BEHIND THE SWINGING DOORS

Part Two

For unknown computer glitch reasons the first page froze in time so I had to create a second part and hopefully this will remain functional. If you haven't read the first part, do so now and return. If I could explain why this happened I would be making much more money than I am now. Anyway........
We left our unfortunate waiter buried in a mountain of dishes and trash. We noticed that there was in fact movement so at least we didn't have a DOA on our hands. Usually in mass disasters such as this, the crew would all lend a hand. Several people started unearthing Rich who amazingly enough other than being coated with any number of liquids, was unhurt. Suddenly as he straightened up he realized he in fact had been wounded. There stuck in his posterior region was a shiny wood handled steak knife, stuck in just far enough to stick. I thought he was going to faint! Personal injury was not his bag. He insisted on being taken to the hospital for this grievous wound which if memory serves did require a couple of stitches and provided another crew (the ER folks) with a little comic relief.
Admittedly there were some instances that caused more than just embarrassment. I include these next few examples to caution that kitchens can be dangerous places to work and invaribly our penchant for screwing around increased the risks.

Off to the ER

It seemed that most of our serious injuries involved fire or hot oil. This first instance is truly an "accident" meaning that goofy behavior had nothing whatsoever to do with it. We featured an item on our menu called Fondue, which consisted of raw meat or cheese served in chunks which were delivered to your table accompanied by a pot of fondue oil which ran about 350 degrees. This was set on your table and you were provided with long forks to impale a chunk of something and cook it in this bubbling cauldron sitting in the middle of the table. Nowadays this would be served with a personal injury lawyers business card but again in the late 60's litigation had not hit it's stride yet. On numerous occasions the guests would experiment with other items that we didn't provide such as their fingers. One enterprising gentleman poured beer into the oil causing a volcanic eruption which by some stroke of luck didn't spatter anyone. However just delivering this item caused havoc. One unlucky waitress was carrying a pot of this oil out the electric doors...you know the ones that don't open when someone is standing on the other side. She just kept walking right into the door and poured the oil right down her ample breasts. To this day it makes my eyes water to imagine that type of pain. She was wisked off to the ER covered in ice and I don't recollect her ever appearing again. I am sure there was some type of lawyer stuff on that one.
On another occasion a couple of young cooks were doing their own experiments with fondue oil. Yes it was me and my buddy Mark. Mark had decided to add some cheap cooking Chablis to the oil. We were quite aware that there would be a violent reaction so we excersized due caution in this operation. The wine immediately caught fire and now we had Fondue Flambe'. Well since some of the suits happened to be around, we had to dispose of this before we got discovered. Since I was the "brains of the outfit", Mark looked to me for a solution. I told him to quit standing around and throw that stuff outside. Let me explain that this was winter and yes we had a substantial amount of snow. Mark walked out the garbage room and proceeded to pour the oil into a snowbank. Flames leaped straight up along with part of the oil and turned his thumb into a deep fried mess. The next time I saw him he was elbow deep in cold water and white as a sheet. I packed ice on it and got transport to the hospital and once again the ER had another customer.
I did not escape my turn either. On another rather slow evening three of us got involved in s snowball fight. It was in the middle of July so crushed ice was the only ammunition available. It all started innocently enough but seemed to become increasingly animated. Within minutes Mark and Denny are at a dead run chasing each other with balls of crushed ice. Dennis decided if a ball of ice was good then a bus pan full would really be neat. Unfortunately Mark was much more athletic and got the drop on Denny. Only two choices remained. Either have Mark rest the pan away from him and dump it on his head or turn around and throw the entire pan of ice at me, who up until now had been the amused bystander. He chose option 2 but caught me napping. The bus pan hit me directly in the mouth and suddenly my upper lip had an opening thru and thru. With my whites covered with blood I strode into the ER. Mark was kind enough to drive me. (At this point you are probably wondering why we always chose self transport. At the time the paramedic program had not started up and the private ambulance drivers had a permanent parking place at the pancake house in Elgin. Their ETA was always minimum of a half hour. Lots can happen to an injured person in that time so we just carted our wounded off ourselves. Only rule was don't bleed on anyones interior.) I arrived at the ER and was greeted by the nurses who told me I smelled like a steak. 4 stitches later I was released back to work. Some 30+ years later a now white mustache is a constant reminder of the underlaying scar.

