Hell’s Profession
The unglamorous life of a chef
It’s 95 degrees outside.
Sweat is already dripping and there’s no doubt this is the coolest it will be all night. Even as the sun sets and the night air loosens the sweltering stranglehold of the heat, the sweat will continue to pour well into the dark hours.
It’s 95 degrees outside. God, how I wish I could go outside.
Each day is a test of wills. Each day, we will try to push each other to the brink — the absolute breaking point — because neither of us wants to budge. Often — too often — it is I that is broken. Each day, I battle many foes. Each day, I lose almost every battle. There are a few victories, each worth savoring just a moment longer than it tactfully should be. But that’s OK. As the master rarely folds to the servant, it’s worth reveling.
America’s love affair with the chef is a new one.
While Julia Childs and Jacques Pepin graced early television screens with elegance and charm, lauding cooks in media has been rare. The launch of TV Food Network changed that.
Spearheaded by feisty-yet-loveable cajun Emeril Lagasse, the soon-to-be Food Network brought cooking to the masses, glamorizing the kitchen as simple and fun. Emeril gave way to Bobby Flay and Iron Chef: America, which turned culinary art into competition. This birthed Top Chef, Chopped, Hell’s Kitchen and countless other rip-offs. Americans began to see chefs as they would see others on television: as stars, luminaries in their respective fields. Chefs took a place next to athletes and actors as idols to young (and not so young) Americans.
Flay was now akin to Derek Jeter or Sly Stalone. Anthony Bourdain carries the torch of Charles Barkley, Sean Penn and the anti-hero. Rachel Ray surpassed them all to become a mini Oprah. The Age of the Celebrity Chef has reached its peak and the gods of Olympus are introduced by Alton Brown.
It’s interesting to see the gorge separating reality from media perception.
As lines grow outside of La Taqueria in the Mission after it was named “Best Burrito in America” by Fivethirtyeight.com, or as masses flock to Tex Wasabi’s for barbecue-sushi fusion because Guy Fieri is behind the venture, dozens, if not hundreds of restaurants come and go as quickly as the common cold. While many of these eateries fail because on their own accord, the expectation of the diner has exponentially risen over recent years.
What once was a simple escape from mom’s cooking (both for mom and the family), has turned into a whirlwind adventure of the palate. Anyone with Bravo and a Yelp account now sees him or herself as a Michelin inspector. “Wow me, or else.” Every diner is now an expert, trusting not the menu — or, by god, the chef — but leaning on their peers and their own limited understanding to decide whether a restaurant lives or dies, much like Roman emperors in the Colosseum.
Each meal must resemble that of Batali or Morimoto, achievable of the greatest number of likes on Instagram. Each plate must top the previous, even if the preceding dish was served at the French Laundry. Food has moved beyond life necessity. Food is now competition.
It’s 95 degrees outside.
It’s easily 20 degrees hotter in the kitchen. Burners flaring, salamander ablaze, ovens roaring, the grill spewing flames. Finding reprieve in the walk-in, a soothing 41 fahrenheit. It’s short lived, as this backup of spinach is rushed to the line. It’s mid-dinner rush and there are tickets hanging. Swig some water, wipe the sweat from my brow, wash my hands and jump back into the fire.
New orders are coming in, all with modifiers. Of course with modifiers. Why would they want what we put on the menu? Who am I to know what tastes meld with others?
“Can we do the scallops without guanciale?”
“NO!” I want to reply. “They will eat what I give them!”
But tonight, there is no time for battle. There is no energy.
“Yeah,” I say defeated, yet smugly. “But it’s gonna taste stupid.”
Tickets continue to pile up as I longingly gaze out of the window.
It’s 95 degrees outside. God, how I wish I was outside.
The prestige that being a chef carries has grown through the years. What once was seen as a middle-of-the-road job has become an exciting and career.
“You dropped out of college? Well, what do you do?”
“Well, I’m a chef.”
“Oh! You’re a chef…”
Everyone loves knowing a chef. “Can you cook for me sometime?” “What’s the best way to keep my chicken juicy?” “You should try my cooking sometime. I’m a pretty good cook, myself…”
Everyone seems to think it goes just as it does on TV.
Chopping and dicing; simmering and sauteéing; rush, rush, rush to beat the clock — plating a perfect dish just in time for the server to whisk it away.
But that’s rarely how it goes. Life in the kitchen is often less hectic than perceived. Prep time is often calm and fun. It’s the rare time when we can enjoy each others company as well as appreciate our ingredients. But once service starts, know it’s go time and asses will get whooped.
Cooking is a physically, mentally and emotionally demanding job. As popular of the culinary world has become, the majority of service industry workers live at or below the poverty line. It is purely a labor of love to cook for a living. One does not become a chef to get wealthy.
The prestige of being a chef may garner attention outside of the restaurant. but within its confinements, you are no better than the dishwasher. Once a diner is seated, any accolades or praise you thought were deserved evaporate like boiling water. It’s all about what’s next. And if that fails to impress, you may well be living below the poverty line soon enough.
It’s 75 degrees outside.
Our night has wound down and there are but stragglers left. As we wipe down the lowboy, knowing cold beer awaits, all I can think about is getting in my car and driving. Not driving home, necessarily, but just driving. Windows down, stereo blasting, speeding down the highway, getting away from here as quickly as possible. I wish I could drive until the sun rose, calling wherever I happened to be home. I wish I could do something else, anything else, even just for the night. As the bartender pours our beers, I lumber up to the bar and muster a smile before I take a swig.
It’s 75 degrees outside. God, how I wish I was outside.
The rise of the celebrity chef has not only changed the diner. It has changed the chef.
The desire to be famous is a virus running rampant throughout America and it has infected as many aspiring Cat Cora clones as it has wannabe Kim Kardashians.
Focus is split between the menu and the media. As much time is spent prepping food as it is spent prepping for an interview. While marketing, promotion and media coverage is necessary to help a restaurant grow, it should focus on the establishment, not just the chef.
I once worked for a woman obsessed with being on TV. She wanted to be the next Rachel Ray (She was Sandra Lee, at best). She said it would help build recognition for the restaurant. The place had been open for two months.
You know what would build recognition for the restaurant? Putting out good food for more than two months.
A friend of mine worked for a chef who competed on Next Iron Chef: America. Said chef rarely knew what was going on at the restaurant, despite regularly being there, but always made time for media appearances.
This is not all chefs, celebrity or otherwise. Chris Cosentino recently gave a beautiful, yet emotionally draining speech at MAD4 about the (figurative and literal) ills of chef stardom. He suffered, his restaurant suffered and his family suffered. Yeah, the checks were nice, but it was strenuous.
But this is what it has become to be a chef. It’s not just about crafting a menu, forging a style and feeding your community. It’s about crafting a brand, forging an image and building a fanbase.
It’s 95 degrees outside.
I don’t want to go to work. I want to go to the beach, or the park, or somewhere. Just not to work. Not to where there are modifiers or fake food allergies. Not to where they don’t want what I make, just something similar, with the sauce on the side. If I could be anywhere, it’d still be sweating over a grill. But that grill would be burning charcoal in the park. I’d be marinating carne asada, fawning over heirloom tomatoes and caressing garden-picked peppers. I’d be hanging out with my friends, who are eagerly awaiting whatever I dish up. I’d be leaning over burning white coals, next to a cooler full of iced up High Life. If someone has a problem with the food, “Go Yelp about it!” I’d roar. We’d all share a laugh. “If you don’t like it, you cook the damn food!”
It’s 95 degrees outside. God, how I wish I was outside.
