Sous Chef: 24 Hours on the Line

by Gibney, Michael

  The station is messy. You take this opportunity to do a clean sweep of it. You look around the kitchen. Everybody is red-faced and sweaty. But they, too, are tidying their stations. They’re folding their towels, changing their spoon water, surveying their mise en place. They slug seltzer from quart containers, belch, and stretch. They have made it through the push. And so have you.

  Just then you remember that you have half a cigarette that you clipped earlier on before service started. You extract the soggy packet from your pocket. The cardboard is frayed, the cigarettes bent out of shape. You pluck up the clip with a fishy pair of fingernails.

  “Off line,” you say, and make your way past Warren toward the loading dock. Chef winks at you as you pass him. You smile and raise an eyebrow. Out back you kick the door open and light up your smoke.

  MESSAGE

  THE KITCHEN IS QUIET WHEN YOU COME BACK. LIKE A BATTLEFIELD after the defeated have made their retreat. There are still plenty of customers in the dining room—we don’t officially close for another hour—but the night’s vise grip has slackened significantly. Hussein stands at the pass examining a handful of tickets that have arrived in your absence. You have a gander—mostly desserts.

  “You good, Don Juan?” you say.

  “Claro,” Warren says, tossing a neatly folded towel onto his station’s spick-and-span tabletop. “We got nothing,” he says, running a hand suavely through his blond locks.

  “Good,” you say. “Start that slow breakdown.”

  You find Chef in the office, changing into street clothes. His droopy boxer shorts and scrunched-up tube socks humanize him. “Nice job today,” he says, slipping into a pair of loose-fitting fleece pants. “You really picked up the slack for your boy.”

  “Thanks, Chef,” you say. “Why does everybody keep calling him my boy? I hate that kid.”

  “Yeah,” Chef says, pulling on his overcoat. “Tell me about it.”

  “And he’s getting worse every day,” you say. “I don’t know what his deal is, but he really needs to pull it together.”

  “Well, I mean, he knows his shit. He’s a good cook. And when he’s not rip-shit hungover …”

  “Yeah, but when is he ever not?” you say.

  “Yeah,” Chef says.

  “I mean, seriously. And poor Warren? Get outta here. That guy works a hell of a lot harder, and faster, and cleaner, and he has to be cleaning up fuckface’s messes every time he turns around. And Juan’s like thirty-two. Could you imagine that? Working entremet for someone ten years younger than you? And, Chef, I gotta tell ya, I was on that station today after him—ramshackle, bro.”

  “Yeah,” Chef says, biting at a hangnail, staring thoughtfully at the wall. He exhales deeply. “What do you think I should do?” he says, looking up at you. “Should I get someone new?”

  “I mean, I think we gotta at least bring a couple people in to trail. Throw Raffy back on prep, scare some sense into him … What about Warren?”

  “Not ready,” he says, sputtering out a piece of cuticle.

  “I don’t know, Chef, he’s—”

  “Not yet, man,” Chef says. “Trust me. Warren needs another six months in the pot. Do you really think he could handle fish? On a night like tonight? Hell, no.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” you say. It crosses your mind to bring up the virtue of trial by fire, but it’s usually best to just defer to Chef in these situations. He has been evaluating cooks much longer than you have, after all. But something in you wishes to disagree with him. “Raffy is just such a shithead, though,” you say. “And frankly, I’m tired of having to jump in for him every time he decides to tie one on.”

  “Aww, poor baby,” Chef says, pinching your cheek, giving you a light smack. “We’re cooks, don’t forget.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Listen,” Chef says. “I’ll have a talk with him this week, after the weekend’s through. In the meantime, let’s get an ad out and see who’s out there. Never know, maybe we’ll get someone good.”

  “That’s true,” you say ruminatively. “I hadn’t even considered that.”

  Suddenly the idea of finding someone new shifts from being a problem to being an exciting prospect. Your instinct is to go for homegrown talent, to cultivate from the ground up, rear cooks from commis through chef de partie and onward. But who knows what blue-chip fish cooks are out there looking for work?

