BEHIND THE SWINGING DOORS
Have you ever been in a fast food restaurant and saw those mysterious hats moving back and forth with the wearers just out of eye shot behind the counter? How about when that door to the kitchen opens and you get just a glimpse and then it's gone. Or the clatter of some unseen avalanche that makes you wonder if your waiter will return. Then there is my personal favorite. What to say to a group of diners as the fire department in full battle gear comes wandering through a formal dining room. "Don't worry it's someone elses'order"? These kinds of perils face food service workers a thousand times a day across the nation. It takes a certain kind of individual to maintain a sense of humor and sanity through it all. It takes people who either enjoy it or couldn't find any other job quick enough. It takes ethnic groups from all around the world. It takes housewives, students, financially challenged people, and from almost all walks of life.
It takes people just like me. The kid who with academic honors and 2 years of college dumped it all to forever wear whites and dream of someday being called "CHEF".
How it all Began
It was all innocent enough at first. I was sixteen, newly licensed, and needed funds for this expensive new mode of transportation. Being it was my step mothers 1957 Mercury with a monstrous 4BBL carburator and sadly in need of a tune up even at 1965 prices gas was an expense. So to the want ads I went and of course dishwashers were always needed somewhere. The key to the whole job thing was to get work far enough away so that I would need the car. After all I was showing such grown up responsibility seeking employment that it was the least my Dad could do right? Well not exactly. I thought I could wrangle my own vehicle but the deal was struck that I would share the Mercury with my step mother. Let it be said here that we never struck up much of a friendship in the first place so this became the consumate insult to her. But we made the best of a bad situation and I accepted my very first job at a locally well known upscale restaurant as night dishwasher assistant. Salary= $1.00 an hour. Unbeknownst to me my career in food service had begun.
Pearl Diving
"Pearl diving" is a term given to the art of washing dishes in a restaurant. Being surrounded by water and the off chance of finding a hidden treasure...ie a still partially full bottle of beer....coined the phrase. It is actually a real character builder and most successful foodservice people can trace their roots back to a steamy, noisy and strange smelling area in the bowels of some establishment where they were dead last in the pecking order. The cats gathered at the dumpster out back garnered more respect. But it was a job and it meant I was going to be receiving money for my labors. This had to be a good thing.
I was hired as a part time dishwasher for weekends and Monday nights. "Bud" the full time professional had Mondays off which left me in charge. I arrived politely early my first night and parked the Mercury around the back of the building. These back lots are a world of their own. Grease cans, dumpsters, old equipment, and local cats dot the landscape. The aroma, especially in the warmer weather, I will leave to your imagination. This I found out later was also the employee smoking lounge and meeting area. Somewhere in the clutter lies a well disguised back door, usually in disrepair from years of getting the crap beat out of it by garbage cans, beer kegs, cooks' feet and delivery personnel that are intent on running their two wheel dolly through the door without opening it. I strolled through this formidable portal to my destiny.
Once inside I immediately sensed the smell of steaks cooking. The back area was very cramped with a large sink full of huge cooking pots and pans. I didn't give them a second thought but I should have. Walking on into a better lit kitchen area I beheld sights that I had never seen before. There were dishes, utensils, glasswear, and stuff I didn't even recognize everywhere. It appeared a jumble to me. To my left was a long stainless counter with black and silver equipment behind it. Smoke was rising out of the biggest blackest thing back there. This I learned later created great burgers and was called a broiler. I could feel the heat where I stood. Obviously the air conditioning was turned down. But where was everyone? Who was in charge. What do I do now. Seconds later I met my first role model dressed in whites with a very short crew cut and Navy tattoo. It was THE CHEF
The First Chef
He didn't look anything like the guy on the pasta can with the big fluffy hat and handlebar moustache. Resembling a Marine sergeant more than anything, he looked me over quickly and introduced himself as Hurley. I wasn't sure if that was a first name or last but it was what I was going to call him. He was fairly soft spoken and seemed friendly enough. He escorted me over to a row of coat hooks and was informed to put my belongings there. Not real secure but what did I have worth anything anyway?
I was handed a white apron. I noticed that he had the bib of his folded down and followed suit. He brought me back to the main part of the kitchen and into the dishwashing area. At this time it was very shiny and organized. He informed me that my immediate superior would be along shortly and hurried off to his chef duties. I awaited my mentor.
In a few minutes an elderly gent that could have easily been my grandfather slowly moved my way. He passed by and went directly to the large silver machine behind me. Very methodically he pushed a few buttons and water began running....somewhere. After a few adjustments he pushed a green button and the silver beast sprang to life. Suddenly a huge cloud of steam belched from one end. At this time the old man reached down and pushed the red button. The machine fell silent and he turned to me, smiled and introduced himself as "Bud". He was my very first partner.
A cursory inspection of the site pleased him and he gathered towels, racks and other paraphenailia to meet the nights business. While we were standing there, other people began to appear in the background. Some were kids my age, others were older women (Actually they were in their twenties and thirties but that was old to me) and even a couple of middle aged men (40ish). All came dressed in different combinations of black and white. I only noticed their entrances as I was listening intently to my instructions. Slowly people went to their specified areas and the night began.
The pace was slow at first and my trainer shuffled off to the back of the restaurant for some unknown reason. I tinkered around the dishwashing area and watched as the night unfolded. People were moving slightly faster now and the waitress staff and the cooks were speeding up. Conversations began between these two factions and as the tempo quickened the volume increased. Shortly afterwards dishes began appearing in front of me in gray plastic containers that were known as bus tubs. I carefully picked out the soiled dishware one by one and placed it carefully in racks to run through the dishwasher. More dishes appeared faster and suddenly it became apparent my speed was not going to be good enough. The wall of dishes mounted and I looked around for Bud to help me dispel thia avalanche of used dinnerware. The noise had increased substantially and the demeanor of the kitchen staff was fast becoming short tempered. Obsenities started peppering the conversation some of which even my father didn't use. Finally Bud returned and took his position at the helm. I was directed to the end of the machine where the dishes came out clean. No more slogging around in that vile mess up front. Good deal!
