A Turkey of a Job

It's Thanksgiving time again, which always reminds me of a job I had at a little "gourmet" store in New Canaan for a few months. Between leaving my first business and building my new one I was introduced to a guy who was in dire need of an executive chef. I went to meet with him and told him that I'd help him out for a few months. At least through the holidays (this was early September).
The front was a pretty little room with a few tables, lots of high end merchandise stacked on shelves on the wall. On the opposite side were refrigerated cases where food was displayed for takeout or eat in. It was cute and a direct rip-off of a very successful business in Greenwich.
The boss-man was tall with a bald head that shined like a beacon. He showed me the kitchen, it was the size of the average closet, pre-McMansion. However, that never bothers me, as long as it's efficient and clean. It was efficient but sure not clean. The convection oven hadn't been maintained at all, so the glass windows were black instead of clear. The gas stove was so dirty that it was almost impossible to light it, the pilots were so blocked. On the other side of the prep area was a tiny dishwashing area, a puny walk-in and a desk.
My first clue to how clueless Baldy was about food was when I tried to introduce some new items. He had a monotone voice that he used in a way where he pretended to be agreeable but somehow he always got his way. Hey- ultimately he was the boss but why have a real chef there if you don't want to use their brain? Basically he wanted everything the same as it had been. Even though I didn't know the previous chef's recipes and sales were atrocious, some new stuff might have perked things up a bit.
Luckily I had a sidekick. I will call him "Slowpoke" here. A really nice guy who was very helpful but he worked another job, had a high maintenance wife, thus was always tired and moved like a friggin' snail.
Slowpoke and I would listen to music back there as we did our daily prep. I'd made cd's full of eclectic music and he had an i-pod full of new stuff. We swayed to the rhythm while we cooked side by side.
Slowpoke was supposed to make sandwiches everyday. They put about a dozen out on the case that were pre-made. It took him literally about an hour to do this. Meanwhile I whipped up all kinds of salads or meatloaf or chicken. Baldy always hovered in the morning, very anxious to fill up the front cases. First drill of the day was filling up platters with food, mostly leftover from the fridge. Baldy would hand something to me or Slowpoke and say, "you want to bowl this up"? I'd heard of "plating as a verb, but when did to "bowl" become one. I think he was trying to speak kitchen-ese.
Baldy insisted that we make roasted whole chickens, just the way the previous chef had. That was okay, they were stuffed with oranges, lemons and herbs and finished with a nice shiny glaze. They almost looked like those fake chickens that you might see in the kitchen of a house for sale, so you will be able to imagine your own real dinner there. What was not okay is that sometimes that chicken did not sell. Day of, next day, or the next. So Baldy had us continually re-glaze them, rearrange them with new garnish and put them right back out in the case again. I'd cringe when on a Friday afternoon some lady in her fur coat would be thrilled to see that we still had chickens available, even if unbeknownst to her these babies had been prepared on Monday.
As a chef, I understand food cost and having as little waste as possible. But Baldy would come out from the walk-in with some little remnant of ham or 2 wilted carrots and say, "is there anything we can do with this?" or "I noticed that we had two chicken breasts in the walk-in...". He had no respect for food, for freshness. Only money.
He was very proud of his "pastry chef". He was referring to a Mexican guy who could bake a decent cake, was a clock-milker and liked his cerveza, making him a little unreliable. I'd had a bakery (in fact Senor Pastry had interviewed with us once and never showed up for his tryout) and I knew a thing or two about baking. Again, Baldy wanted no part of my contribution. It had to be his way, the same way. And so it was.
One day a couple came in to talk about a catering job. The man was incredibly obnoxious, loud, rude, cheap. His wife looked like she wanted to melt into her chair with embarrassment. On our team was me, Baldy and his girlfriend, Freckles. Again, I was hired to do a job. I was very experienced. I had worked at one time for one of the most famous caterers in the country quite frankly so I was more than happy to do my part. Baldy and Freckles kept talking over me. Between them and the loud-mouthed Israeli I stayed quiet. Until at one point they were discussing dessert and Freckles was boasting about Senor Pastry. They told him that he would make mini-tarts for them and she held her hands about 6 inches apart. I couldn't help myself. "Those are not minis", I said, "minis are bite sized, never that big. You would have to cut those and that defeats the purpose of passing them". Freckles snapped at me, "yes they are!". I shut my pie-hole about the tarts.
Slowpoke told Baldy that he was going to Chekoslyvakia with his Chek wife for three weeks over the holidays. Not asked, but told. Baldy gave the okay but proceeded to bitch and whine about it constantly to me. What was he worried about? I was the one who had to cover Slowpoke's slow ass. We got a guy in for a while. He always wore a pork-pie hat so that's what I'll call him here. Pork-pie was a blabbermouth but at least he was funny and he could make a dozen sandwiches in 15 minutes like a normal person. Pork-pie had worked at the place back when it was brand-new and the original chef-partner had been there. He could not believe how far the place had fallen. How dirty, how unkempt. And how Baldy ran it, especially those old-ass glazed chickens.
In any food service business the most vile and disgusting thing is the grease trap. Because of all the grease, oil and various food garbage that goes down the drain, there is a mechanism that separates it with a holding tank that must be emptied. If not on a regular maintenance schedule, the grease trap will let you know it needs cleaning by emitting a smell so putrid, imagine vomit, shit, death and garbage mixed together. He who has the job of emptying the grease trap is an unfortunate man indeed.
Usually the grease trap is cleaned after hours because of the stench. The strong exhaust fans will suck in the smell and it will permeate everywhere.
Not good ole' Baldy. Not wanting to pay the dishwasher overtime he had it done at midday.
This was an older grease trap, the kind where the top comes off and the tank is below the floor. The poor dishwasher then gets to scoop out the soup from hell and put it into a garbage can. Pork-pie and I gagged as our fan in the hood pulled the stench toward us. We tied dishrags over our nose and mouths. The dishwasher had a bandanna over his face. When he was done he proceeded to wheel it toward the door leading from the kitchen to the dining room.
Oh- this cannot be, I thought. Pork-pie and I looked at each other. His big brown eyes had the same look as mine.
As there was no back door the dishwasher, mask and all wheeled the offending garbage pail through the dining room, past customers eating their lunch and out the front door. Like in a Pepe LePeu cartoon, you could almost see the putrid aroma following him.
When Thanksgiving came around, again it was his way or the highway. Last year Baldy took orders for organic turkeys, not to cook thank God, but to sell to his customers. He rented a refrigerated trailer to hold them behind the store because we had no room for them. When the trailer arrived it smelled pretty bad so first we had to sanitize it. Then the turkeys came in. Loads of them. They were wrapped in individual plastic bags with their giblets and instructions. As expected there was a little blood pooled in the bags. These were once living creatures of course.
Baldy decided he did not like the way the blood looked and that we should rinse out every last turkey and re-bag them.
So there we were on a Sunday when we were closed, the two Peruvian dishwashers and I with 75 Goddamn raw turkeys, one by one, taking them out of their bags, rinsing them out- they were freezing cold and it was easy to get pricked on errant sharp bones. Then patting them dry, re bagging them and labeling them
Come Monday morning all the turkeys in the trailer had not only drained a little more blood in their, but some water too. They looked even worse.
Then the menu for the holiday. Didn't need my suggestions, just do it the old way even though I had no idea how they had been prepared before.
Slowpoke was still there at the time. He left promptly at 5 o'clock. Had to get to his other job. I had to complete virtually a mountain of Thanksgiving side dishes for all the orders. Sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, celeriac, soup, on and on. And of course, this was Tuesday night, and everything was to be picked up, next day- Wednesday and then the customer had the privilege of serving this nice 3 day old food to their guests.
I plowed through. I say what I do and I do what I say. At one point Baldy's father, Baldy Senior who'd never spoken a word to me came over. "You're really something", he said, "you just put your head down and keep going. I'm impressed." That was the highlight of my evening, that was for sure. And, I got it all done.

