Valentines pt2
I had left it all behind. Whatever it was. A 9to5, benefits, supposed security. I had left unhappiness, worry, stress, commute, coporate protocal behind. I was freeing myself. so I thought.
I had only been working in the kitchen for six months. I was still green, very green. Victor reminded me of that daily. Victor honed his skills in the hotel world, he had graduated from CIA. He had been a banquet Chef for the Waldorf Astoria, an Executive Sous for the Hilton and most recently the Executive Chef for two Country Clubs. He had competed in culinary olympics and had managed an inconceivable amount of staff, product, kitchens, and banquet halls. He was a seasoned pro. A pro who had spent his youth under fire from old guard. The old guard of Chefs, largely European, who were not afraid to lay hands on you to prove a point. Victor simply used words. Words that stripped away confidence like a cat o' nine tails. He wouldn't beat me though. I had only just started, I wasn't going to be beaten.
This was the smallest kitchen he had been in in twenty years. It was his roots. It should be easy. He had plated a banquet of 800 single handedly at the Waldorf! It was crushing him. Food costs were through the roof. The owner, a no nothing gas bag devoid of restaurant experience, but long on erudite arrogance, had been coming down hard. Every night he would wait for the staff to clear out and then proceed to yell at Victor. It was true trickle down economics. I was the only cook, my mistakes were magnified by Victors own increasing failure. He hear about it nightly. He never called me names, never insulted me personally, but my work was SHIT!, and any mistake I made was a personal offense to Victors sensibilities. 'You're only as good as your last plate'! I mantra I believe in still, but it still sickens me at times. Off the line he has thoughtful and encouraging. Assuring me that I had 'music in my fingers', I had a future. On the line though. 'Goddamnit! You're not dancin'!, You've gotta learn to dance!'. I improved. I leraned to watch him, anticipate him. I was functioning as his OR nurse. I knew what he wanted or needed before he did. I was learning under fire, I was dealing with the stress. I was also learning that he had no range of emotion. It was on or off. He couldn't show slight disapproval, or even encouraging critiscism. It was only minor praise or 'That plate of pasta looks like shit! It should be centered! Have you ever seen a tit before! The pasta should be in the middle of the bowl like a tit! A womans tit!' (Someday, when I'm a chef, I'm probably never going to use that line). I dealt with it. I hated going to work, but I had too little experience, I felt I had to stick it out. I had to get that full year on the resume. And then there were other factors, she was at home. I couldn't quit we couldn't afford it. In a sick way the job was the only stability I had. It was the real concrete nature of my dream, my calling, my belief.
We carried on this way, we got along. We got by. Valentines Day was on fire. We tore through the service. We put out serious food. We did it without conflict. It was the busiest night the restaurant had seen. People were leaving happy. We had two more days of near capacity reservations. Hopefully the corner was being turned, hopefully things would lighten. As I was leaving, the owner was waiting for Victor.
The next night was hellish. Victor, who had rarely worked the line in the last fifteen years, was getting swamped. Stress, fatigue etc. was taking it's toll. I was playing my usual role of backup. Watching the tickets, catching any misses, doing what I could. He missed a shrimp app. 'What about this shrimp app?' He snarled and went back to cutting himself out of the weeds. I tried again, but failed. 'Fuck him' I thought. 'Let him sink. I dont need this shit.' The server came up asking for the app. It was twenty minutes late. He turned, looked at me. His face and bald head were red with hate. His eyes bore through me. He was murdering me with his stare. He reached down, grabbed something, and threw it as hard as he could. A pound of butter splat on the oven next to me. I don't remember if he said anything or not, if he didn't, it was implied. I stood there shocked. Wondering if I should just walk out. Walk out and never look back. I was coursing with anger and pent up frustration from putting up with his abuse. I couldn't quit. He wouldn't beat me. We finished up the remaining tickets. His temper had calmed some. I broke down the kitchen and we left. The owner was waiting for him. We had had the highest revenue week for the young restuarant and also the the highest food cost. The owner gave Victor notice. He would be terminated in thirty days. A new chef was being brought in. He had suffered the final insult, as had I. I began running the line by myself at night while Victor went on interviews. Finally he walked out. I can't blame him. He said that we were finally dancing. That I had music in my fingers. I would have a future. That was five years ago, I will no longer suffer assholes lightly, especially on Valentines day.