  “All right, anyways, whatever,” he says. “We’ll figure it out later. But now I need to get the hell out of here. What time is it? Shit, eleven-thirty? My wife’s gonna kill me.”

  “Wife? Maria?”

  “No, Julia.”

  “Oh, ex-wife.”

  “Technically we never got divorced.”

  “What happened to Maria? I liked her.”

  “She thought I was cheating on her.”

  “Who’d she think you were cheating on her with?”

  “My wife,” he says.

  “And now you’re meeting up with your ex-wife?”

  “I only have one wife. Julia. It’s the same person. Listen, it’s a long story,” he says. “Anyways, whatever, I’m out.” He grabs up his bag and heads for the door. “You’re on brunch tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” you say.

  “You’re in early, then, right? What, eight, eight-thirty?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “All right, just keep an eye on the pass until Stef’s done with inventory and then get the hell out of here.”

  “Oui, Chef,” you say.

  You love working the pass in Chef’s stead, getting a taste of what it’s like to drive the bus.

  “Oh, and Hussein was saying something about there being dick for staff meal today?”

  “Right, yeah—”

  “Just make sure those guys get something. Herring, pasta, whatever. I don’t give a shit. That’s just the last thing I need to hear outta Marcus’s stupid mouth, some shit about staff meal. I’ve had it up to here with that guy.”

  “Oui, Chef.”

  “Oh, and another thing,” he says. “Rojas told me he found a pan in the garbage can out back today. Any idea what’s up with that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” you say. He’s talking about the pan you broke toasting the filberts. “The handle broke off.”

  “So you throw it out?”

  “Yeah, I thought—”

  “Your girlfriend gets sick, has to have her tits chopped off, you gonna throw her out, too?”

  “No—”

  “Come on, baby,” he says. “If you ever wanna make the big bucks, you gotta start using your head for something other than a hat rack.”

  “Oui, Chef,” you say. “Sorry.”

  “All right, papi,” he says. “Whatever. Don’t worry about it. Have a good rest of the night. And, again,” he says, slapping you five, “nice job on the line today.”

  “Thanks, Chef,” you say.

  “Later,” he says.

  And out he goes.

  With Chef gone and service rounding to a close, you have a minute to take a breather in the office and ready yourself mentally for the morning. Brunch is always a catastrophe, usually right out of the box and always right to the bitter end. Tourists show up early; leftover partygoers stay late. And they all want their food fast, so you turn tables quickly. You’ll do another three hundred covers—at least. But whereas Friday night dinner service is a seven-hour meal period, the three hundred you’ll do for brunch tomorrow will be crammed into a five-hour slot, ten to three. So it is important to be well prepared, well in advance, to keep the ball from rolling away.

  Rogelio and Brianne get a head start on brunch mise en place on Fridays. They do the bulk of the heavy lifting, usually saving only the à la minute work—hollandaise, circulator eggs, etcetera—for you in the morning. When it’s busy, though, as it has been today, they tend to accomplish less of this work, because they get caught up in resupplying the line. You’ve instructed them to leave a note for you on s
uch occasions, so you know what you’ll be walking into in the morning. You grab up your clipboard and see what it says:

  Cheff,

  Las papas de los hasbrowns están cortados en la nevera. Los huevos están rotos. El tocino están en los sheet trays.

  Vamos a terminar todo en la mañana junto. Te amamos, putito.

  XOXOX Rojas y Bri

  So they’ve managed to crack the eggs, dice the potatoes, and sheet up the bacon. There is still plenty to do, of course—the sliced mojama, the pulled duck confit, the coriander puree, the herb yogurt—but it could be worse. They have gotten some things done. Some of the bigger projects, actually. Anyway, both of them are due in for doubles tomorrow at 0600, so they’ll have four hours before service starts to put together the rest.

  That should be plenty of time, you think.

