Sous Chef: 24 Hours on the Line

by Gibney, Michael

  And so the monkey business has commenced. Chef coats have been unbuttoned, hats and gloves have been doffed, and the boys have taken to cracking each other with wet side-towels and cackling wildly over adolescent jokes about dongs and buttcheeks.

  It’s an important moment, this, our gallows humor. It boosts morale, serves up an extra portion of joy. What a sin it is to have to interrupt it with more work.

  “One more table, guys,” you say, setting off a chorus of groans. “They’re putting it in now.”

  “Uh-uh, Chef,” Julio says, defiantly. “I already turned my grill off.”

  “Well,” you say, “turn it back on.”

  “We closed ten minutes ago,” he says.

  “I don’t give a shit what time it is, you’re not done until I say so.”

  “This is bullshit,” he says.

  But Julio knows he’s in no position to argue with you. He throws down his scrubby in a huff and fires up the grill.

  “That’s more like it,” you say.

  Just then, you spot Hussein in the dish area, picking through a bus tub of dirty plates in search of something salvageable to eat. It’s a pitiful scene; heartbreaking to imagine him returning home to his wife and children, smelling of the kitchen, with nothing but scraps in his belly.

  “Oh, and Julio,” you say. “Now that the grill is back on, why don’t you fire off a few hanger steaks?”

  “Yeah, right,” he says. “For who?”

  “For the back waiters,” you say.

  “No way,” he says. “I’m not here to cook for them. No ticket, no food.”

  “I’m not asking,” you say. “Put ’em on the fucking grill.”

  Even though you’ve used his misfortune as an opportunity to turn the screw on Julio for his tactless behavior, Hussein still sees this as a Promethean gesture on your part.

  “Thank you, Chef,” he says earnestly.

  “Take this, too,” you say, lobbing him a pint-size deli of pommes purees. You give him a nod and make your way to the office.

  Stefan is in there putting the finishing touches on his inventory grids.

  “Bro, what the hell are you still doing here?” he says.

  “No shit,” you say, plopping down into your chair. “I’m about to break out. You done with inventory? Can you cover the line?”

  “We closed ten minutes ago, guy.”

  “Yeah, but there’s one more order being punched in now. Some bimbos Marcus brought in. Bar menu.”

  “Pshhh. Whatever,” he says. “Here, have a cold one.” He opens the minifridge, looses a can of pilsner, and lets it fly your way. You crack it open. The sound is therapeutic. You take a swig and let it linger. You throw your feet up on the desk and close your eyes.

  “So, where to?” Stefan says, after a moment. You open one eye, train it on him. He cracks a can of beer for himself, flicks away the suds with a snap of the wrist. You inhale deeply and close your eyes again.

  “I don’t know, man,” you say with an exhale.

  “Don’t be a dick, dude,” he says. “You already said you were down for drinks. So where to? Fat Black? The Inveterate?”

  “But we have beers here,” you say.

  “Bro,” he says.

  “Sure,” you say, swallowing another guzzle. “The Inveterate. Fat Black will be a shit show tonight.”

  “All right, great,” he says. “The Inveterate it is.”

  He stands up, tilts his head back, and sends his beer home in a single blast. He crushes the can and pitches it into the bin. “Lemme go close this bitch up and then we can break out,” he says, barreling toward the door, stopping only to belch before pushing his way back into the kitchen.

  A relieved fatigue descends upon you when he leaves. The office is yours again now. Your asylum. Your refuge. What kitchen clangor can still be heard through the walls fades to nothing. No more burned hazelnuts. No more monkfish roulades. No more three hundred covers. It is all over. Tonight is through. You kick your shoes off onto the floor beside you. You fold your arms over your chest. You sink even farther into your chair.

