"I'm tired."
It's something I've often complained about after playing a full day of ultimate that was capped with a night of drinking.
It's something I've uttered maybe after a two-a-day burner, hitting the gym and taking that soreness to the field.
It's something I may have said after pulling an all-nighter, frantically cramming 300 years of Japanese history in to 12 hours, no lectures, no notes to retreat to.
But it was all bullshit.
This is tired.
I've joked about how my knees hurt for years because I played so much ultimate on a frame bearing too much weight for the game. I've exaggeratedly groaned as we took our first warm-up jogs on a tournament Sunday, getting the heart to circulate the ibuprofen in and the alcohol out.
Now they really hurt, and I rue that I ever joked about knee pain in the first place.
If I found cooking to be a drain before, it is now a veritable death sentence.
Maybe it's the restaurant, maybe it's me, maybe this is a unique case, but waking up day after day of five hours of sleep, when you just put it through 12 hours of strain hurts. You brain is so foggy that 44 oz. of coffee (now, my daily dose) does little good, taking in nicotine is the requirement just to reach a baseline of normal functioning and your feet and your knees really do scream in the morning.
What are you doing? Are you nuts? You can't do this for much longer...
I've joked about how I might be too old for the game but now am thinking it might be true.
Running up and down stairs carrying heavy loads, knee dips every few seconds to get through a crush of a service, this restaurant is fucking busy and it punishes you for being unprepared. In a month and a half I've already lost 15 pounds, constant stress and little to no time to eat whittles away at you.
It has demoralized me.
I think what got me in to cooking was the song of remorse sung by The Greatest Generation. They worked blue-collar, thankless jobs because they had to, mouths demanded feeding and they never got the chance to chase their dreams. "Take passion in your work," "Do what makes you happy" they said. "Love what you do, and you'll never work a day in your life" was the hymn.
That appealed very much to me as I abhorred work. I never went to class, I liked having fun, and the idea of wasting away in an office, necktie as noose, was horrifying to me. Maybe if I'm always having fun, just as I am on an ultimate field, it'll never really be work, it'll be me chasing a dream.
But this is most certainly work, and New York City never lets you forget it.
I've had people tell me how fun it must be to be a chef. To taste wonderful food all day, to waft the aromas of roasting meat in your face and eat a selection of cookies from pastry. How much of a delight and a sensory wonderland the kitchen must be! I would love to walk a day in your shoes!
Then you better get used to the smell of stainless steel polish and the metallic-tasting film it leaves on your tongue. You better love Orange Force and sanitizing solution, for every item cooked means three items to clean. You better not be opposed to getting on your hands and knees and scrubbing out an air gap drain and sifting through the mess of shrimp shells, beef fat and vegetable debris left in its wake.
Even the delicious parts of the job become tiresome. The meat roasters have access to perfectly medium-rare, grass-fed trim from their steaks every day; duck breasts glazed with coriander and honey, pink, juicy and $44 to the civilians on the other side, and yet they are the first to clamor for a very generic slice of turkey. "I'm sick of duck," they say. If I eat another roasted beet I'm going to chase it with a shot of distilled vinegar because I just can't stand that grassy sweetness anymore. If I have to taste another spoonful of aioli verde I'm going to unleash an oil-streaked shit stain more disastrous than the Exxon-Valdez. Day after day of the same food, adjusting its quality, making sure you're not serving garbage and the romance gets killed very fast.
So even the good moments, eating good food and sharing it with appreciative people, are starting to be outweighed and I've reached a point I feared I would, a dreadful question...
Why am I doing this?
There's a very compelling and well-reasoned voice that is saying, "I don't want this anymore." It pipes up at least once a day and its lull is both demonic and sound at the same time. Just walk out, this isn't worth it, you're going to die early if you keep this up, Just. Leave.
The voice in retort is innocent and beautiful, but its sonorous nature is no longer. Have integrity, fight it out, this will pay off one day, people are depending on you.
And every day it has become a struggle between these conflicting emotions.
It really has become very difficult and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's New York busy season. Hundreds and hundreds of guests a day who, most frustratingly of all, are completely ignorant of the struggle behind the swinging doors. They pour in as a voracious, demanding and particular crowd and the only thing that stands between them and us is the front of house staff who I've come to loathe.
