Fresh Meat

There is no situation more precarious than being new in a kitchen. It’s sort of a guilty until proven innocent scenario. We’ve seen your resume, and chances are there’s some questionable stuff on there. In spite of the stint at Weeny Wagon, you’re invited spend a day with us on your own time. If you make it through the day without any incidence of shame or amputation, the job is yours… until your bad habits show their ugly heads. It’s not so much an “if”, but a “when”. That’s approximately when the Craigslist ad goes back up, and the cycle repeats. Let me break it down for you.

Phase 1
The first step in applying for work in a restaurant is to send your resume and cover letter to the chef. When you’re writing it, however, you should keep in mind that everybody in the kitchen will be reading it, laughing their asses off at your lame email address. Salty_secrets@blank.com? Really?! The laughter seldom stops there, we’re looking for anything we can use to take the piss out of you. It’s probably a good idea to keep your hobbies off of that thing, unless of course your hobbies include 14 hour work days and eating your meals standing up. Relevant work experience only: nobody cares that you cut lawns as a 12 year old. The cover letter is an entity all its own, and I can tell you from personal experience that it’s not a great place to spill the beans about your stupid little website. I applied for the same job twice; the first time I mentioned my website as a means of proving how enthusiastic I am about the job. I didn’t get a call back. I scratched my head and re-applied a few weeks later without mentioning it, and I’ve been working there for the past 10 months. Cover letters are best if used for relentless begging.

Photos are discouraged, unless you’ve got a magic photo that can somehow prove that you once worked 18 days straight while dealing with a ferocious stomach ulcer. Anybody with one of those advances straight to go, no interviews or stages required.

Phase 2
Interviews are funny. It’s such a proper step for one of the least proper work environments known to man. Outside of arriving on time, all of the other rules are more or less reversed. Don’t wear the shirt you bought for your cousin’s wedding and haven’t worn since, fancy clothes won’t get you hired in most kitchens. Instead I recommend sleeping in whatever clothes you plan on wearing to the interview, and while you’re at it, only sleep for 3 hours. Looking tired and volatile drastically improve your odds. Leave your tattoos out in the open, and it’d be nice to see some terrible scars on your hands. After all, you’re a cook, not a banker.

Now for the talking portion of all of this, even though the other stuff has probably said more than enough. Why did you leave your last job? Many people use this opportunity to air grievances, and all that does is raise red flags. A chef being an asshole isn’t a great reason to list, mainly because every chef has to be one from time to time, and chances are they’ll be showing you that side of themselves in the first month or two of your prospective employment. Don’t whine, it’s usually taken as a sign of things to come. Simply stating that you’re looking for a challenge is usually all it takes. Also, if you’ve got any weaknesses (and I know you do), don’t bullshit. A real weakness can be a bad knee, heroin, or making hollandaise. Fake weaknesses include: trying to be too perfect, and caring too much. Saying either of those things will immediately identify you as one thing: a shitty liar.

Phase 3
So you’ve slain the mighty interview and have advanced to the terrifying trial shift, which will be spent performing a series of tasks that will eventually be used to judge your capability as a cook. Unless you’ve applied for a higher role, the tasks are generally fundamental and are typically good gauges of speed, cleanliness, and quality. You’ll make the bread, and chances are you’ll be getting in everyone’s way and leaving a trail of flour everywhere you go. Clumsiness isn’t a killing flaw, but if you somehow manage to burn the back of your neck (yes, the back of your neck), it’s best to keep it on the DL. Screaming bloody murder attracts the wrong kind of attention, crying is even worse. There will be blood, and when there is, we need to know that you won’t be fainting. The last test is often to prepare a meal using some of the available scraps. Sometimes it’s just for chef, while other times it’s for the entire staff. This is the last and most important thing that you’ll do before you become an official member of the team/gang. Make it good. The gooder, the better. Don’t be remembered for tough meat on top of unseasoned/undercooked vegetables with weak sauce. Basically, you want people to ask “how”, not “why god, why?”. If you’ve managed to elicit the former reaction, congratulations, you’re hired.  But wait! There’s more!

Phase 4
You’ve got the job, but the job isn’t actually yours for a while. There’s still an unspecified probation period to be endured. This chunk of time is when you’re really being judged because a) now you’re getting paid, and b) others are officially relying on you. The first thing that you’re going to want to do is take a good look around, and then figure out how you’re going to blend in. If you’ve noticed that you’re the only one wearing a black chef’s coat, then go ahead and burn it. If you’re the only person wearing cologne/perfume, then you might want to wash that stench off immediately. You never want to stand out because of your smell. If you’re hearing an awful lot of reggae, then it’s probably wise to find your inner rastafarian. Do as the others do and you’ll be just fine. I can’t stress the importance of impressing your co-workers. If you’ve got them on your side, they can help you win the chef over.

In your first month, you’re going to go down like a sack of bricks. Everybody will see it coming, and nobody will do anything to protect you from it. Here’s why: it is in these moments that people show their true colours. How a person handles themselves dans la merde (in the shit) says more than all of this other crap combined. Unfortunately we have to go through all of these steps just to reach the point where we get to watch you sink or swim. We’ll be watching you, hoping, but we know better than to throw you a brick or a life jacket. If you make it out alive, you’re one of us. And this time it’s for real. If you don’t, well that’s when we start the search all over again.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Line Cook,

Jacob Galbraith