  The last order is always a paltry one: charcuterie, salad, mussels—low-hanging fruit of this sort, which the cooks are able to dispense with lickety-split. That most late-night diners are willing to receive the food “as it comes” makes the work even easier. Once Hussein scoops up the final plate, the gas feeds are cut, the heat lamps are shut, and the cooks launch the terminal clean-down. They pull up the black carpet runners and shake loose the crumbs that have collected throughout the night. They remove the slim-jims from their trash chutes, knot up the thick black bags, and deliver them to the dumpster out back of the loading dock. They set all the ovens on a cleaning cycle and set all the overnight projects on a slow roll. Then they sweep. Then they scrub the equipment. Then they mop the floors. Then they polish the stainless to a shine.

  Within twenty minutes, the kitchen is vestal again, as though nothing ever happened. A few sponges and squeegees and sprays of the hose, and every vestige of activity is wiped away. If it weren’t for the Z report, there would be no evidence to suggest we did twenty thousand dollars in sales today. Three hundred meals, along with everything it took to get there, exist now in memory alone.

  After the clean-down, the cooks get changed. It’s at this time that they begin discussing their prep lists for the next day. Tonight’s business has decimated mise en place. Everyone’s agenda for tomorrow is full to the gunwales. Julio anticipates several hours of meat fabrication, while Warren and VinDog brood over daunting amounts of sauce and vegetable work. Even Catalina, who usually sets herself up for days at a time, vents about what a tough day she has ahead of her. Some tasks can be delegated to Rogelio and Brianne, but the two of them already have plenty of their own work to do, so they can’t pick up much. It’s beginning to look like the whole team is going to be in the weeds. And the fact that brunch service will be happening at the same time only exacerbates things. Time and space and manpower will be in very short supply. So it is important to hash out a strategy tonight. Who has large projects that will consume ovens and stovetops? Who needs to get in and out of the dehydrators and circulators? What is going on the list for the A.M. crew, and what can people do to help one another out? These are the questions that get batted around while the cooks take turns slipping into and out of the cramped locker room.

  It’s this discussion that populates the menu meeting. When the cooks have figured out all their individual responsibilities, put together a rough list of tasks for the A.M. crew, and divvied up any overlap items (things that are used on multiple sections, such as onion soubise or crispy garlic, which could be done by prep cooks but always turn out better in abler hands), they present the information to Stefan. As closing sous chef, it is ultimately he who decides their fate. He is the one who knows what tomorrow’s reservation books look like. He is the one who has some sense of what Chef might be fiddling with for tomorrow’s menu. He is the one who, at the end of every day, hunches over paperwork, calculating pars and protein counts and product in-house, deciding what needs to be added to standing orders and what needs to be fetched from the market in the morning. So he is the one who finalizes the prep lists.

  When all the cooks have finished changing clothes, everyone convenes at the pass and the meeting begins.

  Suddenly the sound of printers buzzing jolts you to attention. Order fire, six monkfish. The dreadful thought hits you: We’re out of monkfish! A rush of adrenaline. I need to solve this problem. You grope around in search of your gear. Your eyes dart about in a blur. Where the hell are my shoes? you wonder. I’m so screwed, you think.

  It’s a minute before you realize you are still in the office, still alone. No monkfish has been ordered. There is no problem that needs your solving. You’ve simply dozed off.

  I need to get the hell out of here, you think.

  With great effort you pull yourself upright and stand. The tile floor beneath you is cold and unyielding. Your calves hav
e gone taut; your feet have swelled up like sugar toads. You hobble over to the closet and peel off the chef’s outfit.

  Back out on the line, the menu meeting is in full swing. Warren and VinDog are engaged in a spirited debate over how much lime juice needs to be squeezed by the A.M. prep crew.

  “I’m telling you, a quart is way too much,” Warren argues. “I have half a deli in my lowboy alone, never mind the two-quart in the box.”

  “Yeah, but how long has that shit been in there?” Vinny retorts. “I like my acids to be bright and delicious, dog, don’t you get it? I’m not about to use your shit. It’s mad old. It’s a fucking chemistry experiment by now.”

  They notice you coming out of the office in street clothes. The conversation stops.

  “Listen, fellas,” you say. “I hate to interrupt your lovers’ quarrel, but I gotta bounce.”

  “Word,” Vinny says, extending a hand for the slap-up. “The Inveterate?”

  “You going?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Warren?”