Believe it or not, we did learn a great deal about basic operation of a large scale kitchen during this time. The restaurant was a multi themed type with 4 main rooms and a few smaller ones. Any given Saturday we served in excess of 4000 people. This was a daunting task to say the least so I would be remiss not to explain the powers behind this weekly culinary "miracle" The owner of the establishment was a very well educated sports minded individual who had a knack for showmanship and entertainment. He was also skilled in the use of influencing people (and their money) to back his endeavors. To my knowledge he never invested much if any of his own capital in the venture but wound up with a multi million dollar establishment that in it's day was the envy of the entire Chicago land area. He was an expert motivator and made it clear to all involved that we were in fact in the entertainment business not just foood and we should consider the entire building our stage. My part had quite a bit of grease on the floor but that too is another story. To give you the feel of that statement, let me take you on an imaginary trip starting from the foyer....

You exit your vehicle under a small canopy and the car parker (OK "Valet") would whisk of your car to the outer reaches of the parking lot. You would enter two large wooden doors to the front lobby. There you were greeted by a portly lady in a monks robe smoking a rubber cigar and wearing a name tag that said Andy. This elderly lady was a jewel. She would have a line for everything as she directed you to the cloak room and asked which room you were seeking. You walked through the main bar area with a cutsey cocktail porch to your right and a large oval bar to you left. Normally there was a slight wait for you table so this was your first stop. Behind this bar were some of the slickest bartenders I have ever seen. Names like "Mike","Ernie","Joe" and "Sam" gave our bar the all American look. And not an accent in the bunch. Oh yeah Sam was a lady....kind of! They were the premiere conversationalists and great listeners. Dressed in the standard white shirts, vests and bow ties, they were your first "taste" of our wares. After a short wait, you were called to your appropriate room by a PA system. Wending your way to the proper area you are then greeted by either Mara, Lenny, or Mel. These were the first of a long line of hosts aka room managers. They would then escort you to your table and seat the party. At each setting was a monogrammed book of matches. This little gimmick was a goldmine. People thought they were the crowned heads of Europe. The rooms were run on a team/station venue. This entails that the dining room be divided and each section would have a team (waiter/waitress and busboy). Introduction were made and the meal progressed.

This "team" was actually a highly sophisticated machine whose sole purpose was to sell you as much as they could for the sake of the tip. The hourly wage was not even worth mentioning. In my interim as a busboy I was fortunate enough to have one of the top money earners in the building on my team. He was somewhat of a con man actually but a lovable one. Menus were presented and entrees explained. Several of the choices were prepared tableside. These not only were more expensive, they became their own marketing device. Others would watch the show, which we exaggerated when ever possible, and then would "want whatever they are having." The waitress took care of drinks and PR, the waiter did the heavy work and the "cute little busboy" fluttered back and forth clearing dishes, emptying ashtrays, refilling coffee and water and keeping the place tidy. I always left my Winstons in the kitchen instead of my shirt pocket. It enhanced the image.

During the time spent in the dining area , you might see a wandering violinist, Cherries Jubilee, and occasional a celebrity. The Bears stayed there on occasion as did the U of I basketball team (they were taller than me sitting down!) and sometimes a real live movie or TV star. Normally they liked keeping a low profile so we were instructed not to hover around them and never say "And this must be the lovely Mrs._____ because usually it wasn't. After dinner you were free to wander the different rooms and cocktail lounges. Each had its own entertainment, usually a small band or piano player. If you chose to stay for the evening there were very nice hotel suites and a lovely pool area. The decor was different in each room as was the uniforms and theme. We had a French Steak room and seafood "Galleon" and of course the very European main dining room. We also had a Le Cave tha basically was a piece of the basement we turned into a weekend overflow room. People thought it was chic. Go figure.

Now doesn't all that sound elegant and upscale. Let me take you on a part of the tour not offered to many....you guessed it...Behind the Swinging Doors. Actually as I have mentioned most were electric. As we stroll around the hutch into the steak room kitchen it looks like a large closet with six people stuffed in it. It is relatively quiet compared to other areas. The two chefs are tucked behind the counter with a closed broiler, an open char broiler and a steam table. One small range and oven complete the kitchen. The entire east wall is a large butchers case and cutting board which was the centerpiece of the room. The waitress' were in fishnet stockings and high heel shoes and this was before the Tom Waites song. The tops were low cut and a few of the girls filled them out. The majority either looked like boys or represented a walking display of the effects of gravity on the female anatomy. Red and black was the color scheme and beef was our menu. Damn the chlorestorol full speed ahead. It was a close knit group and we often car pooled. This was not for environmental purposes rather a more pleasant place to spend the night. At any rate the tour steps on the rubber mat and the door disappears into the wall....