Suddenly the conveyor belt became a never ending stream of 180 degree glasses and dishes. The old guy didn't look like he was moving that fast. I unloaded and stacked these items as quickly as possible. It resembled juggling volcanic rocks fresh out of the crater. My hands were in major pain but I had a job to do so I stuck with it. This continued for 4 straight hours.
As fast as it started it was over. The noise level sank, the people began disappearing and the cooks were involved in some beer drinking ritual that in the future I would understand much better. The stream from the wretched machine stopped and we got to take a break. Bud brought me a soft drink and escorted me to the employee lounge I spoke of earlier (the dumpster pad). It was dark now and the orange glow of cigarettes and one overhead street light was the only illumination. One of the cooks offered me a smoke which I gladly accepted. I had boosted a few from my dad and knew I wouldn't choke anyway. I leaned against the wall and knew I had taken a giant step toward maturity. I was part of a crew. I was much older than when I had arrived that evening. This was the greatest thing in the world...and I got paid for it.
Starting at the Bottom
That was my meager beginnings. Suffice it to say that I spent the next six months learning that I did not want to be a dishwasher for the rest of my life. But fate was to take care of that for me. As I was walking out to my step mothers 1957 Mercury she informed me that it was not necessary for me to take her beloved pink and white monster this day because the restaurant that employed my was on fire. Since our relationship was anything but cordial I just laughed and went to work. As I made the long hill before the turn to the building I did notice an acrid smell in the air. Rounding the corner onto the highway I found 5 fire trucks, several police cars and a smoldering foundation where my job use to be. She had for once told me something useful. I was stunned but only for a moment. I looked at this as an opportunity for advancement and high tailed it down the road where my best friend was a busboy at the largest restaurant and hotel complex in the area. This day would be a big turning point in my fledgling career.
It was by coincidence a Saturday evening, the busiest in our trade. I didn't know exactly where he worked in this huge building so I instinctively headed for the back door or in this case doors. I hadn't learned a whole lot yet but by now I knew that a dumpster signified some type of entrance. True to form I found a gaping double door structure with a room devoted to nothing but garbage. Now this had to be a swanky place! Garbage had it's own room. I sheepishly walked to the entrance and peered in. Before me lay a kitchen that defied my imagination. I could only see a portion of it but it was magnificent. All forms of strange equipment and stainless steel. People dressed in all types of uniforms scurried past all oblivious to me. I edged in further and realized my odds of finding Jim were very poor indeed. I didn't even know where to begin or who to ask. Everyone was so preoccupied. The backround noise was a din of machinery, talking, laughing, and an occasional loud bang or crash signifing destruction or damage to something or someone. As I gazed in amazment at all this my concentration was shattered by a sharp voice. "Whadda you want kid". As I spun around I was faced by the person who was going to be responsible for shaping what I have become. Not just another chef, this was the one person who I would emulate for the rest of my time in the trade up til this very moment. This was Tommy.
He was typical of his Greek heritage with curly black hair, short and stout. Being second generation there was no accent. He spoke as good as I did but much louder. Upon this first meeting he had a stern countenance about him and was visibly annoyed by my presence. He was dressed as a chef with double breasted white top and checkerboard pants. The trademark stovepipe white hat adorned his head and of course the stubby half smoked cigar. I could string numerous adjectives together to explain his demeanor but that will unfold along with our story. We would not come together quite yet but I became intrigued by him from the very start. I stuttered something about looking for my friend and was curtly informed that he was busy and could not be bothered. Without so much as goodbye he turned and strode off leaving me and the garbage for more important matters. I retraced my steps through the heaps of waste and returned home. I would track down Jim the next day and inquire about job opportunities. Man what a neat looking place! Young minds are so easily misled.
I caught up to my friend the next day. He, of course, had heard of the fire since that was competition going up in flames. He was quite sure he could set me up with a job interview as a busboy. He worked in the main room but I was to check out the Steak Room for a position. His was a more lucrative room but once again there is the unwritten law of seniority. Though our trade is only unionized in big cities, the workers generally adhere to certain "rules of order". Cross overs were frowned upon. You worked for what you got. No one advanced that did not deserve it. The government should operate this sensibly!
I went to my interview and met with the head waitress. Yes I know all the jokes. She was a 40 ish housewife and single mother who had been a waitress for most of her adult life. She was friendly enough and at least did not treat me like I was her son. She liked my buddy and figured if he reccommended me that was good enough. I would start Friday night. And I would get TIPS! I could hardly wait. As an extra bonus the rest of the busboy crew were schoolmates of mine so introductions would be quick. In fact this particular establishment became one of the largest employers of younger workers in the area. Keep in mind this was well before the fast food and mall stage so jobs for young people were not that prevalent.