  You notice an arrow drawn in the bottom right corner. You flip the page to find another message, this one from someone else altogether. It’s a hyperrealistic pencil drawing of a penis, complete with a hairy pair of testicles. From the head of the penis springs a dialogue bubble in which are inscribed, in very neat, almost architectural script, the words Sac up and get some drinks with me tonight dickface. This note is not signed, but it’s got Stefan’s name written all over it.

  It’s ten till midnight now.

  You begin to realize how little sleep you’ll be getting.

  So much for getting out at ten o’clock, you think. So much for meeting up with Vera. She’s gonna be so pissed. You pull out your phone and type her up a message:

  HEY BABE. CRAZINESS TONIGHT. HAD TO WORK THE

  LINE. RAFFY WENT DOWN. I’LL EXPLAIN LATER. I’M

  SOOO SORRY. DRINKS STILL? PLEASE?

  You hope it’s not all gone to smash. After the way today has gone, you could sure use a drink with Vera.

  You’re waiting for her response when Hussein pokes his head into the office.

  “Chef,” he says, “we need you on the line.”

  “Come on, Hussein,” you say. “You can expedite, can’t you? I’ve been here since nine in the morning, man.”

  “No, Chef,” he says. “It’s Chef Juan. He need your help with the fish.”

  “Ugh … Orders?”

  “Yes, Chef. Many orders.”

  “Son of a bitch,” you say.

  Out on the line, Warren is getting rolled. A battery of tickets has piled up on the fish side since you’ve been gone. He’s doing his best to get it all done, but he is struggling. He is utterly flummoxed. All the garnish is set and he’s attempting to prepare the protein to go with it, but he’s having trouble volleying both at once. He can’t do it alone. He’s clumsily arroséing a skate wing when you arrive. The butter has gone black in the pan, and the skate is without sear, a pale white save for the scorched butter solids collecting in its crenellations. Some wrecked accoutrements lie cold and moistureless on a drop tray; an emulsified sauce boils at full tilt on the flat-top, shattering into a million pieces. It’s a real hatchet job here.

  “How you doing, bud?” you say, clapping him on the shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Oui, Chef,” he says. “Just workin’ a couple orders.”

  His ears have gone a vibrant red. There is a deluge of sweat pooling on his crumpled brow, dripping into his eyes. He blinks it out with his long blond lashes, fixes his eyes on his work. He is trying very hard and failing. Chef was right—he’s not ready.

  “¡Oye, sous jefe! Limpiarlo?” Julio says, bumptiously. “¿Que pasó Juanita, todo bien? Quiero limpiar! You no ready, baby?”

  “Fuck you, Julio, you fucking mutt!” Warren says.

  “Yeah, chill, Julio,” you say, throwing over a glare. “Not the time.”

  “Okay, Chef,” Hussein says. “I need it table 14. They wait very long.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Hussein, give us a second,” you say. “What’s with you people? We’re not fucking pulpos!” You smack a fresh set of pans down on the flat-top. “Come on, Warren, let’s do this shit,” you say. “Me and you. Don’t listen to these guys, it’s just me and you here.”

  “Oui, Chef,” he says. “Thanks.”

  It sounds like tears in his voice.

  Just then, as you’re reaching into the lowboy for a fresh piece of skate, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You take a quick look. It’s a message from Vera:

  IN BED BABE. EXHAUSTED. CAN’T DO IT. MAYBE

  TOMORROW. XO

  God damn it, you think.

  Stefan materializes at the pass. “Everything all right out here?” he says.

  “Livin’ the dream,” you say.

  “You get the message?” he says.

  “What message?” you say.

  “What do you mean, what message?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? What fucking message, guy?”

  “The one on your clipboard,” he says, with a full-faced grin.

  “Oh. That. Yeah,” you say, humorlessly.

  “So?” he says. “Drinks?”

  You look back down at the message from Vera. You look at Warren’s incinerated skate wing smoldering on the stove. What a mess, you think.