Christmas was coming around. I had a huge order from a good customer of mine for cookies. Not through the store, but on my own, done with ingredients that I had paid for, in my own kitchen and my own packaging.
I needed to make a delivery about 11am to them. Baldy had been watching me like a hawk lately. He was so paranoid, perhaps he knew that Pork-pie and I had been having a few laughs at his expense. And though I did my job every single day, he was constantly lurking around.
This being the case I decided that I was not going to tell him about my little delivery. Since it was unseasonably warm I kept a window open on the back of my truck so that the cookies wouldn't melt as I went in to work.
Around 10:45, the bulk of my work was done. I told Pork-pie that if Baldy and Freckles were looking for me just tell them I had to run out on a quick errand. I clocked out and took off to make my delivery. I was paid $500 for that order from a very happy client.
When I returned and clocked back in Pork-pie told me Baldy was pissed. They knew I was up to something. Freckles had looked through that open window this morning and saw all the bakery boxes.
"She did what?!"
Spying on me! The nerve!
So I faced Baldy down. I let him have it. I'd done my work, I'd done this job on my own time, including delivery. You guys are looking in my car. There's no trust. I've done nothing but work for you. I never sit down, I never take breaks. I don't talk on my cell phone, I've never had a sick day. And then I did a real diva thing that I'd never done before.
"DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?, Do you know who I have worked for? The great places I have worked at including my own! I am a professional and should not be treated like a criminal!"
Baldy slithered to the other side of the kitchen and pouted at his desk.
A week later he looked shocked when I reminded him that Dec. 31 would be my last day. I'd told him I'd get him through the holidays. And I did. I was rewarded with a nice empty Christmas card.
A few months later while I was working as a private chef in a swanky house in Greenwich I called Slowpoke just to say hello. He told me that Baldy had gone out of business. He said he'd spent the last few weeks cleaning the place out.
I sarcastically asked him if he'd gotten any severance. Slowpoke said yeah, a handshake. Not even as much as a case of raisins.

Vais-je travailler pour "l'homme" francais?

Translation: Will I work for "The(French)Man"?