The Second Rung: Busboy
In the late 60's there was a standard uniform for busboys. It consisted of a white shirt, black pants, black shoes and a stupid clipon black bowtie. The rules were simple: Wear it or don't work. This outfit was almost universal at this point. I reported to work with all new clothes which was obvious by the creases. My first challenge was another door choice. I knew the dining room was on the side of the building so I parked over there and began my search. I found a large wooden door and tried it. This opened up to a long midevil looking hallway and another large wooden door. I walked around the corner and entered a dimly lit room decorated in plush red velvet and black with lots of wooden beams and a small cocktail lounge. This was my designated station but no one was here. I strolled toward the back where I found a small kitchen with a window to the dining area. Again no one was here but I could feel some heat so I assumed things were cooking. Suddenly this electric sliding door opened and a cook hustled through and out of sight around another corner. I could see a large area and hear voices but only for an instant as the door slid shut. Just then a thin balding little man came around the same corner and whisked past me. He busily prepared for the evenings business. After a minute or so he looked quickly at me and said hello...I think. His Puerto Rican accent was not in my vocabulary yet. I was becoming more than uncomfortable. I had to find someone who I recognized. As I returned to the dining room I met Andy, Ron and Wayne who were my three partners in crime for the evening. We were school mates so I felt more relaxed now that I knew someone. Greetings were exchanged and I was escorted to the locker room. At least that is what it was laughingly called. It consisted of a corner in the back where we all heaped our meager belongings. Since most who worked there were as poor as me, there wasn't much point in stealing anything and in the mid 60's things were a bit more innocent. My training was about to begin.
It was a Friday evening, one of the busiest of the week. I was to "follow" Ron and learn by watching his movements. He was the head busboy and the trainer of newbies like myself. He went through a cursory explanation of things while we set up for the nights business. I was more interested in all the new sights and sounds of this wonderous new world. The room was done in a French motif complete with fishnet stockings and very short skirts on the waitress staff. Of the girls wearing them only three filled them out properly. I of course concentrated on meeting these first. More about the staff later.... The night began to pick up speed and so did Ron. As the dining area filled to capacity, dirty dishes and tables were multipling at an alarming rate. Training turned into "get your ass moving" and I quickly became a viable member of the crew. Our job was to clear used tables, carry buspans of soiled dishes to the main kitchen, return with new stock and reset tables. On top of this we were to keep the water and coffee of the patrons filled, change ash trays, and do errands for the waitresses. There was very little time to tarry. I became caught up in the rush and the whole drama began turning into a personal challenge. I would get this job done in spite of all odds. It became a matter of survival. Do the best job possible in the shortest amount of time and please as many people as you can even if you have to bullshit them. Little did I realize that in the first night of my budding career I had been instilled with tenents of the profession that I still use to this very day.
As the night progressed I became rather proficient at carrying buspans to the kitchen. This was basically the grunt job for the new kid. Entering the main kitchen on Saturday night was an event in and of itself. The place was filled with people, noise, smells, verbal obscenities, and mountains of dirty dishes from three different dining rooms. Rushing back and forth I chanced upon my buddy once or twice. He quickly asked how it was going. I told them this place was crazy. He laughed, agreed and said "Wait til it REALLY gets busy!". Before I knew it the night was over. It was approaching 1:00am and all I wanted to do was go home. Ron explained that we had to split tips. So Ron went to the head waitress and got our money. Upon returning he handed everyone $15 dollars...CASH. This was great. That was cigarettes and gasoline for a week with some to spare. I was rich. The rest of the crew was mumbling. When I asked why they confided that this group of waitress' in this room were known for stiffing the busboys and they were sick of it. I pretended to be sympathetic but really had no idea what they were bitching about....until I met my buddy the next day and we compared tips. He made over twice what I did. His explanation: Get a job in his room where the money was. I informed him to throw my hat in the ring at the next possible opening. Since he worked for the senior team I knew I had a leg up.
Let me explain here that my first experience in the Steak Room was not all bad. We had the best looking crew with the lowest morals in the entire place. Most of our waitress staff were single 30 something girls with families to support. They were very adept at getting the most work possible out of teenage boys.
They all used variations of the same theme. They constantly played on our sexual imaginations and we reacted like well trained dogs. Two of the girls nicknamed me Benjamin (this is right at the release of the movie The Graduate with Dustin Hoffmans character being Benjamin). I of course fell right into the trap and called them Mrs. Robinson. This all led to the unforgetable rat dog incident that I will cover later. Other rumors and myths were constantly flying about this busboy or cook and that waitress. Most were actually based in fact but embelished to make for a better story. Tommy, the chef, made this technique into an artform. If I live to be 100 I will never meet a BS er that could keep such a straight face. He was so good that at times he fooled himself.
My tenure in the Steak Room was only 2-3 months but in that time I became a relatively good busboy and more importantly endeared myself to the chef of that room, Pat. His English was almost indiscernable but I mastered the accent and he used me as a kind of interpreter/beer run maker. We will be returning to this gentleman shortly.
I finally gained an opportunity to work in the Main Dining Room and jumped at the chance. My team was second only to Jim's so I was in the best position possible. I would work for Bill and Betty who were money making machines. Betty was the charming matronly one and Bill was the tall young witty one. These two should have been on the stage! I watched their act night after night and was always in awe of how they could schmooz with clientel, walk out of earshot and and complain about what a SOB this person was all in the same breathe. But they never failed to turn a handsome profit and share it with me. Our station was the same every Sat. night and the routine was a well rehearsed act. After a short time I became more of a player. My very youthful appearance made me somewhat of an attraction and Bill always reminded me to take the pack of Winstons out of my pocket and act adolescent around a table. Once in a while I would get a tip on the side for my troubles and Bill took the credit as my mentor. We were so good we were nearly illegal. During this short period of time as a busboy I was also introduced to some diasters that would occur during the course of an evening. Here are a few of the better examples. Keep in mind this was the late 60's and no one sued anyone for anything. There were better ways to get even.
