Upon graduating from college, I entered the business world, in the finance field. Feeling unfulfilled, I found myself dreaming about going to culinary school and becoming a chef. It didn't take me long to end up as a line cook at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago. I left, on good terms, after two years, thinking it was the beginning of something when it was, in fact, the beginning of the end. The dream would soon become a nightmare. What follows is a recap of those brutal years.
TGI Friday’s: This dump was my first kitchen job. I remember only a few things. One was being disgusted by the food I had to prepare. The manager's leadership style consisted mainly of him making suggestive remarks about the other cooks’ alleged homosexuality. That at least provided some comic relief in an otherwise gruesome workplace situation, but I didn't hang in there long enough to become one of his targets.
Spago: This was a positive experience working with dedicated professionals and the best ingredients. Wolfgang Puck appeared to love my edamame puree, as he was constantly dipping his finger in it.
Fancy countryside resort: Despite the veneer of traditional, old-world elegance, the kitchen was graceless. Line cooks were high on various substances. The number three guy in the kitchen, a real character, drank—in the walk-in cooler—Kentucky Gentleman bourbon straight from the bottle throughout his shift. The executive chef sequestered himself in his office all day long, pretending to work. Word has it he was running his dog-breeding business during business hours. That was at least a step up from the previous executive chef, who ran his own independent, high-profit-margin catering business out of the kitchen while charging all of the necessary inventory to the restaurant. The comedian Kathy Griffin dined there one night and upset a couple of cooks by making them stay very late. The next day they proudly told me they'd tampered with her food, which I told them was disgusting. I was known as “the guy with the attitude.”
French place number one: The chef seemed like a cool guy, but he'd flip out when I stored my knives in the kitchen instead of in the upstairs storeroom. I was stubborn, so I kept doing it until he lost it on me one night. I walked out immediately, right in the middle of dinner service. In retrospect, not my finest hour. I saw the guy about a year later in a park, and he gave me a tentative, friendly wave.
Modern Southern cuisine restaurant: On my first day in the kitchen (opening night for the restaurant) the chef/owner made some biscuits with the texture of whatever the opposite of “light and airy” is—a bad sign in a place allegedly serving Southern cuisine. Dinner service was a chaotic disaster. The next night, the chef asked me to be the main person on the line. Maybe he didn't want to look bad in front of his employees again. I declined, smelling the perfect setup for failure. It was his place and his responsibility to do that job until he’d figured things out. He fired me a few days later.
Moroccan restaurant: The food was good, but the owner, a high-strung, explosive Moroccan, micromanaged me. One day he told me I couldn't keep my tongs in my back pocket. That was it for me. I lasted three days there.
Moose Club: The pattern I'd fallen into of leaving jobs suddenly put me in the position of having to take jobs that made me embarrassed. The “kitchen manager,” son of the recently-deceased top exec of the club, had arrived there directly from Wendy’s. The other cooks did all the real work on the line. One day I asked him to go to the store and buy some garlic for a special I was making. He returned with chopped garlic in a jar. When I looked at him in disbelief, he had no idea why. I told him to stop wrapping the baked potatoes in aluminum foil because it steams them instead of giving them crispy skin. His reply: “That's the way we've always done it.”
The guy resented me because he thought I was trying to make him look bad. One day, I gave him a little lip in response to his foolish comment during dinner service. After service was completed, he called me to the office and said, “You're terminated.” I'd never done this before, and I've never done it since, but I went outside and waited for him by his truck to blast him. I called him a “whiny little baby,” a “hack,” and a few other choice words. It felt good.
Assisted living facility: I went by this place that always had a “help wanted” sign outside, and every time I wondered how desperate I’d have to be to work there. Eventually I found out. At the high end, these places have quality kitchens. This establishment, however, was at the very low end. The director of the facility was ecstatic when I came in in response to an advertised job. Then, after hiring me, he left me completely alone in the kitchen for three straight days to cook breakfast, lunch and dinner for a hundred people. No restaurant allows customers to walk into the kitchen, but this happened all the time there. When I saw them come through the kitchen door to “discuss” something, I'd immediately walk out the back door, not returning until I was sure they’d gone. It was comedy sketch material. I lasted about a month, until the depression of the place overwhelmed me. A few months later, I read in the paper that the owner of the facility was arrested for the conditions he was keeping these old people in.
French restaurant number two: I should’ve known better than to take a job that required me to be a dishwasher in addition to being a line cook, but once again, I was desperate for a job. Being French, the chef was obsessed with every aspect of my performance as a line cook, which my dual role as a dishwasher interfered with. Sometimes I’d have friendly conversations with him in the kitchen which he seemed to enjoy. And then the next day he’d tell me that he was just observing me, noticing that I thought I had time to chat with him when I should have been doing other things. One day he noticed that I hadn't stored the foie gras to his liking and lost it on me. I was going to put in my notice at the end of the day, but he beat me to the punch and fired me.
Breakfast and lunch bistro: The chef, a decent guy who was good at his job, was high-strung. When tickets started coming in, a switch would flip and he’d lose his composure. One day there was a street fair nearby. Customers flocked in when it was over, and the incompetent front of the house seated them all at once. This guy yelled at me for two hours, telling me exactly how far behind we were on every ticket, which just made it worse for me. Later, I told him it was my worst day at work ever, and I couldn't go through it again. He sounded understanding. But it happened again in a week, with an even bigger crowd, and this time it was about three hours of yelling. I forced myself to stay until all the tickets were cleared, and then I told him sayonara. Somehow, this surprised and upset him. He liked me. When I called the manager a few days later about my final check, she apologized.
Greasy spoon diner-type neighborhood place: This was the final whistlestop on my culinary journey. The silent chef/owner, who wore a soiled t-shirt that barely made it over his fat belly, drank beer all day. When no tickets were up, he'd leave the kitchen to smoke and drink outside. So much for getting any training in a new place. He barely talked to me. The guy worked like a total slob. And like the hack he was, he put all of his plates in the microwave before they went out to the dining room. One night when I couldn't find something that he wanted me to find on the line, he told me I should go home. Without saying a word, I left. I was about the fourth cook to leave in a month.