  “Ehhh …”

  “You’re such a bitch, Juan,” Vinny says.

  “Bro, I dry-heaved in a garbage can on Sixth Avenue this morning. Is that not good enough for you?”

  “A wise man once told me, ‘If you don’t gag every morning, you’re not living life to the fullest.’ ”

  “… he said, unzipping his pants,” Warren adds.

  “Bro, I will shove my—”

  “All right, guys. Enough,” you say. “You should come, Warren. Celebrate a good night of work. Nothing too crazy. I’m here early tomorrow, so I won’t be out too long myself.”

  “Doubt it!” Vinny teases.

  “All right, I may be equal to the task,” Warren says, reluctantly.

  “Whatever,” you say. “Think about it.”

  You start slapping everybody goodbye fives. Stefan grips your hand extra tight when you get to him, gives you a surly look.

  “Don’t disappoint me, man,” he says. “None of this Irish goodbye shit of yours. You better be there when I get there in twenty minutes.”

  “All right, mac. Relax,” you say. “I’ll be there. Doña Cata—cuídense. Kiko—está chingón, baby. Nos vemos mañana. Gracias a todos.”

  “Sí, jefe, gracias,” they say. “Nos vemos mañana.” It doesn’t even cross your mind to invite any of them out, because you know what the answer would be—gracias, pero no gracias.

  “And as for the rest of you,” you say, “I suppose I’ll see you when I see you.” You give a wink to Stefan, to throw his faith in you into question. He tosses back an evil eye.

  “You better be there,” he says, with a point of the finger.

  You snicker mischievously. “I’m out!” you say, with a salute.

  In the shadows of the back corridor you pop the hood on your toggle coat, thrust open the heavy metal door, and leave the kitchen.

  BAR

  OUTSIDE, THE WORLD HAS BEEN TRANSFORMED. THE SUN took any trace of warmth with it many hours ago when it set, and now a frigid breeze twists the leafless trees up and down the street. The only sounds you hear are the crinkle of ice beneath taxicab tires, the distant twitter of bibulous partygoers, the muffled rumble of express trains passing under you.

  You are standing at the foot of the loading dock when your ears pop—first one, then the other—and the pressure that the kitchen’s heat had been trapping in your head is finally released. As a result, the quietude becomes more expansive. The hushed thrum of silence gathers around you. The sensation is both satisfying and sinister. On one hand it makes you feel alive, free of the cage, at one with the outside world; on the other hand it makes you feel unsafe and alone and very far from home. You light up a cigarette. The wind picks up a bit. Something like a shudder stirs somewhere inside you. You exhale a billow of smoke and set off toward Sixth Avenue, where there are sure to be more streetlights and at least a few more people.

  Against your better judgment, you decide to keep your word and go to the bar, if only to bid your colleagues a proper adieu immediately upon their arrival. Thankfully, everyone has agreed to eschew the neighborhood’s harder-rocking establishments in favor of the Inveterate—an industry mainstay. It’s the sort of place where fist-pounding footballers are scarce and forlorn hipsters are even scarcer; where there’s enough room around the pool table to play a comfortable game, and you don’t need to scream at the top of your lungs in order to be heard by the person beside you; where articulate barkeeps deal draft beers off the arm, and florid-faced locals nod their heads to tunes off the blues-suffused jukebox.

  In the wintertime, the front windows of the bar are perpetually obscured by a mantle of condensation, which lends a pleasant softness to the hearthlike luminescence but makes it difficult to tell what’s going on inside. Only silhouettes can be made out from where you stand on the curb finishing your cigarette. By the looks of it, though, some of your favorite regulars are in there holding the fort. And past the brass draft taps and stacked bev naps, on the opposite side of the bar, can be seen the towering form of Peter O’Malley, the six-foot-six salt-and-pepper barman, who dishes out jumbo whiskeys in between fielding people’s problems.

  Excellent, you think. Pete is your favorite bartender.

  He spotted you on your way in, and he’s already getting your drinks together by the time you find a stool.

  “Petey-Pete,” you say, extending a hand. “What’s up, guy?”