I can't help but seethe at them. They make double what I do, they work half as hard and not only that but the focus, integrity and dedication required of them is a fraction of what is expected of the brigade in whites.
One would think the stereotype dead what with all the advancements of our industry in our society, but even dedicated sommeliers and true believers in hospitality are no more than a cabal of failed actors and thespians. They are the majority, a legion of people handsome in face and comfortable in the spotlight who need the money to chase the dream. They are locusts. And here they are, acting as if they know better, making more money in less time, pretenders and charlatans who would claim authority over me.
Now I am aware I have an overly negative view of humanity, as evidenced by this online collection of unadulterated and misguided misanthropy. Some of them may truly enjoy it, may truly believe in achieving a little enlightened hospitality, just want to do a good job. But I can't help but see how they are incentivized by the "Gratuity" line and how little empathy they have for our plight. I make a note to myself; limit the front of house influence in your future and have every single one of them work the pre-theater crush on a grill station. Watch them cry, watch them crumble, drink their tears.
But we chose this plight, didn't we? We knew what we were getting in to and the moment we can't handle it there are a number of eager faces to replace us. Thanks to Food Network, thanks to Gordon Ramsay, Bobby Flay and a whole manner of celebrity chefs, we now have a veritable army of people who are willing to participate in the supposed romance and freedom of a restaurant. Now WE are legion, us young cooks, and nobody knows what the fuck to do with all of us.
So yes, I know I signed up for $11.00 an hour. But while I'm plating one dish after another, waiting for a server to pick up my swiftly dying dish, I can't help but fume and think beyond the stainless steel box of my station. Why DO we get such little compensation for our craft? Why does no one in America give a shit about food and how it's made? Why does the person who brings it to you get double than the person who made it for you?
It's not an easily answered question, but what it comes down to is nobody is going to pay $80 for a steak so that the guy cooking it can make a little more livable of a wage. That's a quick way to tank a restaurant. Society does not care about cooks, but it sure does love restaurants.
And it's neither here nor there, and complaining about it is just as meaningless as that phrase. We, mainly I, should just shut the fuck up and do what you were told to do.
I don't know when it happened but it did and what happened was that I can't accept that any more. Just do what you're told is not a good enough answer anymore. This is bullshit! I get so mad, I slam plates, I break plates and I throw bowls and my little temper tantrum gets noticed by no one. Someone witness my unjust calamity!
But nobody cares, except your station partner who has to now clean up a bunch of shattered porcelain.
"You're acting like a child. Either giddy up or get off."
And he's right.
Maybe I'm not sleeping enough, but this little tantrum isn't going to do anyone any good. No matter how much you hate the front of house and how all 40 of them get to pillage the employee meal before the cooks do, and how every mistake they make at your expense makes you want to raze villages, you need to shut up and get through service or soon someone else will be doing it for you. Then your bridge is burned and you're out of this city for good.
It's become ultra competitive. A lot of smart cooks with people skills, high emotional IQ and connections are filtering in to the world of cooking. Technical skills almost anyone can learn, the rest, the big bag of intangibles that make a leader... those are nearly impossible to teach. You've either got it or you don't, and whereas before the industry was riddled with drugged-out sociopaths who commanded by their presence and their artistry, now you have to be a smart manager as well. No one's going to follow you in to battle just because you cook like a beast, you've got to offer your team more. A good work environment, the ability to express oneself (because all cooks like to think their real artistic geniuses), a chance to take a vacation here and there, maybe not throwing them deep in the shit every day.
And we do get that and I should learn to enjoy it. Take pleasure in what we have. But that has never been who I am and it's never something I've been able to do.
I think it's important as a chef to constantly reevaluate what we do; how do I make this better? How do I make this more efficient? And with our naturally and forced attention to detail we're going to nitpick everything. But at some point you have to deal with the reality of the situation.
Do we have the space for that? Do we have the personnel for that? Can they pull it off, are they strong enough to nail this just right? Or should we lower the difficulty level and make it a little more cook friendly? Does this timing make sense? How can we adjust?
And while this may not be healthy it is critical to being successful. Here in New York, of all places, does not allow you to rest on your laurels. Maybe a few dinosaurs can get away with an unchanging formula, but for most chefs, much like the city, you are a constantly evolving beast.