Maybe. The Italians haven't been so good to me. Now I have a large French based international company interested. All the trimmings after 90 days such as insurance, the 401k , etc., everything The Man has to offer.
"We love your resume", the district manager says in his flowing French accent. (Hmmm, I think I heard this same song just a couple of months ago) We find that we both think of Danny Meyer's book, "Setting the Table" as our bible. We speak of the importance of customer service, of hospitality. We seem to connect and spend an hour interviewing. At one point he says, "What kind of a bus would you say you are?" and I think, um, a Mercedes mini-bus? An electric powered fuel bus? And then he clarifies and says, "no, no, what kind of 'boss". Ah, okay, this I can answer.
I am taking a new direction in my career. It's time for me to step out from behind the stove. Although I love it behind the stove and my fondness and talent for cooking is what got me into this whole adventure in the first place, it may be time to change my path.
I said it before, there are no old-lady chefs. The work is way too physical. I knew that the last job I had in NY would be my last real on-my-feet chef job. I did it, I ran, I moved, I lifted but for how much longer? I'm not a 25 year old Mexican dude. I'm a, gulp, 50 year old Jewish lady.
Having been an owner of two businesses I have worked all the areas. I basically was the manager for my cafe. I hired, fired and trained my staff. I worked the front of the house just as much as I did the back of the house. And, I was good.
L'homme francais could possibly be the roof over my head now. Unlike the little charming Italian place in the city, the Frenchies are a big company that's growing. Hence, I have room to grow with them. There's even a very good possibility that I can work my way up the corporate ladder, get a transfer to the city, then maybe I really could move to Greenwich Village after all. Perhaps I could make some big bucks too. Frenchie seemed to think so.
Only thing is, I have to start fairly low on the Le totem pole. An assistant manager in one of their new stores in New Canaan. That's about 15 minutes from my house and parking is free or cheap. Unlike going to NY daily that cost me about $800 a month. That's the good news. The other side is I guess I feel a little funny, like I'll be "Skippy the Assistant Manager". A mature woman in a job that I'd be overqualified for. The starting salary is pretty dang low, although I may have talked him into a bit more, considering my experience.

Here are the facts- I'm out of work and I'm scared. Frenchie seems to see the spark in me and that I have much potential for their company. He respects what I bring to the party. He wants me to go to one of their stores in the city on Monday and do what they call "a day in the life", which in America we call "trailing". If the day in the life is a good one, then I will be put through their training program in New York for 4 weeks, paid. So far, there is nothing wrong with this, right? If the world's greatest job comes along in the meantime- I can take it. At least a paycheck will be coming in again. I will be learning something new, from people who do it well and I like that. So other than low starting pay and being "Skippy", it's all good. It's sensible. If my last job was the rebound, whirlwind romance that turned out to be another lying married-man then maybe this one is one where we date, slowly and develop into a lasting,stable and dare I say, happy marriage.
Unlike the other jobs I looked at for The Man, Frenchie's product is excellent. It's all organic, all made from scratch. Beautiful breads, pastries and lovely food that I can sell and feel good about. It's still representative of what I believe in.

Of course when it rains, it pours. I had a phone call last night from the Italian place in the city, they have a party coming up next week that I would be perfect for, could I work it for them? (I also just received an extra check in the mail from them. Guilt? Bribery? Whatever- it's in the bank now.)
I left a sweet as honey message for them. Thank you for the check. I would love to do the party but do not know if I'll be available then. I may be training for a new position. I am so sorry, I will have to let you know.

Arrivederci Italiani! Bonjour à mes amis francais, vive L'homme!

THE F WORD!!!

Fired. Canned. Shaved. Pink-slipped. Whacked. The boot. And so it goes...
After a week of working my ass off like I-don't-know-what. Working everyday without a break, through the weekend. Getting in earlier, and earlier trying so hard to please. I had a breakthrough somewhere in there with the aforementioned "fat bastard" who in the spirit of change I will just call "the Baker". Somehow we started working together rather than against one another. Suddenly the catering numbers got very high and we had to knock out enormous amounts of food under insane conditions. Let me illustrate:
1. Kitchen from hell. Tiny, filthy, equipment that barely functions and on its last legs. A facility so old that was never meant to be used in this way so it's in complete disarray, including every day the amount of time I must waste just to find tools and ingredients.
1. Holiday weekend. Couldn't get deliveries from their purveyors and had problems with quantities, availabilities. Then when things were to be delivered they were incredibly late and screwed up the whole morning.
3. A boss with a vision that only she seems to get. The menus that she makes are so crazy and hard to produce in this environment. The production sheet she drew up for us was so difficult to read that people stressed just looking at the thing.
4. Booking desk. The girl who had that job just left and is temporarily replaced by a lovely Italian girl who is totally unsuited for the job. The mistakes were flying like birds around the piazza.