  “Hello, old friend,” he says, his deep voice betraying the faintest lilt of brogue. “How was your night?”

  “Madness,” you say. “Like three hundred.”

  “Oh, dear,” he says, skating a pilsner and a whiskey rocks your way.

  “Thank you, sir,” you say, dropping a twenty on the bar.

  “That had to be brutal,” he says.

  “It was no walk in the park, I’ll tell you that much.”

  He pours himself a whiskey to match yours.

  “Well,” he says, raising the glass. “In the words of my father, ‘Is crua a cheannaíonn an droim an bolg.’ ” He bangs his glass into yours and throws the liquor into his gullet.

  “Right,” you say, taking a sip. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Aghh.” He winces. “The back must slave to feed the belly.” He winks at you and, noticing some needy customers down the bar, heads away. “Think about it,” he says.

  The whiskey wants to come back up at first. You are incredibly dehydrated and your throat quivers when the astringent liquid hits it. A crisp light beer, though, is the perfect antidote—a refreshing splash of effervescence that lubricates the palate and the tongue. After a few seesaws between the two, you start getting a glow on and you begin to believe that the stiff liquor tastes like some toothsome honey and that the beer is merely fizzy water.

  Your head starts to swim.

  Your mind wanders back to the restaurant. Even though you’ve been released from its bondage, it’s difficult for you to ever really leave. You sip your whiskey and picture what is happening in your absence.

  Having covered closing before, you can easily imagine what Stefan is doing right now. This is his Zen moment in the kitchen. It is his temple now, his domain. Everyone else has left; he alone remains. He stands at the pass, arms folded, looking over the place like a king in the making. Where there was once a wild excitement, there is now a placid stillness. He reassesses the evening’s events in his head. He notes our moments of strength, reckons up our missteps, considers how we can do better tomorrow.

  You signal Pete for another round.

  He’s pouring your whiskey when you notice someone at the far end of the bar whose stooped figure your eyes come to rest on with attention. He is teetering on his stool, bent over himself as though he’s just had his ribs kicked in, feebly grasping at an empty glass. You squint in an effort to make him out. And then it hits you—it’s Raffy, of all people. And he’s razed to bits on beers and whiskeys again. This fucking kid, you think.
>
  You grab up your drinks and storm over, ready to haul him over the coals.

  It’s just in the nick of time that you’ve gotten Raffy out of the bar and into a cab. Stefan would have flipped out if he knew Raffy was here getting sluiced after his epic washout on the line. Who knows what sort of clash would have come to pass. But as it went, after a few craven attempts at levity on Raffy’s part, you were able to yank him outside, jam a few bills into his unsteady hand, and stuff him into a taxi before anyone else showed up. And now, just as his cab careens out onto Sixth Avenue, Stefan, Warren, and VinDog appear across the way.

  Cooks always look different in street clothes. Without their chef whites, they shed that mechanical anonymity known so well to strict kitchens, and their real personalities come into focus. A ridiculous fur-rimmed parka accents Stefan’s survivor’s edge; a stately Crombie coat and scarf underline Warren’s decorum; shredded dungarees and a studded leather biker jacket make VinDog’s irreverence all the more obvious.

  If you didn’t know better, you’d wonder what on earth this motley trio was doing fraternizing. But these appearances don’t deceive you. You see the linkage here. Even if you didn’t work with them you’d be able to tell. It’s a certain way of carrying oneself that secretly helps any cook recognize one of his own. An outward air of strength and mental toughness, tempered by some undeniable tinge of anxiety. It’s this juxtaposition of conflicting characteristics—which can be sensed in something as simple as a flash of the eyes or the flick of a cigarette—that helps us pick each other out, regardless of how we’re dressed.

  “What up,” Stefan says as they join you on the sidewalk outside the bar. “I can’t believe you’re still here. I thought you were a goner for sure.”

  “I told you I would be,” you say.

  “Right,” he says.

  “No Dev tonight?” you say.

  “No, she’ll be here,” he says. “Her and a couple others’ll be right behind us. They had mad tips to sort out tonight, so they got held back.”