Example #1 The Flaming Patron
One of the specialties of the house was our flaming tableside. This included desserts and entres' and always had spectacular results....well almost always. In fact these incidents caused a numerous amounts of near misses and injuries to staff and customers alike. Prior to relating these, keep in mind that the bottle marked "Jaques Bonet Brandy" was in reality one half grain alcohol which is 190 proof and extremely flamable. On this evening in the Steak Room a lady had ordered Peaches Flambe. In this case more than the peaches got incinerated. The hapless waitress had set the cart a safe distance from the table and heated the butter, spices and peaches to the proper temperature. The technique here (Don't try this at home kids) was to add the brandy/grain to the mix and tip the pan so that the sterno underneath would ignite the dessert in a beautiful blue yellow flame that would leap from the pan about three feet in the air and just as quickly disapate. The alcohol vapor burned very fast. In this case however, the waitress kept pouring the fluid when the mix ignited. The flame followed the stream back to the bottle. By now she had instinctively turned the bottle back up so now we have flame reaching a space occupied by alcohol VAPOR and air. Now we have our own homemade FLAMETHROWER. The flame shot from the bottle a good 20 feet and took two very nicely plucked eyebrows right off this ladies face along with a small portion of her bouffant hairdo. With hair spray they were an explosion waiting to happen all by themselves. We stood in amazment as the bottle thankfully ran out of the proper mixture quickly. The acrid aroma of burnt hair was apparent and I headed for the kitchen because I could no longer hold back the laughter. Needless to say we bought that dinner and dessert and added a new caution statement to the dessert preparation manual.
Example #2 The Flaming Waitress
In keeping with equal opportunity even back then, we had an employee version of Joan of Arc also. This happened in the main dining room and is really a very understandable error. The solution is the home run. While handling the same mixture of flaming brandy, this particular waitress (who just happened to be one of Tommy's favorites) accidently spilled some of the already burning Cherries Jubilee on her dress. Although it looked like she was not going to have to use a debilatory for some time the mix usually burns out before catching something like fabric ie her skirt on fire. And so it would have, but just to show you how fast news travels in a restaurant, Tommy had already found out and appeared on the scene with a #20 C02 extinguisher which he promptly stuck UNDER her dress and discharged. For those of you not familiar with this substance, it is around 76 degrees below zero and pointed between this womans legs! Afterwards we accused the chef of being more interested in his "private property" than the young ladies wardrobe. She was now hotter (at least mentally) then the fire was and the patrons thought they had witnessed some sort of life saving experience. I do think the entire episode cooled the relationship however. (Last pun I promise).
Example #3 Towering Inferno
Just to show you that not all the action went on for the customers, the next incident took place in the kitchen itself.
I had become a cook by now and was working what we called the "Main Line" which was the largest kitchen. We had a lot of glitzy entres' and one of the showpieces was a flaming dagger of meats and fresh vegetables. (Let me remind you that this was the pre OSHA era and this example will show why OSHA came into being.) The skewer was cooked on a short spike and then transferred to a very impressive looking sword complete with the fencing guard and ornate handle. All this sounds pretty harmless right? Well then some genius decided to add a wad of cotton right below the meat so a flamable liquid could be poured on it and ignited. The flames would then engulf the speared meat as you paraded through the dining room to the patron. Now you are thinking that we used that same brandy/grain mix. Nope. It was discovered that it would not burn impressively enough so the brain trust got together and found a non toxic but HIGHLY flameable fuel. To this day I have no idea what the chemical make up was but it does'nt really affect the story. Anyway, Joe, one of our best and tallest busboys came in to pick one of these beauties up. He soaked the cotton in this mystery fuel and struck a match. Unfortunately he had forgotten that the match was right over the open 1 gallon container and much as the aforementioned brandy, the flame followed the vapors down inside the can, found the proper mix of air and fuel and BANG! One major explosion. From our vantage point on the other side of the line, the busboy disappeared into a wall of flame that reached the 10 foot ceiling. We instinctively ducked and in 10 seconds it was over. I stood back up and saw no one. The dishwashers had fled and everyone else was gone. I just stood there trying to noodle out what just happened when an ashen gray face began to appear from the floor below. To my amazement (and his) it was Joe who aside from having soiled underwear was unharmed. He was still holding the skewer which was intact albeit slightly more well done. The fire had burnt out and nothing was damaged that we could see. Suddenly our salad lady rose from behind her ice cream freezer shelter with what was left of the gallon can dangling from a pair of tongs. One side had completely blown out and flew about 15 feet. Never mincing words she informed us what she intended to do to us with the can and it was not anatomically correct. Then Joe started laughing. I think he was just happy to be alive. Then we all started laughing for similar reasons. And the bonus was that it happened so fast no one of any consequence ever found out. We dug up another can of explosive. told Joe to light it elsewhere and continued on.
These few incidents are but a few of the unseen happenings that occur behind the scenes or actually in many cases for your viewing pleasures. We actually did try to provide top flight service in spite of these setbacks. I can still remember what all those forks are for even the top setting. That was one of our sources of amusement. Very few of our customers were that versed in the proper uses of all the tableware so just to make an issue of it we would clear unused silverware that had been in advertantly used on the wrong course and wait for the guest to ask for another fork. As we provided said instrument we would mention in passing that the course for that was over and they screwed up but it came out much more diplomatically. The other guests would immediately inventory their area to make sure they had not fallen into the same trap. Now here is a tip for unwary diners. Being impolite and obnoxious will bring you more grief than you can imagine and it all looks like an accident. A couple of examples: On evening a post prom party came in and several couples were sitting at 4 different tables. One rather large male with an ill fitting tux decided to become a gourmet overnite. After explaining to him that only legal aged people could get a wine list he settled for a bottle of our finest Sparkling Catawba which is bubbly grape juice that appears to be champagne. He played the part while we discussed what a pain this guy was becoming. He puffed up like a cockatoo ( no pun intended) while dispensing his "wine". This had to stop. I admit it was my idea. I rushed off to the kitchen and got a rack full of glasses right out of the dish machine. Normally you would tip the rack slightly to drain the water from the bottoms of the inverted stemmed glasses. Not this time. I gingerly balanced the rack of glasses and held them on one shoulder while I strode back tho the room. I whisked right past this jerk and tipped the rack just enough to release the 24 small puddles onto this guys head. I kept walking right out the door of the room and cracked up. I received kudos from my co workers on the stunt and it began a long career of sabotage to deserving individuals.
