Did He Just Say That?

When I worked, for a short time, in the kitchen of a Michelin Starred Chef; not that many things happened that gave me a reason to laugh, let alone smile.
Actually, before we get into that, let's actually start by talking about the word, "worked;" and saying it's a bit of hyperbole, seeing as I didn't see a single red cent, in wages, from the time I was there, for over a year!
Anywho...The man was, for all intents and purposes, a tyrant. He was seldom in a good mood, his "innocent" kitchen teasing had an element of nastiness to it, and he exuded a Nicoise-air of holier than though douchiness at all times. On a regular basis, he would alternate between threatening to remove the cost of say a burned tray of crostini from my paycheck (which was fucking moot!) and making me clock out, then continue working...the most egregious instance, for nearly three hours.
I worked the entremetier station; which is to say I cooked the sides that went along with most of the main courses, as well as picking up hot apps. It did a pretty good job, especially when you consider I was still pretty green.
So, one night, the Manager came into the kitchen to tell our chef that Frank Bruni was in the dining room with four other people. He responded by essentially kicking everyone off the line so that he could cook all the dishes himself. Because, ya’know, that was the kind of trust he had in his staff…
Did I mention that it was my trail night and I was there to simply get a read on the kitchen...? Because it was. Oh, and did I also mention that the chef in question spoke with a, "very teek (bordering on comical) French ag-scent"? Because, he did.
So there I was, on my trail, watching this chef pick up all five dishes by himself; jumping between the pasta station, the grill and the range. It was a kind of poetry in motion...like, slam poetry, but poetry nonetheless.
Then, the wheels came off. Shortly around the time he was realizing he'd bitten off more than he could chew, one of the donkey servers came in and began to pepper him with questions. She was asking about substituting ingredients for a couple dishes, because she had a table apparently allergic to pine nuts, gluten, pollen, air-breathing, and quite possibly, common sense.
He was largely ignoring her, except to occasionally say "no" or “dat will make de deesh taste terr-i-bal!” As he began to plate, and finally asked for help, she returned with more questions; his back was to the kitchen door, a sauté pan in his hand and without turning around he said, “Excuse me, but can you please GET ZEE FUCK OUT OF MY KITCH-EN!” There was a moment of stunned silence before she slinked away, and then he went back to plating.
Looking back on it, I can laugh about it because it was equally ridiculous behavior; she shouldn’t have come into the kitchen peppering the chef with questions and he probably could’ve found a better way to ask her to come back and pester him when he wasn’t plating dinner for, probably, the most powerful food critic in the country.
In short, I thought it was shocking; but looking back on it, kinda funny.

What’s On My Mind This Week?

I used to grab a bite to eat at this Mexican place on 14th Street that’s owned by Chinese people. My buddy, JD calls them “China-Mex,” and I’ve been thinking of actual China-Mex food. I mean, who says I can’t stuff a burrito full of Beef & Broccoli or eat a Shrimp Lo Mein taco, if I want one…?