Friday, February 18, 2011

My Job Is Unhealthy On Several Levels

Before Julie Powell made awkward obsessions with cooking and lesbian haircuts trendy, I was a foodie with a lesbian haircut. Listening to everyone talk about "depth of flavor" and "herbaceousness" now makes me want to vomit. That's my niche

I got a job in a restaurant kitchen two years ago. This was equal parts me trying to pursue my culinary dreams and me trying to spite my parents for wanting me to become a doctor or supreme court justice or engineer or accountant or drug addict or teacher or nurse or chef, in that order.

But I had a romanticized vision of what working in a kitchen would be like and I didn't know what I was getting myself into. 

1) Nobody uses copper pans or wears toques. Maybe they do in Le Bernadin or in France.
2) Nobody actually knows how to cook. 
3) Cooking the same thing every single day turns your brain into red-skinned mashed potatoes.

All of this is fine, I couldn't care less about toques and my brain. And the fact that nobody knows how to cook actually works to my benefit because I was promoted after a few months to a sous. Now, I mostly stand there like a limp noodle and boss people around.

The real issues I have with my job are:

A) It makes me fat.

When you're surrounded by food all day and it's all free and it's all made with massive quantities of butter, it's really hard to maintain my incredible, supermodel figure.

B) It makes me a massive bitch.

One time a perpetually irritable waitress forgot to put in an order for an 8-person table and would not stop complaining about how long her food was taking as if none of this was her fault. I pointed to the door and told her to "Get the fuck out of my kitchen." This was wrong on my part. I should have said, "Get the fuck out of the kitchen," lest I let all this power get to my head.

Recently, one of the cooks was working extremely slowly and decided to strike up a conversation about indie rock instead. I asked another cook to take his place and he responded, "Why don't you worry about yourself." I turned around, pointed my finger at his face, and said, "Watch the way you talk to me," and turned back around. I'm pretty sure he is going to quit soon. Then again, so am I.