I tried. I put in my hours. I worked with the Baker, I sat and tried to make these menus with this lady but by the time they were done we'd lost precious time to start prepping and getting product in house.
So Tuesday was a huge one, 187 people. Ten different orders, special requests, special this and that. It looked like we were in pretty good shape though early in the day. Handsome Italian Chef comes in, the ladyboss had requested him to and things were pretty under control.
The day before I had mentioned sitting down with him and the Baker. I thought it was important to get some things out in the open with us all sitting in a room together. By now I had realized that these people:
1.were not going to fire the Baker
2. Not going to give me the $20,000. raise that I was to get once he was gone.
3. Never going to stop analyzing everything I did and comparing us.
I don't thrive in that kind of environment.
So I sat them down and said to the Baker first, "Baker, I don't want your job. I am not trying to get your job. I respect your talent and what you do here. We both know that there's been a lot said about who's coming, who's going but it's not coming from me. I want to get along with you, in fact I think we are starting to get along much better. You were very disrespectful toward me a couple of weeks ago and I got pissed, but this is a high pressure business and I'm over it. I just believe that we need to treat each other with respect. All of us. That's all I ask for is respect and communication. To Italian chef I say "And when you hear the bosslady tell you that I said you are throwing away tomatoes you must understand that I do not talk like that. She draws her own conclusions. If I have a problem with you I say it to your face and not behind your back to her."
"I like this job, I need this job. But I am sick and tired of being under a microscope and feeling like I'm in some kind of a competition. We all know that we work for a woman who changes her mind a lot and gets very insecure about making changes. Well, you know what? I'm done with that. I come to work, am pleasant to everyone, put my head down and do my job. The worst that can happen is she fires me, and is she does, she does but I'm not going to be stressed everyday about it and be insecure. I'm good at what I do and if it's not right for her, then that's the way it is.
The Baker then vented all that had been troubling him and why he'd had such a problem with me from the beginning. It all made perfect sense. Again with no communication it makes people very insecure about their jobs and who is doing what. I said that later we'll talk and divvy up who does what and how to make it work.
One last thing I said, and perhaps it was a catalyst in what transpired a few hours later. I said, "When I had my business, if I had to fire someone, I fired them. I didn't bullshit around making people nervous, letting rumors fly, I just did it. And Italian Chef concurred and said, "yes, it's very unhealthy"
We were interrupted by the bosslady who looked a tad paranoid to see the three of us sitting down together at the table. She made a comment about whether that was a good idea when we had 187 lunches to get out. So we broke it up.
But there was a real feeling of lightening up. It was palpable, that the tension between the three of us had been replaced by dare I say it, a little bond? Shortly after Italian chef left the job in our hands and went home to get some sleep.
That's when the shit hit the fan.
All the mistakes started up. We got way behind in the kitchen. There were so many different menus and requests that with our Italian ditz booker and our temperamental expeditor it was only getting worse. The food was plating and some did not look so great, or the amounts seemed off. The Mexican lead cook who works with me was sweating bullets trying so hard to get everything out. Once the food left the phones started ringing with the complaints, "where is our order?", "we specifically asked for vanilla cupcakes!", "the pasta is not right", etc., etc, etc... Though it wasn't all me, I knew I'd be in the doghouse. Somehow lately I'd felt the eyes had been watching me, which was part of why I'd made my spiel before. And worst of all, the Mexican cook walked out. Said it was too much for him to handle anymore. Down deep I knew I had a part in that.
I went out a got a coffee. I hate the coffee at the restaurant. It sucks. I walked around the block past my Murray's Cheese, down the block from Ottomanelli's, the butchers that are my new boyfriends. The village, the village, my new love. But a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach was eclipsing what I saw now.
Handsome Italian chef shows up, all freshly shaved and groomed. We sit. We talk a bit about what happened. He gets most emotional about the Mexican cook. How we cannot lose him. How hard a worker he is, how great a chef he is, how he got him through all that catering he had to do. I am sorry but if I had to choose between the two of you I would have to go with him!
Look, he says, you are a really great person and a really great chef. I have learned a lot from you. But he cannot take on that load. It's too much for him. I think you are overqualified for this job, you should be an executive chef. You are very good at directing people but once you get past 60-80 people you just cannot keep up.
And, he was right.
When I took this job I knew this would have to be my last truly physical job. I am not a 28 year old Mexican man. I'm a fifty year old woman. I'm really good but that part of my capabilities is changing.
I feel terrible, he said. "look, it's more work for me now, I don't want to do this catering stuff. But I had to make an executive decision and it's going to be you."

I never let them see me cry. It's my number one girl in the kitchen rule. EVER. Somehow you must muffle your voice and don't let your face drop. I went to the back and shook the Baker's hand, "just when we were starting to get along", I said. His scraggly bearded jaw dropped. He was truly surprised. "We'll talk", I said.

Walking to my parking garage. Where they know me now too. My new little village. Now back to Stamford where I don't feel like I belong anymore.
I didn't leave a job to come here, I really did not take a risk. Just the risk you always take when you trust.
This job was a like a rebound relationship. Right after closing to meet this fabulous guy who I read all the qualities I wanted into. He just happens to be married but says he's leaving his wife in two weeks. Life is great. But after a while he's not leaving the wife. And I'm not getting the things that were promised to me. And it gets hurtful and stressful. Till finally the guy says, I've decided to stay with my wife. And the last straw is he packs your bag, says you're really great but goodbye.
You walk out the door with your junk hanging out of the suitcase and wander down the street, fighting back the tears till you get in your car and say, "what the fuck just happened?"

CLUNK!! or, The sound of the other shoe dropping...