So maybe that's why I ask so many questions when I shouldn't. I'm no chef yet, just a grunt on the front lines, at the very bottom of the totem pole trying to earn my chops, pay my dues. Just shut up and cook, Eric! No one's asking you to evaluate the infrastructure and change the system. Anyway, the system fucking works, clearly, as you're deep in the shit every day come 5 PM because there's a horde of New Yorkers storming the door.
I wish I could and it's something I'm working on. Clearing my head, calming my temper, not getting so fucking angry and frustrated all the time. Just accepting the good things and allowing them to bring me peace.
I tried to take a walk. I'm not much of a nature person or even an outdoors person. I am content to whittle away my free time from behind the glow of a computer screen and my own thoughts. And as my Asia-travels companions know, I could go a really long time without seeing trees or grass and be just fine. But I thought a little New York fall, a little bit of that quickly frosting air might clear my head.
My neighborhood may not be an accurate representation of New York. The Upper West Side is as close to suburbia as we get on the island of Manhattan. Neatly rowed brownstones, widely spaced avenues, cutesy restaurants and Starbucks after Starbucks lighting the way, corporate lampposts to remind you this place has a stupid high real estate average, this place has money. It's safe to walk around at night. Brown people walk white babies, little rat dogs are in abundance, the glasses people wear are prescription and the North Face people wear is cosmetic. Skinny white moms are running, always running, staying in shape, keeping everything tight and every so often you see a crazy homeless person who roams Verdi Park.
I like New York City. It wasn't really my home but I do have quite a bit of connection to the place. I like the sound of traffic, I like that as soon as you walk outside you've caught yourself in this swiftly running stream of humanity, an infinite collection of lives, dreams, hopes and wants. I've heard a lot of New Yorkers complain about how surprisingly lonely one can feel even though you're ass to ankles in a subway car. How difficult it is to make connections with millions of strange faces. But I like being lost in that. Maybe it's the introverted side to me or maybe it's the nice way of saying I'm socially awkward, but I like being amongst people but at an arm's length.
And so I walk and I realize that this really is a cutthroat city when it comes to restaurants. Over the years I've been in the Upper West Side, even the timeless delis, fixtures in the landscape of Lincoln Center are gone, replaced by more chic bistros and faux-Italian cafes. Chefs with pristine pedigrees and killer resumes can be eaten alive here. They want to build the hype train so that there are butts in seats but they'll soon find themselves unprepared for the onslaught. Media attention, critics, keeping a decent staff, grabbing the flitting attention of the New York dining public, satisfying a goddamned blogger who has little to no rights to be criticizing anything, it's all terribly stressful. It's a common question among New York City cooks; how much longer you got? How much more of this city do you have in you, the competitiveness, the shit pay, the harsh lifestyle. How much can you take before you move to greener pastures?
It's a tough question and not one I entirely have the answer to. Back in culinary school it's very easy to say that you want three-Michelin stars and be the king of New York. But when presented with the reality it's not so easy. Especially when you're putting up a special, something you created from nothing, and you're watching the girl who starred in her college's rendition of Anything Goes critique your dish. Oh, you think it needs more acidity do you? Did you come to that conclusion with your questionable set of life skills or the ever growing fear that your big break is never coming? Yeah, why don't you pair it with a Chateauneuf-du-Pape, I'm sure you think that's a great idea and not because it's the only wine you could think of at the moment. Yeah, thanks, I'll be sure to add a squeeze of lemon.
It just makes you so angry, it's so hard, so intense. Maybe this city is good for earning your stripes but it sure does make you an asshole right quick.
And so I continue to walk. Letting go of my anger for ex-theater majors, trying to let go of all the frustration I experience in a dinner crush. You're better than this, and even if you aren't you better start being so. Nobody wants to keep around the angry douche even if he can really cook. You've got to try better, to master yourself, to control your feelings. Control that dark side energy.
It isn't easy. And it's made harder by the little sleep, the lotta caffeine and high-tension nicotine. But we try, and we push, all because we hope for more. We hope it'll make us stronger, make it better, make it nice.
Because that's all we're trying to do. Make it nice.
EP6
