I once sweated and burned over gas fumes and carbon stained pits of metal filled with scolding oil. Wearing all white I commit myself, half-heartedly to the grueling work of the professional kitchen.
I once thought romantically of this profession. Reality aggressively groped my genitals and gave a hearty tug. I awaken in pain. I find myself under fluorescent lights surrounded by stainless steel shelves, racks, tables and beams. A demoralizing voice dominates the kitchen noise; it barks commands. I place porcelain plates decorated with delicious morsels under warm lamps; an orange hue. Morsels, I would at times, rather eat than give away. The voice quiets for a moment to scrutinize my efforts laden on white plates. The face gives a nod of approval. Then the voice demands, more! Sometimes I love this work but I mostly hate it.
Service is complete. The doors of work fly open. With changed garments shedding our costume whiteswe lurch outdoors. Theres no sun. I won't see it again till my beloved day off in a fortnight. We are understaffed.
We can't go home. We won't. It's 1 am. We still heave robust breath from the rush of the evenings labors. Placed under a nose, remnants of fish, garlic and onions emit a gross fragrance from the nail beds of our battered fingers. From afar we smell good enough to eat. Splatters from hot peanut oil and clarified butter is barely rinsed from our faces. From afar our skin looks taut and young. We should long for a shower of hot mineral water and white vinegar. Instead, we choose to drink.
Some do coke, others pop pills. Iveon occasiondone both with a drink in hand. At the nearest tavern, we convene around pints of lager and ounces of bourbon. We jest and burst with laughter then reminisce of the nights service. Like veterans of war we recall the glory. How many did you kill? I collected this many ears. She survived the minefield. Twice! Then went back for her hat. There's little difference between war and cooking, save the life threatening danger. Not that it does not exist but thrives on a smaller scale in the kitchen. A cook may or may not die during service but he can kill someone. Be it a patron or a fellow cook. We live the disaster but chef gets the glory. Nay, we live the glory; chef takes the credit.
Food Workers Lament
JA Freeman
I once thought romantically of this profession. Reality aggressively groped my genitals and gave a hearty tug. I awaken in pain. I find myself under fluorescent lights surrounded by stainless steel shelves, racks, tables and beams. A demoralizing voice dominates the kitchen noise; it barks commands. I place porcelain plates decorated with delicious morsels under warm lamps; an orange hue. Morsels, I would at times, rather eat than give away. The voice quiets for a moment to scrutinize my efforts laden on white plates. The face gives a nod of approval. Then the voice demands, more! Sometimes I love this work but I mostly hate it.
Service is complete. The doors of work fly open. With changed garments shedding our costume whiteswe lurch outdoors. Theres no sun. I won't see it again till my beloved day off in a fortnight. We are understaffed.
We can't go home. We won't. It's 1 am. We still heave robust breath from the rush of the evenings labors. Placed under a nose, remnants of fish, garlic and onions emit a gross fragrance from the nail beds of our battered fingers. From afar we smell good enough to eat. Splatters from hot peanut oil and clarified butter is barely rinsed from our faces. From afar our skin looks taut and young. We should long for a shower of hot mineral water and white vinegar. Instead, we choose to drink.
Some do coke, others pop pills. Iveon occasiondone both with a drink in hand. At the nearest tavern, we convene around pints of lager and ounces of bourbon. We jest and burst with laughter then reminisce of the nights service. Like veterans of war we recall the glory. How many did you kill? I collected this many ears. She survived the minefield. Twice! Then went back for her hat. There's little difference between war and cooking, save the life threatening danger. Not that it does not exist but thrives on a smaller scale in the kitchen. A cook may or may not die during service but he can kill someone. Be it a patron or a fellow cook. We live the disaster but chef gets the glory. Nay, we live the glory; chef takes the credit.
Food Workers Lament
JA Freeman
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
Seems like a lonely field that throws you around like a rag dolll in between moments of fulfillment and camaraderie.