I had only been working in the kitchen for six months. I was still green, very green. Victor reminded me of that daily. Victor honed his skills in the hotel world, he had graduated from CIA. He had been a banquet Chef for the Waldorf Astoria, an Executive Sous for the Hilton and most recently the Executive Chef for two Country Clubs. He had competed in culinary olympics and had managed an inconceivable amount of staff, product, kitchens, and banquet halls. He was a seasoned pro. A pro who had spent his youth under fire from old guard. The old guard of Chefs, largely European, who were not afraid to lay hands on you to prove a point. Victor simply used words. Words that stripped away confidence like a cat o' nine tails. He wouldn't beat me though. I had only just started, I wasn't going to be beaten.
This was the smallest kitchen he had been in in twenty years. It was his roots. It should be easy. He had plated a banquet of 800 single handedly at the Waldorf! It was crushing him. Food costs were through the roof. The owner, a no nothing gas bag devoid of restaurant experience, but long on erudite arrogance, had been coming down hard. Every night he would wait for the staff to clear out and then proceed to yell at Victor. It was true trickle down economics. I was the only cook, my mistakes were magnified by Victors own increasing failure. He hear about it nightly. He never called me names, never insulted me personally, but my work was SHIT!, and any mistake I made was a personal offense to Victors sensibilities. 'You're only as good as your last plate'! I mantra I believe in still, but it still sickens me at times. Off the line he has thoughtful and encouraging. Assuring me that I had 'music in my fingers', I had a future. On the line though. 'Goddamnit! You're not dancin'!, You've gotta learn to dance!'. I improved. I leraned to watch him, anticipate him. I was functioning as his OR nurse. I knew what he wanted or needed before he did. I was learning under fire, I was dealing with the stress. I was also learning that he had no range of emotion. It was on or off. He couldn't show slight disapproval, or even encouraging critiscism. It was only minor praise or 'That plate of pasta looks like shit! It should be centered! Have you ever seen a tit before! The pasta should be in the middle of the bowl like a tit! A womans tit!' (Someday, when I'm a chef, I'm probably never going to use that line). I dealt with it. I hated going to work, but I had too little experience, I felt I had to stick it out. I had to get that full year on the resume. And then there were other factors, she was at home. I couldn't quit we couldn't afford it. In a sick way the job was the only stability I had. It was the real concrete nature of my dream, my calling, my belief.
We carried on this way, we got along. We got by. Valentines Day was on fire. We tore through the service. We put out serious food. We did it without conflict. It was the busiest night the restaurant had seen. People were leaving happy. We had two more days of near capacity reservations. Hopefully the corner was being turned, hopefully things would lighten. As I was leaving, the owner was waiting for Victor.
The next night was hellish. Victor, who had rarely worked the line in the last fifteen years, was getting swamped. Stress, fatigue etc. was taking it's toll. I was playing my usual role of backup. Watching the tickets, catching any misses, doing what I could. He missed a shrimp app. 'What about this shrimp app?' He snarled and went back to cutting himself out of the weeds. I tried again, but failed. 'Fuck him' I thought. 'Let him sink. I dont need this shit.' The server came up asking for the app. It was twenty minutes late. He turned, looked at me. His face and bald head were red with hate. His eyes bore through me. He was murdering me with his stare. He reached down, grabbed something, and threw it as hard as he could. A pound of butter splat on the oven next to me. I don't remember if he said anything or not, if he didn't, it was implied. I stood there shocked. Wondering if I should just walk out. Walk out and never look back. I was coursing with anger and pent up frustration from putting up with his abuse. I couldn't quit. He wouldn't beat me. We finished up the remaining tickets. His temper had calmed some. I broke down the kitchen and we left. The owner was waiting for him. We had had the highest revenue week for the young restuarant and also the the highest food cost. The owner gave Victor notice. He would be terminated in thirty days. A new chef was being brought in. He had suffered the final insult, as had I. I began running the line by myself at night while Victor went on interviews. Finally he walked out. I can't blame him. He said that we were finally dancing. That I had music in my fingers. I would have a future. That was five years ago, I will no longer suffer assholes lightly, especially on Valentines day.
posted by Vapid1 at 12:16 AM
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