Maybe it was just a summer romance. Girl meets job, girl falls in love with job, job is not necessarily truthful with Girl, Girl must either leave job or make big compromise. Any way you look at it, Girl is very disappointed. And sad.
The promises- much like, "I will leave my wife to be with you, because we belong together". They told me how right I seemed for the job. They were going to fire someone and I would combine my job with his. I was going to get a $20,000. raise when this happened. And I was ready to work. I was going to give 'em all I got. I was going to clean up that nasty and disgusting kitchen. I would throw away all those science experiments he has growing in the refrigerators. I would re-organize, re-do, re-vamp and re-energize the whole place. I was in love and I had the manic energy of someone half my age and twice my size.
The handsome Italian chef kept shaking his head though. She's not going to get rid of him, he kept saying. She's too insecure, she thinks she needs him.
Last week she told me face to face that he would be let go this week.
Well, it's Friday. And he's more there than ever.
He- being the big fat pastry chef with the bad attitude. Once again, me and the pastry chefs. He's quite enormous and can be quite underhanded and nasty. He had repeatedly set me up to fail and to look bad. I'm no dummy. I know when I'm getting screwed. Kindly buy me dinner first, Fatso.
Chef wanted him out of there. From the moment I got there that's what he confided in me. That they would make these changes. That I better get ready for when it happens. And I tried to gear up. When Fatboy wasn't there I'd try to do the two jobs. It wasn't easy. I had to work out of his creepy, disorganized area. I did not have a baking assistant (something else promised to me when all these "changes" happened). But I would pull it off, pull it off well. I put in the hours, I always kept a smile on my face and worked. I wanted to prove myself.
But time kept rolling by. And Big-boy was still there. He's not only there, he's there all the time. It's part of his diabolical genius.
Chef had said, this guy has no life. He comes in at 1 o'clock in the morning and stays forever. Meanwhile if he's here so much why isn't his work done on time? And he's got a whole Mexican army doing most of his work.
Even after his work is essentially done, he is still there. I don't believe in staying around after my work is done. Plus, I do have a life. Since I started this job I have had dinner with my son just about every night and it's made life a whole lot more bearable here at my home. I may leave at 5 am, but I'm behind the stove in my kitchen at 5:30 pm. The only pull I have on my teenage son these days is money and food. So dinner is a good way to get to know him a bit.
The Doughboy has a wife, supposedly. Sometimes she drives him all the way into the city to work. I resent this a lot as I'm fighting my eyelids to stay open while driving myself into work everyday. The wife takes care of his son too. I have always said I wish I had a wife.
Enough about him. It's the big picture I am sad about. Being the loyal Horton the Elephant type that I am, I mean what I say and I say what I mean. Which means that basically I believed that this would happen. And now I see that it's not.
So, the Fat Bastard won. Big "changes", etc. are not going to happen. I started browsing on the internet again to look for a new job.
One way to look at this however- I did not leave a job to come here. I was out of work and thought that I had to work for the Man. This job came along and touched a cord in me that was long lost. The city, Greenwich Village, a whole other life that could be out there for me. "Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all", isn't that the famous quote? I reached out and loved. This job changed me, I think forever now. Even if I must move on. I am a different person than the one who closed the cafe back in June.
Like the disillusioned lover, I am sad. I have some resentments and I'm angry that I have to start all over again. I had hoped that I had found a home.
I will go to work and I will do my job. Every day. And I will do it well. And somewhere out there, I'll find maybe not a great love right away, but a job that is kind, decent and pays me what I'm worth.

Next Stop, Greenwich Village

Yup, I'm back in the kitchen. But don't have much bitch'n. At least not right now.
My life is almost normal now. I have dinner with my son at home just about every night. I look and feel like a different person.
My first paycheck, I thought, wow- this is great! Then after I'd paid bills that week I got nervous. Uh, oh- gonna be a little tight on money. Then I remembered, hey! I get another one this Friday! You see, I went without pay pretty much the whole time during the business. I could count the times I got paid on one hand and still have enough fingers left to snap.
All the problems, all the non-stop bullshit that goes on every single day in this business- I empathize, but I can go home. I talk with the owner and the executive chef and I really try to help them and I know from all the way inside of me how hard it is for them but it's not my head anymore.
The kitchen needs a complete overhaul. The equipment needs a complete overhaul. Honestly, I don't know how they passed their health inspection. I do wish that I could show them where I came from, and even before that, and come to think of it-before that one too! How clean, how state of the art.
But I always say, I cut my teeth in a place like this. Where you just make it work. How many employees did I have that whined constantly about equipment and tools. I wanted to shake them by their neck and say, "do you know how good you have it?!". I do harbor a little resentment for some of the people who were with me. How they took so much for granted, especially my kindness. People can be so lazy, and yes I see it at the new job as well, but at my place they had me by the short hairs. It was like gym class, you get an A just for showing up and bringing your sneakers.
I have a new found sense of freedom. My hands are back in the food again. I cook every single day and bake too. Though I have bosses, and sometimes they are hard to please I feel that I can learn a lot. In some ways this is different from anything I've ever done. I have a couple of menus coming up that were given to me that are really a departure for me but I am excited about executing them.
Now I am also coming out as my true self. I told my one stupid Spanish joke I know to the guys and they laughed. The kitchen is so damn small that we are like roaches on top of one another in there. We can't help rubbing against each other as we move around. I told this one kid who's a dishwasher that if he does that one more time he's going to have to marry me.
Now too, I am reflecting and analyzing my whole life. My son will be leaving for school next autumn and I will be an empty nester. I have wanted to sell my house for some time, and that is really the way for me to finish off the debt from the cafe. And so I ask myself, do I still belong in Stamford? Maybe this is the beginning of a whole new life.
I have fallen in love with Greenwich Village. As a kid I lived on the Upper West Side and as a young adult I lived on the Upper East Side. I love how people seem to know each other. I love the architecture and the fact that you can see the sky. I think about my dogs, becoming city dogs. Getting rid of my car. Becoming completely unencumbered. Of being near my daughter. The culture, the life.
Even if this job does not work out, because it might not. One never knows. It opened my eyes. I'm done with the past. I have friends and family that I love in Stamford but there is no where for me to go career-wise. I'm in the big pond now. I'm with the big fish. I love where I am and where I'm going. It just may be time to kiss the suburbs goodbye with the next stop, Greenwich Village.