Another memorable incident took place when I was a mere fledgling cook in the Steak Room. A group of well dressed businessmen approached the "Steak by the Ounce" window where all of my 5'4" frame stood with a lethal 12" butcher knife to cut each patrons raw steak to order. At the time it was quite a gimmick and not many people knew we "borrowed" it from a famous San Francisco eatery. As I sliced each man's steak, it became a competition as to who could be the biggest pig. Nearing the end of the line came the drunkest and most obnoxious of the group. He peered at me over the bloodied counter and slobbered "I bet you a buck you can't cut me a 16 ounce filet." After you have spent even a little time cutting meat to weights you become your own carnival act. And as any good carnival employee will tell you, there must be an "equalizer" Mine was very simple. If the steak was too large I could trim a little fat and look like I was being a nice guy. If the steak was too small most of the time the patron would accept it because it would cost less than there mental budget. However this bozo was not the first to joke about my accuracy. So for that I had a one ounce piece of fat that would bring "betting weights" into parameters. This item was palmed in the other hand and dropped unseen on the scale if needed. It was kind of a slight of hand move. Couple this with my plus or minus 1/2 ounce tolerance and I had a pretty fair shot at hitting weight. In all due modesty I also was damn good at this in the first place. At any rate I whacked off this particular steak and as I hefted it onto the scale I knew I nailed it. It's kind of like that sweet click in golf when you know you just launched your best drive of the day. To add to the suspense I immediately turned away before the scale centered and acted unconcerned and arrogantly confident. Suddenly a roar of laughter went up and a projectile hit me in the back of the head. It was exactly 16 oz and the SOB wadded up a dollar and threw it at me. I, however would have the last move. Working the broiler, I handled a 24" tongs to flip the steaks. This was to insure that we didn't puncture the steaks with a fork (like the main kitchen which was out of sight). I calmly lowered the tongs to my side, grasped the crumpled greenback, flipped it in the air and caught it with the other hand. As I placed it in my pocket the crowd went wild and I smirked with glee. Another asshole outdone by a 17 year old. I loved that job!
Moving on Up: Cooking in the Steakroom
After spending some time as a busboy I was about to enter the portal of my future career. Remember my Puerto Rican friend Pat? He sidelined me one day coming into work and called me into his little nook of a kitchen."Davy, you want to coooook" Hey this sounded like the big time. I could arise from the realms of second class people and become one of the few, the proud, the cooks. Not being foolhearty however I inquired about the pay. $1.75 an hour plus I was back in the Steak Room with all those nice looking legs and as a cook not a lowly busboy. Add in free drinks from Sam the bartender ( Samantha, she had nice legs too) and this was a dream come true. I told Pat I would have to arrange it with my superiors in the main dining room. He smiled and told me now that I was a cook I didn't arrange, I informed people. He was right. No questions asked. I was amazed at my new found power. In truth, Pat had approached the chef Tommy about me and I had already impressed Tom with my sarcasm and trickery. He had approved this "transfer" long before I told my waitress. I turned in my black and whites and changed into my checkered pants and double breasted coat, donned a paper chefs hat and prepared to meet the world as Chef Dave, well the future Chef Dave anyway.
Having worked in the Steak Room previously I had some idea what the kitchen operation was all about. Starting out my job was strictly cutting meat and doing all the grunt work that Pat didn't want to. The kitchen itself was relatively small, maybe 8' by 12' but very efficient. We did nothing but steaks, lobsters, and prime rib. Baked potatoe was the only side and we specialized in cutting steaks to order any size you wanted and charged by the ounce. When I began in 1966 the Filet Mignon was .55 an ounce. It now costs that WHOLESALE to the restaurant. Anyway, we carried very high quality well aged beef and were on of the more popular rooms for businessmen and romantically inclined couples whether they were married or not. In fact they usually weren't even married to each other but that was none of our concern. We opened six days a week but Fri and Sat were by far the busiest. There were occasions that we would turn the room 3 times in 5 hours which is quite a feat. The waitress uniform consisted of the French Maid look as described earlier. 20% of the girls should have been in them 60% were kind of an embarrassment and the other 20% defy description. Marta was by far the trophy winner. Late fifties, 85 pounds soaking wet, her chest had headed south years ago and her face looked like she had served on a fishing boat in the North Atlantic for about 50 years. A sweet lady but what a sight. Oh did I mention dizzy. Add that to the mix and she provided laughs if nothing else.
I found that since my departure as a busboy and return as a cook I seemed to be treated differently. There was a certain amount of respect and comoraderie shown toward me. I was now "in charge" and everyone wanted to be my friend. Actually it became apparent quickly that what was really wanted was preferential treatment with orders and special culinary delights at the end of the night. They were "sucking up" and I enjoyed it all. And being the unbiased 60's kind of guy that I was the cute ones got what they wanted and the rest waited. Womens Lib really had'nt hit it's stride yet so the rules of the game were simple. Shallow but simple. Everyone understood. Not to say that the less than attractive ones didn't have a shot. One lady decided that she would make sure my ginger ale got laced with Canadian Club. We became fast friends and she moved way up on the list.
