The view across that counter into the open kitchen of your favourite fine dining establishment might offer a tantalising glimpse of what you imagine it might be like to live the dream and run your own kitchen. What’s the view like from the other side of that pass? We asked a chef to try putting it into 1,500 words.
It’s a Thursday, or a Tuesday. No, not Tuesday, maybe it’s Wednesday. Doesn’t really matter. It’s been a fucking day!
How did I get here? How the fuck did I navigate to this point without drowning in the shit storm.
And it is a shit storm. A maelstrom of mise en place and malevolent thoughts. A constant battle to stay in its eye. Arms flailing with utensils, legs threatening to give way in the undercurrent.
I almost lost it. Almost gave in. Came so close to being swallowed up whole. But there’s no peaceful rest in surrender. Not in this game.
Mine is a ‘sink-or-swim’ kind of kitchen. When I first arrived, I had the buoyancy of a brick. Now see me go!
Physical subtlety isn’t my thing. An onlooker would see a heavily caffeinated wrecking ball, charging through the kitchen, heavy metal blaring in counterpoint to the melodic hum of the extractor fan.
I am aware of it. Ever reminded of the fact by the string of nicknames that describe my obtuse nature. Despite my chaotic state though, every move today has been meticulously choreographed to bring me to this moment.
Dragged from oblivion by my alarm at 6.30am. Only got to bed at 2am and passed out watching some mind-numbing series with the laptop on my chest. Woke to find it on the floor.
Still in my chef’s pants. Peel them off and stumble into the good ol’ routine: shit, shave, and shampoo. Ready and out the door in 20 minutes. Work by 7.15am. Ok. Good. Not much of a wait for the Sous Chef to open at 7.30am. Charged with nervous energy. Keyed up like a racehorse in its stall.
To my station. Everyone has their own way of starting the day. It takes me 30 minutes to set up. Scan my prep list from last night. Rewrite it. Put it in chronological order. Allocate time limits to each job. Gas on. Pilots lit. What’s next?
Oven ignited and cranked high. Sous vide bath set. Fryers filled with fresh oil. Get them up to temperature to fry the first garnishes. Cutting boards, knives, tongs, spoons… anything else I can think of propped in buckets on my station. Hide my kitchen cloths. Steal a couple extra aprons for good measure.
Ingredients next. Hit the fridge with a bain marie tray. Fill it to the brim with veg for stocks, broths and sauces, bones for roasting, butter for clarifying, milk for coffee — everything I need for the day. Raid the dry store for the rest of today’s prep list. Pots gathered from the scullery are set on my station. Breathe. Now go!
The morning disappears in a blur of sizzling, crackling, banging, the comfort of familiar aromas.
Stocks on the go. Bones, veg, water in the pots set to boil. Now simmer. Quail next. Break it down. Legs for confit. Crowns brined and in the sous vide before marinade is applied. Skim the stocks. Wipe down. Venison loins cleaned and portioned. Wipe down. Lamb rib braised, the loin untucked from it’s cosy nook and blanket of fat. Fish delivery is here. Thorough clean down. Scale, pin, score, portion. In the vac bag with a sprig of thyme and tablespoon of olive oil. Into a tray waiting it’s turn at the vacuum pack machine. Stocks skimmed. Wipe down. Beef. There’s beef too. Fillet, tongue, brisket, sweetbreads. Fuck! I’m falling behind. Service! Lunch service is looming. Ah shit! The pork!!! And the undertow is dragging at me.
Time gentlemen please. Dinner prep must cease. We’ve got to get set up for lunch.
My prep is ready from yesterday. One or two things have to be made fresh right now. That’s ok. I’ve got this. This set-up is teetering, so is my mind.
There are customers. Dockets are being called. Autopilot engaged. I lift my head and look around aware of others, finally. The kitchen brigade is unified in a sense of urgency, desperate to hurdle this lunch service and get back on dinner prep
We are all in the same boat. We’re all clinging on making it float by sheer effort of will. And suddenly no one’s calling tickets anymore. That was ok. Just a flesh wound. No bodies on the floor. Clean down. Now, get back on dinner prep.