Rising from the ashes and landing on Cornelia Street

Truth be told, I don't really want to work for The Man.
I mean, I'm happy to work for someone now and not just for myself. But The Man, well I really may be too creative and independent.
Something struck a nerve in me and woke up a feeling that had been trodden upon.
On Sunday I was with my daughter in Brooklyn, after I left her I accidentally went over the Williamsburg Bridge and into Manhattan,ending up in the west village to be exact. This is one of my very favorite parts of the city.
It made me think of my daughter at NYU, of shopping in the Bowery for my place. Of walking around being immersed in Chinatown, of fascination with all the cafes, bakeries, small food shops. How just three years ago when I was doing my research for building the cafe how I studied all of them. I took menus, and pictures. I wanted to bring this sensibility to where I lived in Connecticut.
And always, the Village reminds me of my first love in the food business. My externship at the small Italian cafe that was bursting into the universe. The chef was on tv and building his next restaurant that became a huge success. He has gone on to a superlative career. And I interned there for a summer.
Thirty seven, my divorce came through while I was there. My kids were so young but I journeyed into the city to work there. Had I been younger and less encumbered I would have gone to Italy but it was not to be. This was as close as I could get.
The kitchen was tiny and in New York every single available nook and cranny is used for something. I fell in love with the sound of the Spanish radio station that played endlessly. I fell in love with the smells, the produce, the camaraderie. The guys. The amazingly simple food. At night when I walked out of there the streets were teeming with life. Artsy, creative types, tourists, bums, students, what an array of people. And I in my sweaty chef whites walking to the garage to get my car took it all in. Breathing in the smells of different foods, of garlic, bakery exhaust fans and even the smell of garbage in the summer in the city.
Once I got off the highway back in Stamford it always amazed me how barren it was. The streets were empty. Everything was closed except for the diner. There was nothing going on like a Tuesday or Wednesday night in the village.
And when my externship was done I had to go back to that world. I made good choices and worked for some excellent people. But that time in the city was always special to me and has been in my heart forever.
When I took my little detour the other day and it all came back to me I started to cry. It was the first time since the business had closed. So far I'd been ok with everything and how it had all worked out. But suddenly my heart hurt. The hopes, the dreams the standards that I had. Would I be sacrificing all of that to go be a worker bee in The Man's hive? Would I be proud of myself? Would I feel successful?
It's not about money. It's about passion. You just don't go into this business to get rich. Some are lucky but generally you do it because you love it. And once upon a time I had that in me.
Every time I see Spanish guys in their checkered pants outside having a smoke, or if the back door to a restaurant is open and they're back there with that incessant radio going, or the chef on the cell phone making his orders, asking the price of the fish this week- I have a pang.
I sniffled a little in my car and went home to the quiet Sunday suburban streets.
The next day a funny thing happened.
I have answered a zillion ads on line. All the executive chef jobs in the tri-state area, not just to the big corporations but to others too. I got turned down for the Sodexo job last week, after 3 telephone interviews and none in person. I had another nibble but that was all. But suddenly out of the blue I got a call. A wake up call.
A woman who owns a restaurant that needs a chef to run the catering operation in the village. Directly across the street from that first place, where I fell in love.
My resume was perfect she said. And as she talked my heart skipped a beat.
I met with her and the executive chef. For two hours we talked and talked. The place is small with a courtyard filled with flowers and vines. Behind that is an old house from the 1850's with another kitchen. It's a funky little farmhouse, as unique a place you would never find in Stamford, CT. It makes my former restaurant, which I loved believe me, look like a mall.
The money- eh. Not so good. Benefits? Uh, probably not.
But I can do my simple food, I can work with professionals, I can bake, I can deal with clients, I can joke with the others, I can be in the game.
If I take this I won't be embarrassed. I will be proud. I can use my creativity and talent but I don't have to worry about paying the rent, or making payroll. I will get a paycheck every week.
They want me to go to the farmer's market at Union Square 4x a week. She wants to send me to Italy to teach a class.
When a fish gets thrown back into the water it slaps its tail and swims out to go back where it belongs.
As I shook their hands, we agreed that I would return the next day- in my work clothes to follow, to see, to learn.
Walking up Cornelia Street on this hot summer day I smiled to myself and felt the opposite of what I had been feeling on Sunday afternoon. It was joy. And in the background coming from the various kitchen doors I could hear the Spanish radio station and it was calling my name.