Another sent a well endowed busgirl ( coincidently her daughter) to negotiate with me. The youngster was constantly dropping stuff and bending WAY over to pick it up. Mom went right up the list. Like I said simpler times, simpler rules. Hey the system worked then and in all honesty,in spite of all this politcally correct garbage, it still does.
During my tenure in this room, I learned a great deal about meat cutting and broiling steaks. The restaurant had a full time butcher who had a small shop in the back. He found me an annoyance at first because I was intrigued with his skills and hung around his bench a lot. Finally he allowed me to trim a few loins that I used in my room. He realized that the more he showed me, the less he had to do. I was even allowed to use his knives which was an extreme privilege. I became quite good at cutting some simpler cuts and my crowning glory was learning how to use the butchers "steel" which is a long rod used to hone the knives. He would stroke the knife back and forth at high speed until he was satisfied it had sharpened the knife of choice. At first I was clumsy...and careful since fingers don't grow back. It was always a crowd pleaser so I learned it. Never failed to get comments or at least an ooh or ahh. This talent has proven invaluable over the years as cutting your own meats saves a LARGE amount of money over portion controlled meats. We are talking dollars a pound here. CHEFS TIP:If you have a little time, buy loins instead of steaks and cut your own. With a little practice you can slice steaks off with the best of them. When buying stew meat or diced pork for chop suey, buy cheaper cuts of beef and pork and dice your own. You will not only save money but you will know what you have.
While in the Steak Room, my mentor was a little wiry fellow of Puerto Rican heritage. His English was just barely preceptible but after working with him for a short time I picked up enough Spanish to communicate with him nicely. He was a great broiler man and taught me his skills. I eagerly practiced and awaited my turn at actually running the broiler on a busy night. Soon I was working Monday nights on my own and could handle the broiler on even a busy Friday or Sat. As I became more adept, my people skills were also being honed. By that I mean that I was beginning to act and talk like a "cook". Choose the adjective: Cocky, arrogant, sarcastic, self serving, horny to name a few. This is not to say that we aren't caring and intelligent. It's just that we hide it well to create our aura of being one mean SOB. It really is quite an art. If I had a nickel for every time I have heard "Your not this way at work" I'd be wealthy. But in that atmoshpere it was the way. No matter what larger restaurant you went to it was always a version of the same story. And most were readily traded at late night meeting spots frequented by cooks, waitress' and the occasional cop. But for a 17 year old kid it was an adventure of the first magnitude.
More Miscues
Admittedly the sharpest memories are the incredible misadventures that seemed to occur on a daily basis. Here are a few more notable ones.
Baked Beyond Repair
This little incident took place in the room referred to as Le Cave or The Cave. We referred to it as the basement but that looks tacky on a marquee. At any rate the set up is this. Party of 65 businessmen dressed accordingly in suits and ties. (The Sixties remember?). After a fancy meal the coup de grace is wheeled out in the form of a hugh Baked Alaska. This concoction is a three layered cake filled with three flavors of ice cream between layers. You then freeze the thing as hard as a rock and ice it with meringue. Now the egg whites appear to be a golden brown and everyone always marveled at how you could bake a cake full of ice cream and not melt it. Well it is very simple. You don't! We used the broiler for small ones but this beast took special equipment. One garden variety blowtorch. Hey it worked!
But I digress. The waiter in charge of this fiasco had never flamed a Baked Alaska quite this big so he asked me for my advice. I hadn't ever seen one this big either so I suggested he proceed like the smaller ones. This amounted to laying a thin line of brandy around the edges and igniting it thus producing a whimsical blue flame. Seemed simple enough. Now let me explain that the "brandy" was in reality 1/2 190 proof grain alcohol. This accelerant was equally as dangerous as the aforementioned fuel save for one thing. This was completely edible. You could actually ingest this stuff. I bring this fact up only because one of the men up front tugged at my sleeve and asked me to hand him the bottle. I had no idea what the mix was so I complied. He poured a nice tumbler of "brandy", smiled and said "This will be my dessert". Ten minutes later he was out cold. Everyone assumed he had one too many. Anyway back to the main story. Denny (the waiter) positioned this monster center stage and began to pour the brandy around the edge. I guess he figured the larger version would need that much more fuel. He must have poured on a full pint. You could have run a funny car on that amount!
He lit a match and touched the corner. In a flash (literally) we had 3 foot flames. Lots of oohs and aahs from the crowd. It was quite impressive. As it continued to burn, it became evident that something wasn't right. The egg whites went from brown to charcoal black. This was suppose to burn out before this occured. As the egg mix turned into a molten mass, we decided action needed to be taken. Blowing on it was far too uncouth plus both of us smoked and probably couldn't have done it. Water was definitely out. Then Denny had THE idea. Before I knew it, he produced a blue dinner napkin and started waving it around like he was some kind of matador. He swung the cloth directly over the cake. I assume he thought he would deprive it of oxygen and it would die. What occured was the nightmare of any foodservice employee. The corner of the napkin dug a trench down the middle of this conflagration and deposited a rather large portion of melted egg white over the upper portion of a distinguished looking gent in the front row. The standard moment of shocked silence followed. It was apparent that by some divine intervention the man was physically uninjured. However his VERY black suit and VERY bald head were covered completely with goo.