Noise is the first thing that becomes apparent. A continuous din punctuated by loud talk and an occasional crash is the back round. Ventilator fans roar and the dish machine churns away with lights flashing, bells ringing and eight Latino operators talking all at once albeit in different dialects. As you step into this bustling world, the smells are everywhere, some good and some not so. To your right is a large dish area with a dish machine ( called a Flight) 15' long. The front area is awash with bus pans full of dirty dishes, mountains of silverware, and stacks of cup and glass racks. To your left is the main line. This consisted of a saute' range, 2 closed broilers, two open broilers nicknamed the "Dynamite Twins,4 fryers and a lobster steamer. Beyond that was a walkin/ reach in cooler which not only contained a great many food items but also our beer stash. The serving line consisted of a wooden prep table in front of the saute range, then a prime rib cutting station steam table, in line coolers more in line coolers, and a hand sink. Above this was the plate area complete with 25- 30 heat lamps that had a red blinding glow and exploded with the slightest touch. After a while we didn't even flinch when they went! The mean temperature standing between the equipment and the heat lamps was in the low 100's As you leaned closer to the broilers it was like working in a steel plant. Fortunately the chef had informed us what tough guys we were so no problem. He did pass out salt tabs at times so we didn't ...pass out. On any given Saturday night we began cooking in earnest around 5:30 and went as fast as we could....for 6 hours. Any given time we were handling 20 tables and sometimes upwards of fifty. How is this done you ask??? Let me introduce you to the cast.

Our first member is Denny running the saute' range. This man was the king of preparation. He had pyramids of pre set items surrounding him. As the item was needed he would merely toss one in the oven. Setting up his station took 3-4 hours and was an engineering sight to behold. No one matched his skill and ingenuity. Next was a rather large yet youthful gent. He appeared much older than his 17 years sporting a beard that still survives today. Mark was the broiler man. This station demanded a great deal of skill, a good memory, a long fork and a good tolerance for burns. He would be cooking and keeping track of maybe 50 steaks at a time in all stages of doneness. He also had the hottest of the areas with the open flames mere feet from his face. Fortunately he had excellent sweat glands and probably lost 3-5 pounds in a night. Next in line was the Prince of Grease and Steam. His older brother who was 16 worked in the steak room whlie "Shorty" manned the fryers and steamer on the main line. He was 14. Again we predate the labor laws and litigation found today. He was the only guy that was good enough and dumb enough to do that job. 350 degree grease spattering everywhere and pressure driven steam pouring out of the steamer made for a weary existence. By definition and age he was low man on the totem so he was also our gopher. Hey every crew has got one.

The fourth member of this Muskateerlike group was none other than me. Formally I was known as the expiditer. I kept everything organized and running smoothly. If that failed (and it almost always did) I became a screaming maniacal force that told people what to do and had God Like control over the line. That may sound over the top but it is very close to the reality. The volume demanded that one person "run" the line, bark out orders, keep waitresses in line, call out orders and orchestrate what appeared to be total chaos. At 18 I was the oldest member of the group. (Here I must give credit to the man behind all of this, Tommy our beloved Greek chef. He pumped our teenage egos up so far we knew there was nothing we couldn't do. He had no intention of working in those conditions when he had perfectly healthy youngsters who could do it.) Needless to say, most all the waiters and waitresses where older than us and certainly the dining room managers were in the Dad's era. For some reason most of them opted to listen to me and do what I told them. Sometimes being very good at what you do surpasses age. Of course there are exceptions

Queen of the Galleon

To do this section justice, a certain amount of back round is necessary. Our newest room was called the Galleon and aptly named. The menu was strictly seafood. It was the pride of the building and at the helm (pretty nautical huh?) was a raven haired slightly aging Italian beauty named Mara. If she had been born male her name would have been Vito...as in Corleone. He ruled the room with an iron fist and a pretty thick Italian accent. The guests were treated in the finest European fashion and most thought she was the best thing since sliced bread. Her employees feared her and did her bidding without question. The Galleon had it's own kitchen at first and I soundly refused to work in it unless it was a dire emergency. I worked in the high class "main" kitchen and I wasn't about to put up with her crap anyway. Then in my first experience of downsizing, we combined the two kitchen into one and the Galleon kitchen was closed down There was some talked that the reason was that the slap on construction of it caused the entire wall that had electric conduits the size of water mains to leak. Well leak doesn't do it justice. cascade is more like it. To add insult to injury, the kitchen had no floor drains. As I said this was put up in a hasty fashion so a few "luxuries" were overlooked. Both kitchens were combined into ours and the scenario of cooks I have explained took shape.

