My First Stage

As my first year in the kitchen is coming to an end, I figured I should write about a few of the moments that allowed me to realize how much I love it in there. My first stage was probably the biggest "ah-ha" moment.
(Loose definition of stage: Working for free in someone else's kitchen in hopes of learning something while cleaning two cases of fava beans, sometimes in pursuit of a job)

First of all, I wouldn't have been able to muster the courage to show up to the stage had I not stumbled on the note Chef S left in my phone. It doesn't look like much, but a little encouragement from the Chef you admire most goes a long way. The guy is an animal on the line, one hell of a manager, and the best cook I've ever met. When I finish school, I'm going to show up wherever Chef S is working and beg for a job. I tell him this everyday, I hope he's taking this seriously.

By the time the stage rolled around, I’d been out of the kitchen for two weeks visiting culinary and grad schools and eating at all the places Chef S suggested. I thought I'd welcome a break from open flames and sharp knives, but after just a few days I was feeling serious open flame/sharp knife wthdrawals. I couldn't have my first stage be somewhere too intimidating, so I researched a place I'll call a “slump-buster.” The food wasn't anything to rave about, but my interest was really in their charcuterie program and their chef who is a reformed Chem major out of the University of Illinois. Stories like that, similar to mine, always intrigue me. It's a sure sign that the Chef really loves food. Anyway, I'd been nervous for days and I hadn't cooked since the off-season started, but getting my chef’s whites on was like putting on my favorite pair of running shoes. I finally felt relaxed again. Buttoning up my coat felt like a really good hug. All was back where it belonged. I’d been out of the kitchen for two weeks, and I realized that was more than enough. I felt like I was back at the DePaul Libarary packing up my notes, books, and calculator before walking into my ECON 350 final. My favorite place- Under pressure.

Finally...
I walk in. I’ve memorized their menu to the point that I could probably tell you what ink they’ve used after looking at it so closely. I find a corner and start setting up my station. It turns out they’ve hidden the cutting board, towels- everything I need. I can't figure out why they've made this some sort of treasure hunt...I can't even figure out how to turn on their pre-historic sink. I finally stumble on some towels and an apron. I fold them once….Okay, twice.
Should I ask what to do? Yeah.
I ask what to do. Slowly but surely, they uncover that I’m kind of a half-wit that has just figured out how to hold a knife properly. At first they're pretty cold to me. Peeling garlic, freaking fava beans. What’s next? Stuffing sausage for what feels like a decade. Once I prove that I can bang out a case of favas pretty fast, Chef asks me what I’m interested in. I pull out my list- I get my hands on all sorts of things I saw on the menu. Chicken balontine, rosemary and thyme bisquits, whatever I ask- they let me do. Chef starts letting me try what we make from their sausages to their pate. I keep my head down, mouth shut, and my hands busy. Service rolls around. Chef comes up and says, “Shannon, you’re goona shadow Jimbo on fish. Don’t be afraid to shove him out of the way and get yourself in there.”
I start thinking of all the maniacal tasks I can plot to keep myself off the line. I’m panicked.Should I just start taking apart the microwave so that I don’t have to go out there? I face the facts. I’m getting on the line. Towels…spoons..what else do I need….umm….I’m too scared to think. Heat. Orders come in and I’m trying to watch Jimbo pick these dishes up….I can’t catch anything. I ask about the mise, trying to put the dishes together through ingredients. I’m lost. I’m sweating. I’m the the freaking way. I think to myself, either I gotta get out of the way or I’m goona get pushed out of the way.

Sink or swim.

I grab a pan and start cooking. I listen to all the mussel orders come in and start picking them up. Jimbo is working around me like I’m F150 parked in front of the burner. I’m still in the way. I clean when people stop to breathe. I stock their mise when I see nine pans running low.I’ve started picking up the Sea Bass and the mussel dish has been mine for awhile. When I finally look up, it’s 9 pm. Lead-line cook Jamie has started calling me "Kid" and has given me some minute plating responsibilities. He's beginning to warm up to me. "Kid, did you try the chicken yet? Kid, have you seen our flank steak pick up?" At this point he's just handing me the pans when he wants them plated. When service starts to slow, the professionalism slacks and they get comfortable with me on the line. They've made a handful of blonde jokes gauging how thick my skin is. They've found out I can hold my own with the boys. Service ends. I clean the hell out of their stations. I clean the coolers. I scrub the walls. Chef R’s voice from back at work is echoing in my head, explaining to his little drones that we are always an employee of that restaurant and to uphold our standards especially cleanliness everywhere we go. I clean harder. They stop me to offer a PBR. They ask me back. What did I learn?

I belong in the kitchen.

I walk in the next day and Chef literally puts a suckingling pig in my arms as I walk in the door.“Take it apart but keep the skin in tact. Not because we need it, because I want you to learn.” A delivery comes in the front of the restaurant. I hear Chef say, “The young lady in the back can sign for that.” My lack of experience and knowledge becomes a little bit of a joke, but also Chef's pet project. At 9 pm when service starts to slow down again, Chef remembers that we have halibut waiting to be butchered in the cooler and he takes me in the back to show me how to butcher my first flat fish.
I came in the third day for a few hours to make Chef chicken liver pate. We work together for a few hours and compare notes on our recipes. I needed something to pair with it. Chef hands over his credit card and sends me to the store and asks me to grab his some Marlboroughs and Skittles. On my walk to the store, I kept thinking that there was no way I would ever get sick of this. Cooking is too much fun, I can't believe I can get paid for this...the kitchen is like my playground.

Chef wrote me an email the next day saying I had a natural talent, a promising future and they were all rooting for me in my next adventure. Is it dorky to say how much that means to me?That was one of the best moments of my culinary career. After a little push from Chef S and smidgen of courage, I got through my first stage, they actually asked me back and then told me I had a promising future. That was the culmination of my first "ah-ha" moment and also the moment I decided against grad school in favor of culinary school. I know what I want- I want to be a better cook and I'm going to go do that even if that means leaving the guidance of an awesome chef and the best group of line cooks I could imagine.

Thanks again Grocery Bistro, and good luck with your new venture.