After what seemed forever, tittering began in the crowd which shortly turned into uncontrolled laughter except for the victim. I had to leave the room. Denny was stuck. I raced to the safety of the kitchen area and cracked up. I was not about to go back out there. I was only the magicians assistant. I watched through the small glass window in the door as Denny polished this guys bald head and tried in vain to clean this mess off his suit. After about 5 minutes the gentleman excused himself to the facilities and Dennis somehow cut and served the cake to everyone else. He laughed the entire time he was out there as did everyone else. When he finally came to the back, tears were rolling out of his eyes. He was hysterical with laughter. I had other things to look after so I retired back to the main kitchen upstairs. About an hour later, Denny came upstairs having finished the party. I asked him how aggravated the guy was. Denny said he demanded that he pay the cleaning bill. I said that sounded like a deal. He looked at me and said "Deal? Hell that was the best damn $5 I ever spent." Today it would be a 20 million dollar damage suit. Oh for the simpler times.
It Even Happens In Iowa
My thanks to my lifelong friend and neighbor Karen for the following submission of still another flambe' that went awry
I was still rather new at banquet management - I think I had been the manager
for maybe three months, when the owner and founder called
Dan(GM) and said he was coming out that afternoon to plan a special party.
Dan came straight to me and we went down to the kitchen to talk to Chef Ron
about ideas for the party. Now mind you, we're ALL pretty new at this
- Dan had been the manager of the hotel but had just taken over the
restaurant as well, and Ron had just been hired from an Italian restaurant in
Chicago. We discussed ideas for appetizers, entrees, side dishes and
desserts, some of which I was not familiar with and none of which were on the
menus I worked with every day. I also did not know Ron well enough at that
point to know that he rarely thinks about any consequences of how he prepares
his food or his food choices - his goal is simply to get it done.
Our guest arrived at 3 p.m., dressed in plaid slacks and a a clashing sport
coat as usual. (He and his wife had a second home in Florida and he usually
dressed in Florida Clashing Casual) And smoking his usual cigar. If I
remember correctly, he already had an entree in mind, so that part was easy -
I think he wanted a big tenderloin with Bernaise sauce, easy, thank God -
we've always had great steaks. But this was a special party, the yearly
meeting of the President's Club - the employees who had been with the company
for 20 or more years - and this was the 20th year of the party (making him in his late 60's at this time); he wanted a very special dessert and
very special service. We discussed Ron's suggestions, and he chose the
Flaming Baked Alaska. It was a fateful choice.
In the next weeks, I discussed the dinner with both Dan and Ron frequently.
I had never even seen a non-flaming Baked Alaska except in a cookbook, and
neither had anyone who was going to help serve or prepare it except Ron. Dan
was nervous, but I kept telling him everything would be all right (at least I
had plenty of confidence if not experience). This was a rather small group
of about 40-50 people, and I decided that in order to minimize tension that
evening and give absolutely great service, I would have one server for every
tableof 8. Ron would make a separate Baked Alaska for each table, and the
servers would parade them out one after the other(his idea). They would set
them on a white-clothed small serving table that was next to each banquet
table, so the guests would all have a close-up view of the show. I pulled
the best servers off the dining room schedule as well as using the very best
I had on the banquet staff. We had two trials where they practiced serving
the dessert, but it was not flaming. In retrospect that was a mistake.
On the day of the party, Dan, Ron, and I discussed everything again. Ron was
going to make and brown the Baked Alaskas in the afternoon and put them in
the freezer. Dan and I were concerned about the meringue holding up, but Ron
assured him it would be fine. I pressed him for details about the flaming,
but he just said not to worry about it. The girls arrived (no one called in
sick, even), and things went like clockwork; the bar, appetizers, salad
course, two different wines, entree, coffee. The girls were true pros, and
the only thing that bothered us through the meal was Dan pacing back and
forth in the kitchen asking how things were going. I started to
relax.......the food was perfect, lots of compliments.....the plates were
being cleared and it was time for dessert......and then it would be over and
we could celebrate.
In the kitchen just outside the banquet room, Ron started to light the Baked
Alaskas, and Mary went out with the first one. Then the second, Kitty taking
it out......then Lonnie.......Dan went out into the room to check on things.
I'm feeling like I can do ANYTHING by this time, really good, when Dan came
back to the kitchen. "Karen, the tablecloths are on fire" he said, in a
normal tone of voice. I said, "Dan, stop kidding me." He said, "No, really,
the tablecloths are on fire." A little louder this time, but I still really
thought he was kidding, and I was adjusting the last Baked Alaska on it's
plate. The next moment he was YELLING at me with his face all red, "KAREN,
THE TABLECLOTHS ARE ON FIRE, WILL YOU DO SOMETHING???" My stomach knotted up
as I realized he meant it. I filled a pitcher with water and walked into the
room. What I saw amazed me - Lonnie was carrying a flaming cake and as she
set it down the flames literally jumped to the cloth where she set it. The
guests were absolutely transfixed as about four of the tablecloths covering
the service tables were on fire. I started to panic - I did not want this
evening to end with a visit from the fire department, and my pitcher of water
was not going to do very much. I kind of whisper-yelled to the closest
server and busser to go get more water. I walked to the farthest table, the
first one, Mary's, and poured my pitcher of water on her tablecloth around
the cake, and the flames disappeared. Thank God, at least the water worked.
Guests were up walking around, pouring their water carafes on the serving
table cloths. Some were frightened, others were laughing. We got all the
tablecloth fires out within a couple of minutes, and the cakes were not
damaged, so the serving continued and dessert WAS eaten(and was even good).
Dan was, I don't know what - a combination of embarrassed, furious, relieved
that the restaurant didn't burn down. Then we went to Ron to find out what
could have caused this to happen.
It turned out that Ron had browned the meringue, then put halves of egg
shells in the meringue, then put the cakes into the freezer for 3 hours.
