A Harsh Kitchen Lesson...

So Friday, July 31st, I was on the receiving end of one of the universe's flawlessly executed lessons in humility and patience.

I borrowed Paul's bike to go to work, which marked my very first bike ride in traffic with a destination in mind. I kind of imagined someone yelling excitedly, "You're doing it! You're doing it!" as I rode down the streets of Evanston, oblivious to traffic. Since almost no one except man-childs like myself get to experience their first bike ride as an adult, this was pretty sweet.

And I mention the bike ride because I was feeling pretty good about myself (I know, I'm easy to please) and I had another first accomplishment in the kitchen. I was slicing onions, and after months of practicing I finally started cutting them with proper technique and speed. I tried practicing with whole celery plants at home, and much like my cello practice, I got impatient and tried to rush and tried to be all fancy. This hampered my technique, but finally in a professional kitchen it came out right. Once again the words "You're doing it! You're doing it!" rang through my head, and I mowed through a dozen yellow onions in like 5 minutes.

And then karma, or God, or someone who wanted to remind me that I need to keep it in check, struck with great vengeance and furious anger.

Our sous-chef, Chewie, was joking to me about how culinary students aren't always all that great. How some of them don't even know how to hold a knife, and that their last intern cut herself a lot because she didn't learn proper technique. Well I was haughtily swording onions, look at me! I'm going to be way ahead of this chumps when I get to school, for I! Am all that is man! And before a chuckle could escape my lips, I felt a terrible pain in my left hand.

Chewie says, "Oh shit man." And I go, "FUCK FUCK FUCK!" I just sliced off big chunks on two of my fingernails and it hurts like a bitch. I like to think I have a high pain threshold (At least that's what my tattoo artists have told me .. and apparently Asians have higher thresholds in general.) but this hurt bad. I ran it under cold water. Even worse. I was bleeding everywhere. I sat down for a sec and wrapped my hand up, held it above my head. I'm not usually squeamish about blood but I was really light headed. My poor mutilated fingers. Shit, shit, what if that really is the end of my cello career?

Well, turns out I overexaggerated because here I am on Saturday and the pain is almost completely gone and I can type again. But I seriously felt like a) an idiot, and b) a bitch. My exuberance and excitement at believing I just leveled up my swordsmanship went crashing through the ground. Chef Jeff and Chewie comforted me saying this will be the first of many injuries, you'll burn yourself soon enough (oh wait already did that at Oceanique. Damn.) You drive a car, you'll get into accidents. But I felt stupid. And weak. I had to sit out from work for 15 minutes because I was dizzy and my hand hurt. Kitchens are like battlefields, and I left my troops in the trenches taking 'nades! On a Friday! With parties and customers coming through the door! ... Wait, I thought this was supposed to be a battlefield ... I mean the word "Fire!" is even shouted out all the time, except in the kitchen it means "Finish cooking it now! It needs to go to the table!" as opposed to "Shoot that motherfucker in the face!"

The rest of that day was kind of a blur. Working was kind of difficult because my left hand legitimately was bleeding a lot. I couldn't really grip or carry anything heavy, and that is a big part of my job description. But the universe came along again and gave me a gentle nudge in the right direction. Apparently some kid shows up and he's a vegan. I mean a child, whose parents are raising him as a vegan. Before I go on I just have to say, Are you fucking kidding me?!?! I have been told that you can raise children on a healthy vegan diet, but CMON!! McDonald's is an important part of everybody's childhood. I mean I probably would be your typical scrawny Asian if not for all the Big Macs and subsequent growth hormones I ingested as a youth.

Anyway, Chef Jeff needs a vegan snack plate for the poor bastard and wants strawberries, apples and carrot sticks. Now it just so happens that I was reading "The Art of Simple Food" by Alice Waters the night before and was like, "Hey, I'm not sure I totally know how to cut carrots into batons." And hence I read that brief blurb in the knife skills section (you cut a section off the carrot to create a flat side to rest it on. The more you know *ding*). So when Chef Jeff barks the order I'm like, Holy shit I know how to do that and I don't have to look like a total noob. Gloved left hand and knife in the right, I cut up a stack of carrot batons with perfect technique. The universe, or something, has reminded me to take it slow and learn things the right way.

Harsh fucking lesson though. Dick. .... or Bitch.

Side note: I have to mention the cold apps/dessert guy, or El Maestro.

Now I had to ask, why is this guy called El Maestro? He's a goofy Mexican guy in his late 30s, and he doesn't speak any English. Which by the way makes my job incredibly difficult. My Spanish has improved exponentially in the past 2 weeks. He thinks strawberries are called raspberries, and that raspberries are called strawberries. Well everytime he asks me to get some I figure he mixed it up and is talking about the other, but turns out my prediction is wrong and he actually got it right this time and I got the wrong kind of berries. Great.

Anyway I ask Chewie, why is he The Maestro? Well Chewie responds with a smile,

"He used to be an instructor in Mexico. But here? He fucking sucks."

Probably the most hilarious and harsh nickname ever. Then I ask, what kind of instructor?

Jorge, a waiter responds, "He was a construction foreman. He taught people how to not get killed by people like him."

Even better. Turns out his real name is Arturo, and the cooks tell me he's on the run from the federalis for murder. I'm 90% positive they're joking, because El Maestro doesn't look like he could kill one of the chickens we cook for dinner, but I'm sure that's what a lot of poor bastards thought before they got BOOM! Headshotted, GG.

Okay that's all, bye bye.

EP #6