That pork belly I cooked last night has to come out of the press. Portion it to precise measurements. The duck’s been delivered. Wipe down. Break down the duck. Legs removed and cured. Breasts taken off the bone and the skin scored. Check the beef tongue. It’s cooked. Wagyu short-rib into the pressure cooker for the master stock broth. Wipe down. Foie gras out the fridge. Portion it with a white hot blade. Strain the stocks and return to the heat to reduce with a generous pour of port. Cures are topped up. Brine is brought to the boil for tomorrow’s mission.
And I’m here.
This is the moment when the world stops spinning. An unnerving silence descends on the crew. Dinner service – it’s close now, around the corner. Family meal served and gobbled without consideration, like clockwork. It’s a formality; another item ticked off a prep list. A nutritional necessity rather than a moment of camaraderie with the people I work with every day.
It’s the first thing I’ve eaten all day, and I’m not remotely hungry.
Set up. Buckets, mops, brooms. Surfaces are scrubbed, floors swept and mopped. Fryers are set, flattops sparked, salamanders turned on. My phone rings. Ignore it. Lay a tray down with seven even pieces of silicone paper folded and labelled with each item of meat. My phone rings again. Look down. It’s my mom. It’ll have to wait mother.
Open my fridge doors and recon. All in order, ready to go. Recite the list in my head. One, two, three… Allocate a number to each item of meat indicating how many actions are required to finish each one. Cut down any time-consuming thought process that might slow reaction time. Seasoning trays now. Place them close, right next to the hobs with salt, pepper, butter, herbs, and garlic. No time to fuck around looking for shit.
Pause.
Customers are arriving. Did I mention this is an open kitchen? You’re in the limelight. Your every move and word is scrutinised and mumbled over by onlookers. No room for error. Not a spoon or a pastry brush out of place.
Eyes closed. Deep breath. Snatch a moment of quiet, a moment of contemplative mindfulness where I rearrange my thoughts and find some semblance of order. The phone again. Fuck mom, I’m working! Hit “Accept”. Ja, service is just starting. Did I portion the pork belly? You ok? Where did I put the fucken foie gras? What’s that mom? Monday? What time? Ok I’ll see you then.
Hang up. Family dinner Monday. Write that down somewhere. One deep breath. First ticket is called. Stand up. Autopilot engaged. Four hours. I have four hours of service ahead of me. Four hours on a Thursday, or a Tuesday. No, not Tuesday, maybe it’s Wednesday. Doesn’t really matter. Four hours until I can zone out in front of Netflix. Right now there’s a new order: two quail, one duck, one fish, two venison, one beef. New order: one quail, one duck, two lamb. New Order: two pork, one lamb, one beef.
Timers beep. Espuma guns hiss. Pots clang. Tweezers snap. Oil sizzles. New order: one fish, one duck. Herbs crackle in burre noisette. Aaargh! Some arsehole just burned himself grabbing something out the oven without a cloth. Dick! Hang on, that was me. New order: one fish, one beef, two pork.
Three hours in. Concentration waning. Head a foggy mess. Legs feeling the weight of the day. Look up, try to focus on the low-lit dining room, the silhouettes of customers bent over plates. There’s a table for two beside my section. Young couple, mid-thirties maybe. Usually I take no notice of customers. When the tickets start coming, I’m lost in the fight.
But this night. This service. That sinfully tight dress framing the most magnificent… Two quail! What? New Order: one beef, one fish, two quail!
I’m lost. Where was I? Two beef, one fish, one quail? Or was it one beef, two fish, one quail. Fuck! I struggle to find my place. I can feel the crew’s eyes on me. The anticipation, the doubt. Get my feet under me. Come on! Two quail. It’s two quail.
One beef, one fish, two quail. I’m back up.
Catch the glaze on the lamb rib. Save the duck breast from overcooking. Remember the quail in the fryer, the foie gras in the pan, the venison in the oven. Thank fuck I didn’t send up soggy fish.
I’m here now. The sheer fatigue and pressure of the day descends. I’ve kept it together since I woke up still in my chef pants, run through prep, lunch, prep again, forced down an unremembered meal, then held it together through a four-hour dinner service. Despite all that, what made me almost fuck up service for the whole team? A stolen glimpse of unapproachable beauty .
Wipe down. Scribble a prep list for tomorrow. Into the car for an unremembered shuttle home. Got to remember to take off these pants and get them in the wash. What episode was I on again?