  “Yeah,” you say. “We better get some drinks.”

  CLOSE

  OF THE MANY APHORISMS EMANATING FROM THE KITCHEN, one of the sounder ones is the notion that you are only as good as your final plate. It doesn’t matter how well you’ve performed throughout the evening if you can’t offer the same level of care and execution to the last diner that you did to the first. Judging by the dishes you’re assembling now, you feel comfortable believing that you are good at what you do. Your fish is cooked perfectly, your plating is debonair. This meal is soigné, as are the people waiting to consume it.

  “Service!” you yell, and Hussein and the back waiters scuttle over to retrieve the plates. As the food walks, you unfasten the top button of your coat. “Start breaking down,” you say to the cooks.

  “Oui, Chef,” they say.

  “LOI, Chef?” Warren asks.

  “Not sure yet,” you say. “You know the rig. Don’t throw anything out. I’ll go have a look now.”

  You trudge through the kitchen doors and into the dining room to determine whether the last order is in.

  Out front the atmosphere is alien. Lamplight and candles offer a sharp contrast to the kitchen’s fluorescent wash, and it takes your eyes a minute to adjust. When your vision has come to, you take in the scene.

  Guests are sparse. The few that remain are mostly two-tops, couples scattered here and there engaged in intimate colloquy and canoodling. A stray quartet of burly, steak-eating men huddles around a distant table, merrily guffawing over tall glasses of dark beer. A small gaggle of pert college girls giggle and gossip with Marcus at the far corner of the bar. The mood is generally pleasant, and over the murmur of quiet conversation can be heard the tinkle of jazz. On each face is a look of serenity. Everyone is happy. It might bring you joy to think that these guests are happy because of something you’ve provided them, but sheer exhaustion prevents your thoughts from wending that way.

  You spot Hussein standing beside the service bar, surveying the dining room with great attention. In this environment he carries himself with an aplomb that goes unnoticed in the harsh light of the kitchen. His posture is erect and respectable, his countenance cool and collected. He is dignified out here despite his rank.

  “Talk to me, papi,” you whisper. “LOI?”

  “No, no,” he whispers back, waving a finger. “I think one more order.” He directs your attention to the group of underage gigglers at the end of the bar.

  “It’s ten past one, homeboy,” you say.

  “Friends of Mr. Marcus,” he says.

  “Asshole,” you say. “He and his wife just had a kid, right?”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  Just then, Marcus notices you down the bar. He gives you a nod and excuses himself from his conversation with the girls. He makes his way over to you with long arrogant strides, his gait m
arked by intoxication’s signature self-awareness.

  “Hey, man, I got one more order coming in,” he says. “We’re taking it right now, then that’s it.”

  It’s happening: that last table on a busy night that manages to squeeze in an order after closing time. There’s frustration in the moment, of course—everyone is battered and wants nothing more than to be done. But nobody is surprised, because it happens all the time. And there’s some solace in it, too. It’s good sometimes to know that there is only one more to go. To know that in ten or fifteen minutes it will all be over. Because you can do anything for ten or fifteen minutes.

  “That’s cool,” you say. “Always ready. How did we do with the Times?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “They were fine, it was great. Just do me a favor and take care of these girls, arright? Make it nice, yeah?” His lips peel back in a wicked grin, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth stained purple with wine. “How hot are these broads, bro?” he whispers, fisting you one in the arm.

  You raise an eyebrow and have a look down at them.

  “No problem, sir,” you say, and make your way back to the kitchen.

  You return to find that the cooks have begun the closing procedures. They’ve delivered all the smallwares—cutting boards, pots and pans, foaming guns, and so forth—to Kiko to be washed. They’ve kitted up their mise en place in plastic delis and Cambros, logged and labeled it, and tucked it away in their lowboys to be sorted out in the morning. They’ve doused all their stations’ surfaces with soapy water and are going at them with green scrubbies and squeegees. All that’s left after this is the postservice menu meeting.