When they were removed from the freezer just prior to serving, he poured
Everclear into the egg shell halves. As it burned while the servers were
walking, the egg shells cracked (cold one moment, hot the next)and flaming
Everclear leaked down the sides of the cakes, and when they were set down on
the serving tables, flaming liquid splashed onto the cloths. I felt very
lucky that no one's clothes caught on fire and that no real damage was done,
except maybe to my job. By the time the guests were leaving (it was a great
party - lots of compliments on the service, food, and on our handling of the
emergency, and all said it was the MOST EXCITING party so far) we were all
laughing about it and trying to think of ways we could avoid the fires if we
ever served that dessert again. About this time Dan came back to say good
night and heard us discussing using WET tablecloths the next time and having
a pitcher of water actually ready on each serving table. But it was not to
be - Dan said to me, "Karen, you're not EVER going to serve Flaming Baked
Alaska again - I can't afford the linen." And we never did.
>
Dropsy
We've all heard the sound. That mysterious crash or tinkling of broken china from behind the scenes in a restaurant. Then the catchy cliches that follow..."Dropped his watch...That was the Chef's paycheck..." ad nauseam. Well here are a few examples where no perky phrase could rescue the moment.
This particular restaurant was rather spread out. It was basically all one level with a partial basement and to walk to the farthest small banquet room required a passport. Everyone dreaded working this room. It was small and nearly inaccesible. It also took you right through the busiest part of the building. People who design these things do not work in them. At any rate the whole key to success in this room was to make as few trips as possible. That meant that when you loaded a tray to carry it was the maximum able to be moved. Now all of the waiters and bus people were trained to carry trays on their shoulders using your right hand and right shoulder to balance the tray. Sometimes the left hand came into play as a third point but this was frowned upon as cheating by the crew members and anyone caught at this was brtutally teased for being a wimp. This particular incident involved one of our more experienced waiters. He stacked 16 dinners (thats four stacks of four high) on an oval tray that was just big enough to contain this load. After the loading process you hoist this mountain onto your shoulder. In this case, because of the larger capacity, one would stoop down and use your legs to lift the entire mass. Then the trek began that took you out of the busy kitchen, down the middle of the crowded main dining room, through the front desk area full of people milling about waiting, through the main bar, across the front lobby and finally to your destination at the Chamoniax which was the catchy name of this room at the end of the Death March. Now mind you, people in all these areas have no clue that your carrying 60lbs on your shoulder. Some ask you directions, some want to chat, some tell you to "wait a minute" and others just stand in your way totally unaware of your presence. None of these folks mind you notice the sweat rolling off your nose or the shade of purple that your face has turned. On this particular trip, the waiter has managed to navigate this entire obstacle course and was approaching his destination. Now after carrying this tray 1/2 the length of a football field you are just looking for the tray stand and hoping to god it is set up. You are not looking down for the upturned corner of one of those runners you see that lay in high traffic areas. Well our hero tripped on this little item and had absolutely no chance of recovery. The tray was launched and all 16 dinners landed on one unfortunate customer. Although he wasn't injured severely he was to say the least hopping mad. The mess was amazing. Stuff went everywhere. The immediate problem was to reset the area so it could be used which meant strip it down, recloth and reset...while people are sitting there. Add to this daunting task the problem of facing the kitchen staff with an order for another 16 people and you have a full blown diaster.
Some of our other records included 18 tomato juice glasses (full) on one guy, countless sour cream cups that shot white globs everywhere whenever they got dropped, exploding champagne bottles, and single dishes being dropped at an alarming rate and you can see where there are some hidden costs to cover. The crowning glory of this type of carnage came one Saturday evening in the main kitchen. The star of this incident was actually my future brother in law who was a waiter in the main dining room. In order to set the scene, picture a busy Saturday evening in a large commercial kitchen. Noisy, clattering, talking, screaming and the occasional vulgar term. Everyone is working at 115%. In front of our very large Flight dishwasher, which is basically a neverending conveyor to stack dishes on, stood the familiar shiney metal storage racks that are commonly seen in countless warehouses and stockrooms. They are wire looking deals with adjustable shelves that run about 6-8 feet long. We had three of these babies in a row in front of the dish machine. Waiters and busboys would slide a full buspan of dirty dishes in one side and our pearl divers would remove it and unload it from the other. In our infinite wisdom we wired all three together in order to get the most stability out of them. OK so that is the set up. Enter our hero.
On any given Saturday night, this rack is laden with more weight in dirty dishes then the manufacturers ever dreamed would be on them. After years of banging and pushing, the legs started to lean slightly. It was nothing to worry about....was it? This particular moment in time presented this arrangement totally loaded with every buspan that could possibly fit. No one could get even a single pan on there. Nary a square inch was available and that was that. In come Rich with a heavy, wet, unbalanced buspan. He quickly scans the wall of filth for a landing spot. Suddenly he saw an opening. It would be a double stack but all he had to do was get it in and then run. It was someone elses problem from there on. Stepping over buspans that others had left on the floor for lack of room, he made his move. It took a little shoving but by some miracle of physics he managed to insert this peg in to the hole. He stood back for a minute to admire his work. It was in that instant that another law of physics reared it's ugky head. We have ALL fallen prey to this law and it is finite. There is no second chance. Gravity. The bent legs began to give and suddenly the entire monstrousity tipped over right at Rich. He made a valiant effort to escape but alas he was stuck in a quagmire of refuse around his feet.
The rack fell and completely buried him in an avalanche of flatware, dishware,and slime. We watched from behind the cooking line. It was almost like a slow motion film. Segment Two
to be continued....Stay tuned....or drop me a line with your own story about the industry and I will add it to mine