Givin' it up to the Man

For ten years all I could think about was working for myself. To have my own business. So many almosts, near misses till it finally happened. And of course, that first one imploded so quickly that I was out in less than a year. But I still had that itch that wouldn't stop. Thus was born the cafe and the two years of good times/bad times until it went under. We euthanized it and survived.
First the ashes had to settle. First, I went on vacation.
Me and my best girl friend forever who lives in Vermont got a great deal on a fabulous house in the BVI from an old friend. I managed to get away from teenage son, creditors, attorney, house falling apart, dogs. She managed to get away from semi-husband, two little children and ultra-demanding career. She used to have chickens but a coyote ate them.
She pulled an all nighter driving down to my house for a 6:55 am flight. Unfortunately we missed it. So while she took a nap on the floor at the gate, I started drinking screwdrivers at a bar and screwing around on my laptop. It was the beginning of looking for a job.
Truth be told, I haven't really had to look for a job for a long time. After culinary school I went to a top restaurant in Ridgefield and made my case to the chef who hired me for $11 an hour. I told him I was a single mom, very focused, hard worker, no time for nonsense and wanted to work for the best. Apparently, I learned later that not only did he respect me, but my suntanned legs made an impression too and I was hired.
From there, one of my coworkers had gone on to Martha Stewart Living and called me to come be his assistant in the commissary. That job was the beginning of many important relationships, connections and incredible experiences. I was promoted right away, and had to turn it down because my kids were too young for me to work longer hours. Eventually I took the position. I went from permanent free-lance to staff. Benefits, paid holidays, 401k with employer matching. Free People magazines on Fridays. Dental, vision, company credit card. Then even getting a role on a tv series produced by the company.
But I had the bug. I had to be my own boss. And Martha helped me. She got into a little trouble.
And so I and many others were laid off.
Before I even left, I had a call from the wife of a famous movie director who lived in the area asking me to be their personal chef. I agreed to start in September. That way I had the summer off where I was financed by my severance, unemployment and the occasional catering job. And it was good.
While I worked for them I was building the bakery. They were aware of this. I had a job that I was paid extremely well for, great hours and heard movie gossip too. Come the following June I had to leave them because my dream was about to come true.
Because I had the bug. The itch was about to be scratched.
To much fanfare the bakery/cafe opened. It was spectacular. It was an enormous amount of work. But I knew this going in.
In your own business it never, ever ends. Any time you think you might have a normal day, something comes up.
And then of course the thing I never expected to happen was the disintegration of the partnership. I've already gone into this on the blog so I won't repeat but it was a horrific blow.
But- I still had the bug.
That bakery was my child that I gave over to it's father. I left and never looked back. But I needed to have my own child, so I did.
Because we had just shot another season of the tv show I had some money. So, again I was able to take the summer off. I got started on my new place before the papers were even signed on the old place. In September I took a job in a small retail food shop. The money was good, hours pretty good but the boss was a dick. I knew it would be temporary, as did he. I worked, always doing my best but I left at the end of December. I don't even have that place on my resume.
January I started another personal chef job. It was for a hedge fund family in Greenwich. I told them from the start that it would be temporary and that I was in the process of building a restaurant. I told the wife that if she gave me a chance, I believed she would be very happy with my work. Within three days I had the job.
Private chef, an interesting position. Here's why. Generally the money is terrific. And, in my experience the hours are very good. Most of the time I had weekends off. The homes are beautiful, working conditions quite lovely. Top of the line appliances. Usually maids to help with clean up. However, you are a servant. Speak unless spoken too. And sometimes they pull you into family arguments/discussions which can be a little awkward and you have to be extremely judicious in your participation. The job is menial. I get on my hands and knees to wipe the floor. I wash dishes, set the table. And there is a lot of grocery shopping. One of the fun things is all the other household staff. They always love to gossip in the kitchen. In one place I felt like I was the priest and they were constantly confessing to me. Some days were a pretty interesting.
But- I had the bug.
The thrill of watching my place being built and finally opening. Then of course, it's the same thing minus the partner drama. The labor problems, the equipment problems, the customer issues and of course what did us in eventually- the money and the landlord problems.
But you know what happened? The bug went away. Finally after all these years.
I got tired. I got fed up. Those fourteen hour days on my feet for absolutely no money. Sick of being in debt. Really, really exhausted of babysitting temperamental employees. In hindsight some of them should have been fired a while ago but I was just too tired and overwhelmed to deal with it. Also, the window closed. The physical window. Part of me always knew if I was going to go into business I still had to be young enough to keep up with that part of it. And now, approaching fifty the time was drawing to an end.
Not that I can't still do physical aspects of this job. But now my brain and experience are really developed. If I'm not aching and crippled by the end of the week I can give so much more to a job.
And so, I thought of the Man.
The Man has names like Sodexo, Aramark and Unidine. Names that the independents scoff at. I know, because I was one of them. But now, I'm licking my chops to get in there.
I pay over $600 a month for insurance now. The Man covers that. The man gives you three week vacation in the first year. The Man gives you sick days- and get this- personal days. God o Mighty- how I remember the personal days.
Vision, dental, 401k, discounts and most of all, the man gets the headaches.
Not that I don't want responsibility. I have to be a manager of some kind. I know I can't go backwards. And I have a lot to give.
But I am ready to give it up to the Man. I want to go home at night and turn my phone off. Not carry it around and wait for the next crisis. And weekends off so I can see my son play the drum in marching band competitions. See my friends. Have a paycheck. Every week.
In my opinion now, you cannot ignore the bug. You'll always wonder what if. Now I'm stuck with the occasional should've, would've, could've but that's a lot better than a lost opportunity and not obtaining your goals. The bug gave me the best education I ever could have had. So not only do I benefit from that, but the Man will too.

Bill's dead, Baby. Bill's dead.

The long goodbye.
Kind of like planning your own funeral. You're the only one who knows you have a terminal disease and you've got 2 weeks to live.
Who do you tell?
How do you put all your affairs in order?
You look around, think of what you could have done better and what you were really great at. You look at all you've achieved, and think of all the hopes and dreams that you had.
Some things will be a relief. Not to have to worry and stress over anymore.
But some things will be a heartbreak. And a loss.

