Conspiracy Theory

Collusion in the Kitchen

When the majority of one’s waking life is spent in the clutches of professional cooking, one gains a certain familiarity with the feeling of having a big fucking target painted on their chest. Within the confines of a kitchen, we cooks are textbook examples of conspiracy theorists; it comes with the uniform. Unsolicited attacks from every angle have led to an all encompassing skepticism that manifests itself as crossed arms, furrowed brows, and shifty eyes.

What lies below outlines what I believe to be a conspiracy against myself and my people.

The livers and breathers.

God knows where I’d be without them, but no group of people fucks with my head like the customers. My dependence on them quickly switches from riding shotgun in my brain to being stuffed in the trunk when they start doing the crazy things that they’re known to do. They’re all showing up at the same time, in groups of 10 and 7 and 5 and two 4’s and three 2’s. This is commonly referred to as “the slam”, but I call it “Fuck me? Fuck you!”. A period of time when everybody in the kitchen turns into the Scorsesian version of Robert De Niro, telling everything including the ovens to fuck off, threatening violence and appearing only seconds away from implosion, all while the plates continue to get pushed out the door. If it isn’t enough that they’ve all come together, they’re going off of the menu, and it seems that their terrorism is being aided and abetted by another faction of people opposed to the kitchen folk: servers.

In the event that an unreasonable request is made by one of those lovely customers, it is the server’s job to make that shit happen. Stat. Different servers have their own way of going about this; some of them pick their moments, while others will try and push every little thing through. Either way, the bargaining that occurs typically falls in favour of the customer, who in turn pays a brokerage fee to the server. It is in the kitchen’s interest to make the food as it reads on the menu, and in restaurant heaven those interests are shared by the servers. The financial incentive that is literally left on the table is what gums up the works here, and is ultimately what leaves us cooks no choice but to believe that the servers and customers are indeed in cahoots. The dream is for both cooks and customers to achieve the ultimate co-satisfaction by the latter ordering like rational human beings, and the former preparing the food as it was intended to be.

Malicious machinery.

Every cook in the history of cooks has had to deal with broken or breaking restaurant equipment. it’s the worst. Food processors that require a serious Macgyvering, ovens with pilot lights capable of making decisions, and burners that are more like warmers. Sure, shitty equipment breeds resourcefulness and improvisation, but I’d trade both for a some well-oiled machines.

Surely you’ve seen a blender full of something hot and awful explode before. Maybe it’s happened to you, and maybe you called the blender a witch and haven’t trusted it since. You’ve had fine mesh strainers fall apart in your hands and vacuum sealers that sucked at sucking. This stuff happens every single day in every kitchen, ever. We are very much at the mercy of a bunch of robots. As more of them find their way into our work space, it’s only a matter of time before we’re dealing with a full on terminator scenario. Some of us will be pureed, others suffocated in bags and then cooked very slowly at a low temperature.

Cunning cuts of meat and vegetables.

I’ve seen someone karate chop a fennel. Despite the overall hilariousness of the act, it was as serious as something like that could be, and I completely understand wanting to do something like that. Dear fennel, beware. I can’t prove that the ingredients are colluding to ruin my night, but I most certainly can choose to believe it. Only in the most crucial moments is a medium rare steak capable of leaping from your grasp and onto the floor. The steak, among steaks, is a glorious martyr. One little tenderloin on the floor and the timing is officially ruined. A karate chop would seem gentle in this scenario. This is a job for a leg drop from the top ropes. Whammy.

Jumping meat is part of a larger scheme involving unusually potent onions, wound seeking citrus fruits, and a whole whack of spicy things that find their way to sensitive areas of the body, perhaps via a bathroom break. A case of artichokes forgoes physical punishment and instead does its worst on your psyche. Most of the time food lies around in the cooler or the basement, but it isn’t sleeping; it’s waiting.

The dispensers of such evil, food suppliers, aren’t innocent by any means. their “gaffes” are actually calculated kicks to the groin. It’s always the thing that you need the most that fell off the truck at some point during the day (perhaps it jumped too?). Sure, a credit is issued, but the last time I checked, we can’t serve credits. “I-O-U one duck breast” on a Post-It atop a pile of risotto. It looks like paper, but it tastes like bullshit.

Our own worst enemy.

It seems like I’ve been doling out the skepticism like the lunch lady administers sloppy joes; without remorse. But it should be noted that I’m just as skeptical of myself (and all you other cookers out there) as I am of the various external influences on my working life. I’d be a fool not to question such a large demographic of people who are seemingly addicted to being the underdog. In the past, I’ve hung my issues with cooking on an undiagnosed case of masochism, and I’m beginning to think that’s an insufficient explanation. Speaking for myself, if I’ve no regional alliances, I cheer not for the team that should win, but the team that has been deemed incapable of doing so. I’ve always been this way, and it isn’t all that shocking that I’ve found my way into a profession that is the occupational embodiment of the underdog scenario. The case for conspiracy that I’ve detailed above is a list of things that drive me crazy on a daily basis, but it’s also a list of things that I overcome regularly. The Batman needs the Joker (nobody needs the Riddler), and I need a melting pot of opposition to feel necessary. It’s not about good vs. evil, it’s about me (or you) against the world. Simply escaping the day can still be considered a victory. While going back for more seems insane, walking away would be crazy.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Line Cook,

Jacob Galbraith