"You need some kitchen hands, girl!"
Observations one year into my return to the service industry, part 1
Happy (early) birthday to Makans of a Chef! On September 8, 2021, I published Changing the Recipe, an essay about new beginnings, grief, and following your intuition. I’d quit a career as a TV news producer about a month before. I wanted to reclaim my voice after years of writing words for others to read off a teleprompter. I wanted to share what I’d be learning as I cobbled together a new career in the world of food and wine. I wanted to write down my nana’s recipes and share my family’s story and Balkan food with anyone who cared to read.
In this last year, I’ve done all that and more. I’ve created new recipes, learned from those who are smarter than me, and found inspiration in everything from old travel experiences to my favorite movies.
To mark one year of writing on Substack, I’m switching it up. The following is the first in a series of essays I’ll be publishing over the next couple of months about working in the service industry. I worked in restaurants from ages 17-22, never thinking I’d return at age 28. These essays will include reflections and observations about what it really looks like to do this work in 2022. Get ready for a lot of Kitchen Confidential references; a recent reading of it got the gears turning for this project.
This past year, I’ve been initiated back into the industry with a sudden job loss, a stolen paycheck, casual misogyny, and chef egos the size of a planet. I’ve also experienced great owners who treat employees well. I’ve met people just as passionate about what they do as I am. I’ve eaten incredible food and sipped wine that changed what I thought wine could be. I’ve found the kind of misfit camaraderie that makes working in this industry worthwhile in the end, at least for me.
Whether you’re new to the community or you’ve been reading for the last 365 days, thank you for being here.
The oven was 500 degrees, and my station was slightly larger than an airplane bathroom. Sweat was already dripping down the back of my neck and onto my too-large white dishwasher shirt. The fraying, synthetic fabric trapped all my body heat and my nerves. I would either prove myself on the line right away, or I would explode from the pressure. The cramped line was also visible to the dining room, so any mistakes would be public.
I suspected the chef and my fellow cooks had their doubts about hiring some woman with no substantial experience to be a part of this small crew.
On the “beginner” station, I was responsible mainly for appetizers and desserts. While the veterans beside me slung pasta into All-Clad pans, I would assemble salads, plates of toasted housemade sourdough with whipped ricotta and prosciutto, and fried sweet potatoes drizzled in hot honey and tarragon.
The only entree I would touch was the chicken parmesan, as I was technically the “fryer guy.”
The chicken breasts arrived at the restaurant pre-butchered and tenderized—some to the point of mutilation. These pieces had holes in them and fell apart before you could coat them in breading. They got chucked in a separate pan to save for family meal.
The pieces that survived prep would be fried, slathered in salami-tomato compote, topped with basil and mozzarella, then thrown in the oven until the the cheese was golden-brown and bubbly. Four to five minutes, depending on which cook you asked. Spicy giardiniera to finish.
Chicken parmesan was arguably the most popular dish on the menu–beloved by groups of bros having a night out and anyone else who thought it would be more exciting to add a slab of fried chicken to their bowl of spaghetti with red sauce.
I would have to time each order so the chicken would be ready at the same time as the pasta on the next station over—while still sending out apps and desserts as quickly as possible.
Since this was my first shift, I tried not to worry about being super-fast. I wanted to get comfortable moving around in this small space. I figured if I was a little slow, it would be ok as long as I did everything correctly and intentionally.
That went out the window within the first hour of service, when I brainlessly bypassed the handle of that piping-hot oven door and put my hand directly on the stainless steel.
“OW!” I struggled not to let out a string of expletives that guests would hear.
The thick, fleshy part of my left hand under my thumb immediately turned bright red. One of my fellow cooks saw the incident and briefly left the line. He returned with a carton of egg whites, which he poured over the burn before I bandaged it up.
“The protein helps it heal faster,” he assured me. (Side note: He was 100% correct and I now swear by this.)
I spent the next couple of hours trying to do a brand-new job with one hand. Actually, it was worse than having one hand. I had one working hand, plus another that was dripping egg white through a glove that I’d attempted to seal around my wrist with masking tape. Remember the hand model from Zoolander? It was like that but in a leaky, DIY kind of way.
The rest of the week, I was extra careful with everything. I clung to my rule: correct, intentional.
This method apparently annoyed Egg Whites Guy after seeing me go for a pair of tweezers instead of my hands to aesthetically stack some sweet potatoes that had just come out of the fryer.
He barehanded the potatoes and started to plate the dish himself.
“You need some kitchen hands, girl!” He declared as he slopped something together to throw on the pass.
I tried to keep my face neutral as I contemplated how to react. The surge of anger had me looking around for a weapon. I imagined the headline would read like the results of a game of Clue: It was Jenny, in the kitchen, with the cast iron.
I don’t remember what I actually said in that moment, but I later ranted about it to my brother—a chef in Cleveland—to the tune of: “I just don’t understand this continued obsession with hurting yourself in the kitchen like it’s a badge of honor. Yeah, accidents happen and it’s part of the job, but you know what’s really badass? Doing your job well without making a mess or maiming yourself. I don’t need to burn off my nerve endings to prove I’m a good cook.”
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To be clear—I understand the sense of pride cooks get from looking at their scars. It’s a record of a career. They’re free tattoos that show where you’ve been. I’ve eagerly listened to the stories of quite a few scar maps. I mourned when the twin scars on my forearms faded after college. They were from gristle that came flying off the grill during a shift at Chipotle.
Anthony Bourdain spends pages discussing this phenomenon in Kitchen Confidential. He’s inspired to make his own hands battle-scarred after watching a veteran line cook barehand a hot skillet early in his career (though he later wrote he may have remembered the incident as more intense than it actually was). He describes the callouses that come from holding a chef’s knife for hours. The old injuries spark nostalgia: “I lopped off that fingertip while trying to cut poblano peppers many years back…. there’s a raised semicircular scar on the left palm where I had a close encounter with the jagged edge of a can of Dijon mustard.”
I understand taking pride in the work you’ve done with your own two hands.
I reject the mentality that one must pursue physical injury to feel worthy of that pride. I reject the idea that you’re only good at your job if you’re willing to hurt yourself for it.
That is some masochistic, hustle culture, boys’ club nonsense and I have zero patience for it.
While that mindset continues to thrive in kitchens, it’s no longer the only way of doing things. Egg Whites Guy wasn’t the best cook in that restaurant. It was another experienced cook who handled dinner rushes with speed and ease. Not once did I see him say, grab the handle of a hot pan to save the two seconds it would take to get a towel. He worked clean without rushing and didn’t get hurt on the job. For me, that’s a much better ideal to aspire to.
New ways are taking hold, but the old ways persist. That’s what I’ve seen over and over since returning to the restaurant business. The stereotypes that may pop into your mind when you think of life in the service industry still have some validity, but things are changing.
In the next issue of this series—we’ll further unpack the disease of hustle culture.
Congrats on a year!! Really enjoyed this piece and all the others. Inspired by your commitment to your passion!
Love the article and congratulations on a year! I haven't manage to read every article but from what I have read and from our conversations its clear you've rediscovered your passion and I am so happy to see it.