The stage was set for the Clash of the Titan's Mara always felt the Galleon had precedence over all else. HER customers were important and deserved all of our attention. The other two dining rooms we served would take second. I had always been fairly democratic in my operation of the line. First in first out was the rule. There was a caveat to that. If I liked you things came out faster. If you gave me problems, terrible stuff befell your order and it got held up. Again simple rules that most understood. It seems that these concise rules did not translate well into Italian. This was a particularly busy Sat night and I was up to my neck in orders. They were on the spindle, on the line and in my breast pocket. The pocket was only for major overflow. We were around 45 minutes on ticket time and rising. There seems to be no end in sight and not much we could do. It was rush hour and we were the train wreck. The noise was deafening and I was straining every brain cell to keep us from derailing. Suddenly a familiar thick accent cut through the room and it was mostly a foreign tongue. Mara was screaming at me to get her orders out or else. She kept out of throwing distance. Wise choice. My last epitaph was "You better get a F#*ging dump truck" She disappeared and I momentarily went blank. Within seconds I had the answer. Going thru my orders in all the places I picked out all the Galleon tickets. We were going to dump the entire group of 50-60 orders in Mara's lap. My signal for such a crazed move was always "Listen Up"!! I got my crew's attention, explained the plan and started shouting out items for pick up. The busboys in charge of picking up the orders stood back and watched a tsunami of food go under the lamps. I threw the completed tickets up one after another until we covered the entire line 3 deep. Food was everywhere and the poor servers had no chance to keep up. I proudly strolled over to the in house phone, dialed Mara's extension and calmly told her she had food getting cold.....and hung up. She arrived moments later to view the Great Wall of Trout. She glared at me and began trying to help the bus boys. This was a VERY rare occurrence and especially gratifying to me. Suffice it to say, from that day forward our relationship changed to mutual disdain but no further confrontations.
Sailing on The Galleon

The Galleon proved to be a wealth of interesting events. When it was originally opened, it sported a great interior design like the VERY fancy galley of an old sailing vessel. The owner specifically displayed famous recipes from equally famous restaurants all over the world. None of the recipes were followed to the letter since our culinary staff was a little short on formal training....other than high school that is. The servers were decked out in seafaring wear and everything in sight was wood or rope. It really had a great ambiance and quickly became our most popular room. So now let us step thru the "swinging door" and see what lurks back there......

The kitchen itself was a very long narrow affair with the cooking line on the west wall and what looked like the electrical lines to Hoover Dam on the other. There were conduits and boxes the size of small cars on the wall. The entire set up was brand new so it was pretty much untested when we opened up. It appeared fairly sound....until it rained. I am not sure if the rain storm was a Saturday but since disaster usually was we will assume. The first indication of trouble was some slight rivulets of water coming down the "power wall". As the night progressed it became evident that the exhaust fans were not working or inadequate. Smoke became thicker and the front man in the cooking line lost sight of the back guy. It was strictly verbal as the rain persisted and the rivulets changed to a steady flow and then to an aquatic display. Watching that amount of water flow over that large of an electrical set up was a bit unnerving. We pressed on. (Actually I was high and dry in the main kitchen rapidly closing off doors to keep the smoke out of our area.) This was the every kitchen for themselves theory which we adhered to a all times, except for the one explained later. Suddenly it became apparent that once the water was on the floor it had no where to go. We never determined if there were any floor drains because none of the water led to them. After a half hour or so the waterfall had become a torrent. Seems the building had been butted up to the existing structure but never sealed to it. The depth of the water was becoming alarming and heading toward the dining room. We hatched our plan. We began sweeping it out the back door. This was very similar to running the bilge pumps on the Titanic. Curiousity has overcome me and I waded into the kitchen to agitate my cohorts. As I got to the broiler, Frankie warned me not to touch it. I told him he was nuts, it was gas and proceeded to demonstrate my brilliance by grabbing the handle while standing in about 2 inches of water. ZAPPP!!! Yep I got all 110V up my arm and provided Frankie with the only laugh he had that evening. I quickly retreated to the dry safety of my own kitchen wishing them all the best.

That was the beginning of the Galleon kitchen saga. Repairs were hastily made to the roof in the next few days. We managed to keep the water out but the ventilation proved more of a challenge. Suffice it to say it never worked worth a crap. It became apparent that this would not have cooks standing in line to work there. Denny kind of took over as the lead but we then kind of did the short straw thing. Once and a while I drew it. The menu consisted of a great many seafood items and steaks. We had a particular hated item called Dover Sole. It wasn't all that hard to grill but then you had to meticulously bone it out and reform it on the plate sans bones. Not as easy as it sounds. Every Friday and Saturday we would keep track of how many we did to go for a personal best. Now the average person would have used match sticks or hash marks. Not all that impressive so Denny decided to drape the skeletons over the pipes above our heads so we could count them at the end. By 8PM it looked like Alfred Hitchcock meets Fisherman's Wharf! I tip my hat to Dennis for over the top thinking....which he proved very good at. I don't really recall what the recoord was but I know we eclipsed 20 on a regular basis Plenty more to come