Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [28]
After eight, the lunch crew gradually filters in, and Tony and I put together a lineup for the evening. We tag an extra two for the kitchen tonight, neither of whom is thrilled at the prospect of working a double shift. Not that we are giving them a choice, especially because Tony informs me that we are booked solid, including two large corporate parties. So much for the usual slow Mondays.
Hope returns my call at the height of the lunch rush and I can’t take it, but she leaves a message that she will be available tonight. All I need to do is get Chloe to her, which means that I will have to leave temporarily around four to pick Chloe up from day care and get her to Hope.
While I’m gone, Jake calls in to leave a few instructions. Tony takes the message, which includes the fascinating tidbit that Nicola won’t be in either, as she is also feeling unwell. Tony and I scramble around for a few minutes looking for someone to fill in out front and decide that we can do with one less in the kitchen and send Ellen home to change. This latest wrinkle is a nuisance because Ellen, while a competent prep cook, hasn’t worked the front before, and it is particularly important to make a good impression on the corporate parties.
Stuff like this happens all the time in restaurants. People get sick or don’t show up. You get used to working shorthanded. Successful chefs go with the flow, learn to improvise, but not before taking out their frustrations on the staff, the line cooks, prep cooks, bus boys—anyone who has the misfortune to be in their paths. Most cooks I know have foul tempers, and I’m no exception. Most outbursts that happen during service can be forgiven. You can apologize later, and you do. And if you’re on the receiving end, you get so used to being yelled at that pretty soon you don’t hear it. I’ve been there, too.
Tonight the kitchen is so busy I hardly have time to breathe. My body is in constant motion, and I can feel it in my muscles as I reach up to pluck another head of garlic off the braid above the stove. I inspect every plate as it leaves the kitchen, making alterations in garnish, while continuing to cook and plate orders myself. When three orders of sea bass are overcooked and have to be chucked, I break my rhythm long enough to yell at the poor line cook, whose name I don’t even know but who is responsible for ruining fifty dollars worth of fish. I don’t stop until my throat hurts and she’s crying, although she tries not to let me see.
By eleven thirty we’re winding down. I ask one of the sous-chefs to put together a tray of biscotti and some limoncello for the members of the remaining corporate party, who are still lingering over coffee. They’ve ordered several bottles of expensive wine, in addition to appetizers and desserts, so the biscotti and digestif are a small, but important, gesture. I put on a fresh tunic and take them out myself. Making personal appearances is also part of the job, though one I’ve never relished. I’ve been on my feet for sixteen hours straight, and I can barely stand. So, I sit and schmooze for a few minutes, answer questions about what they’ve eaten and enjoyed, and, by the time they leave, Ellen informs me that they’ve taken an available date in early December for their office Christmas party.
It’s well after midnight by the time the cooking staff has cleared away their stations and prepped for the next day. Tony pours some house wine for everyone, while Ellen, an apron over her elegant, black dress, serves leftover pasta from a big serving bowl. We sit around the table eating, drinking, and relaxing for the first time all evening, enjoying the camaraderie that follows the sharing of difficult experiences. Around this table, we are equals. I make a point of sitting next to Kristin, the young woman whose name I’ve learned from Tony. She avoids meeting my eye at first, and I know she’s still embarrassed about the fish and angry at me for humiliating her in front of everyone. But we’ve had a good night, and the loss of the fish