ranges and cooling units, I realise that this is as close as I’ll probably ever get to my dream of working at a place like the Four Seasons. Stanley gets me an apron, a jacket and a pair of clogs. He conducts a lightning-fast tour of the kitchen and then introduces me to Pablo, one of the other prep guys. The place is still pretty quiet, so I have a chance to get my bearings.
I’ve met a hundred guys like Pablo – he’s late twenties, handsome in that chiselled, unshaven way, and barely speaks any English. But it becomes apparent within minutes that he’s not an asshole, which is good news for me. Because he easily could have been – protective of Yannis and ready to pound my balls non-stop for the whole shift. Instead, he lends me some knives and sets me up at a station peeling veg, easing me into it. And in his broken English he gives what turns out to be a pretty funny running commentary on the entire place as it slowly comes to life – as the dishwasher moves about, turning on all the equipment, as the sous chef arrives, followed by the line cooks, then the garde manger, then Jacques Marcotte himself, as the tasks multiply and the real cooking gets under way, and finally – too busy after that – as actual service begins.
Every time he does a pass through the kitchen, Stanley checks up on me, but there’s never a problem. If I’m finding it a challenge, it’s only in terms of volume and pacing. There’s a clear rhythm here, like in any kitchen, and you just have to learn it. But there’s nothing I can’t do, no task or procedure I’m unsure of or have to ask about.
At one point, I get a ten-minute break and go outside to the loading dock, where I turn on my phone and send a text to Kate: ‘Hope the assignment’s going well. Good news. Found work. Already halfway through my first shift.’
I stand there for a while and listen to the hum and roar of the city. I haven’t had time to think about any of this, about Phil Coover and the referral and Stanley Podnick having my details, or about the fact that I’m working . But it’s fine. I’m tired, and relieved, and there’ll be plenty of time to dissect all of this later on.
Kate replies: ‘Amazing!!! Can’t wait to hear x.’
Back inside, I go along the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. As I walk by the pick-up window, I glance out at the dining area, which is slammed at the moment, a sea of business suits, tanned faces and mostly grey hair. What are they all talking about? The food? I doubt it. It’ll more likely be money, how you get it, how you multiply it, how you keep it, a hundred variations on that conversation – a hundred out of the million that take place in restaurants all over the city every day.
Back at my prep station, I realise that from where I’m standing I have a direct line of sight into the dining area. It’s only a sliver, the rest of the view is blocked by a large vent hood on one side and a bank of refrigerators on the other – but still, it’s a welcome distraction. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, because I was concentrating so hard. It’s an angle on the room, a corner of it, one table, three people at the moment, but it could be four, a static shot, medium close, without sound – not much, but something to play around with when the monotony kicks in.
By the time my shift ends, I’m destroyed, mainly because I’m out of the habit – three and a half weeks of idleness is a long time in this game. Without Pablo, it would have been a lot harder, and I thank him.
And then Stanley thanks me . ‘That was impressive. You fit right in.’
I nod.
‘So, you up for this again tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
‘And after that I guess it’ll depend on how Yannis is doing, but . . . you know, I have your number.’
I nod again and tell him I’m available.
Outside on the street, Pablo suggests going for a drink, but I know how that one usually plays out, so I pass and take the subway home.
*
When I come through
I’ve met a hundred guys like Pablo – he’s late twenties, handsome in that chiselled, unshaven way, and barely speaks any English. But it becomes apparent within minutes that he’s not an asshole, which is good news for me. Because he easily could have been – protective of Yannis and ready to pound my balls non-stop for the whole shift. Instead, he lends me some knives and sets me up at a station peeling veg, easing me into it. And in his broken English he gives what turns out to be a pretty funny running commentary on the entire place as it slowly comes to life – as the dishwasher moves about, turning on all the equipment, as the sous chef arrives, followed by the line cooks, then the garde manger, then Jacques Marcotte himself, as the tasks multiply and the real cooking gets under way, and finally – too busy after that – as actual service begins.
Every time he does a pass through the kitchen, Stanley checks up on me, but there’s never a problem. If I’m finding it a challenge, it’s only in terms of volume and pacing. There’s a clear rhythm here, like in any kitchen, and you just have to learn it. But there’s nothing I can’t do, no task or procedure I’m unsure of or have to ask about.
At one point, I get a ten-minute break and go outside to the loading dock, where I turn on my phone and send a text to Kate: ‘Hope the assignment’s going well. Good news. Found work. Already halfway through my first shift.’
I stand there for a while and listen to the hum and roar of the city. I haven’t had time to think about any of this, about Phil Coover and the referral and Stanley Podnick having my details, or about the fact that I’m working . But it’s fine. I’m tired, and relieved, and there’ll be plenty of time to dissect all of this later on.
Kate replies: ‘Amazing!!! Can’t wait to hear x.’
Back inside, I go along the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. As I walk by the pick-up window, I glance out at the dining area, which is slammed at the moment, a sea of business suits, tanned faces and mostly grey hair. What are they all talking about? The food? I doubt it. It’ll more likely be money, how you get it, how you multiply it, how you keep it, a hundred variations on that conversation – a hundred out of the million that take place in restaurants all over the city every day.
Back at my prep station, I realise that from where I’m standing I have a direct line of sight into the dining area. It’s only a sliver, the rest of the view is blocked by a large vent hood on one side and a bank of refrigerators on the other – but still, it’s a welcome distraction. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, because I was concentrating so hard. It’s an angle on the room, a corner of it, one table, three people at the moment, but it could be four, a static shot, medium close, without sound – not much, but something to play around with when the monotony kicks in.
By the time my shift ends, I’m destroyed, mainly because I’m out of the habit – three and a half weeks of idleness is a long time in this game. Without Pablo, it would have been a lot harder, and I thank him.
And then Stanley thanks me . ‘That was impressive. You fit right in.’
I nod.
‘So, you up for this again tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
‘And after that I guess it’ll depend on how Yannis is doing, but . . . you know, I have your number.’
I nod again and tell him I’m available.
Outside on the street, Pablo suggests going for a drink, but I know how that one usually plays out, so I pass and take the subway home.
*
When I come through
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