other way.

Even without a lingering cloud of student debt, I’ve often fantasized about taking up another trade where I could just punch the clock, earn a reasonable wage, and maybe, just maybe, have some health benefits. I’ve also done some dreaming about what I’ve decided to call selling out. I could head off to a hotel and start out at a wage somewhere between 15 and 20 bucks an hour, peeling my way to the top of the ladder. I hear there are danishes at some of the union meetings, lots of coffee too. Separately, there will always be jobs for folks like me in the many mighty corporate kitchens. My eyebrows are permanently raised at job titles like “Kitchen Manager” or “Production Chef”. The money and perks that await me beyond the pearly gates of an Earls or a Cactus Club will likely be buried with their shareholders and big fat Executive Food Idea Engineers. I’m leaving it on the table. unless of course they start paying their employees with novelty sized cheques or in bags with dollar signs on them. I’d also be open to becoming the Earl of Earls, but only if Highlander rules applied (see: there can only be one, and on the job training is provided by Sean Connery).

Bitterness is something that needs feeding, and I’d have to ignore some fairly obvious scenarios to starve it to death. It’s either that or things would need to change. I think this is why the bitterness comes and goes, because I haven’t the slightest idea how to instigate any kind of shift in the way things are. Conversely, I’m only able to remain ignorant until my squinty little eyes catch a glimpse of something they don’t like. It’s cyclical, and it’s shitty through and through.

By now you probably think i’m doomed. I’ve taken the blue pill and am heading to plumbing school to turn my pipe dreams into realities. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m staying put for now. The reason the bitterness provides such conflict is that I’m absolutely in love with food and cooking. If I hated it, it’d be an easy choice to make. Food and drink are always at the front door of my brain, knocking loudly until I let them in. When I’m not working, I’m on the couch reading cookbooks cover to cover, watching a variety of food TV (Diners, Drive-Ins annd Dives, anyone?), writing down my petty thoughts, or just trying to wrap my head around the whole idea of making it as a chef.

One conclusion that I’ve come to is that you cannot succumb to the bitterness. Battling with it is one thing, and totally normal, but to be overcome with it is to be contagious to others. The words of the infected plague the workspace like an airborne case of the clap.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Line Cook,

Jacob Galbraith