I had a partnership that went sour three years ago. I left in tears and sorrow. I'd lost someone who had been my best friend, my lover, my business partner and my business all at once. But I still had the bug of owning my own place- I hadn't gotten it out of my system yet.
So I forged forward and built a new restaurant.
I knew I had to do some things differently this time. This was my baby without him. One person who had stood by my side throughout the whole last ordeal was my father, and he knew I still had it in me and this time he was going to be part of it.
The day after I left the bakery (my prior business) I gave myself a pity party for one day. My son was at sleep-away camp so I had some privacy. I took some tranquilizers, watched endless episodes of Six Feet Under and laid in bed in my air-conditioned room while it broiled outside. No shower, only getting up to pee or take out the dog. And I cried, a lot.
But the next day I was up again.
Funny thing was, due to all the stress of the last few months I had dropped a few pounds. I'd gotten a good hair cut. So I actually was looking pretty good. Now it was time to get started on my future.
I'm a martial arts freak. I love cheesy kung-fu movies and I like artsy- kung-fu movies. Kill Bill 1 & 2 became my theme movies. I put posters of The Bride, Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan up in my home office. And I finally got up the nerve to join a dojo and start training.
Three times a week, I kicked and punched and screamed. "More Chi!", Sifu would command. I had tears and anger in my throat and I'd punch harder. I thought of how I'd been hurt and betrayed and let it all out.
I'd leave soaked and spent. Never have I physically exerted myself like that. But it cleared my mind.
In my mind I brewed and planned for my new place. I could apply all that I had learned and do something really different this time. The last place was a huge bakery with a small cafe. This would be a cafe with a small bakery. Wine was to play an important part of it. Food's not where the money is, booze is. I didn't want to get into the bar business but I would sell boutique wines and interesting beers to go with my food. Now I could do food geared more toward dinner with entrees and appetizers as opposed to the bakery where it was just sandwiches and salads in the day time. I still loved to bake and knew my town could use some quality baked goods. Having lived here for over 20 years I knew what we needed. A place with great but not intimidating atmosphere, decent prices, delicious home style food with an international accent, wines to match and quality baked goods. Everything would be made on premise. Between the wine and catering this place could succeed.
I am very good at treating customers well. I read Danny Meyer's "Setting the Table" and was inspired. I'd had a fantastic rapport with my customers at the bakery and really missed them. I was in my town now and knew lots of people and I knew how to make them feel welcome.
I used my same builder who'd done the bakery. I knew how to work with him, trusted him. The spot I ended up in was in a shopping center on a very busy road. The landlord was an acquaintance of mine who'd actually recommended the builder to me in the first place.
The shopping center was a bold move. It was home to a successful bagel store, a Chinese restaurant, a kid's clothing boutique, a UPS store, a hair salon, a music store, a bedding store. Very well maintained but not the kind of place one would find a restaurant of my caliber. But I also knew that people are lazy and don't want to pay for parking downtown. That they could drive right up here and have plenty of free parking. It was easy to get to and so convenient. And it was surrounded by huge corporate parks. I wanted to do corporate catering. Platters of sandwiches, breakfast meetings, parties- it was all there and I'd deliver to them.
My food was influenced by places that I'd traveled. Simple and really delicious. Easy but a little different. I'd also worked with people from places like Brazil and learned about some of their food- including the best hangover soup in the world.
One day I read about a place in Queens that had Korean fried chicken wings. My son and I drove out there and feasted for $14. They were amazing and different from anything around here. So I copied them and put them on the menu.
I tried to encourage my cooks to be creative, to bring their ethnic roots to the table. I also tried my best to treat them with respect and to be respected in return.
It all started off with a bang. The more people came, the more they enjoyed the place. We started having regulars right off the bat. We went through help like water, because that is the nature of the business, but eventually it boils down to the select few that come through.
We had bad times, we had good times. We had days where we had them lined up at the door, we had days where we stood around and looked at each other. The corporations got to know us and had us cater for them a couple of times a week. I never found that right-hand person who could cover for me full time but I could go home and take a nap, or go to a marching band competition and watch my son sometimes.
Did we make mistakes? Plenty. Was I too nice to some of the employees and let them get away with a lot of b.s.? Probably. But that's who I am.
Did I pay too much for that space and sign my life away on that lease? Probably. But it was a different time when people were spending more money.
Because what happened was they stopped.
My regulars cut back. My corporations cut back. And sometimes though it seemed real busy people were ordering a slice of quiche and a glass of water. The sales were dismal.
The rent didn't get any lower. Neither did the cost of doing business. And how many hats could I wear without wearing myself out?
That last week there were two things that made me really say enough.
1) Delivering one of my few orders. A loyal customer, a dermatologist's office. Me, almost 50 years old, schlepping boxes with food, etc. out of my car, into the office building, into the elevator, into the office. They sign the order, $20 tip which I give to the cooks because I never keep them for me.
How long would I keep having to do this without making any money? I was supposed to have a delivery person by now. It was still me doing it all.
2) I wanted a Carvel cone. Chocolate with chocolate sprinkles. I was fed up with some of the behavior going on at the restaurant. No one knew that they might be out of a job in a week. They were acting like spoiled children and I'd had enough. Unbeknownst to them I was trying to order as little as possible to keep expenses and inventory low. So I was going to go to Costco and get my Carvel cone on the way.
I had no cash on me so I pulled up to an ATM. Lo and behold, my account said $0.
I got in my car. No cash. No money in the bank. Can't even get a damn Carvel cone!
Fifty years old almost, restaurant owner, tv chef and I have no money.
Enough.
It was time to walk away from the table.
This time it wasn't about love, rejection, hurt or anger.
It was about doing my best, putting it out there. Getting a great response, knowing the names and faces of most of my customers. Hearing how much they loved my food. Knowing the days and nights when we did it right. Having the reviews to prove it.
But business is business and we had nothing left.

So we closed our doors. What was left of the staff and I cooked the last of the food, bought some hard liquor, put up a sign that said "PRIVATE PARTY" and had just that in the dining room. We drank, ate, smoked cigars, laughed, trashed all those that deserved it and eventually stumbled out of there. A day later two trucks pulled up and took all the equipment out.

And now, I'm looking for a job. Ready to go back and work for The Man. We're sewing up all the loose ends, the legal, the financial. All the unpleasant stuff.
In some ways I'm so relieved. I'm ready to move on. The itch has been scratched and I'm no longer interested in being a restaurant owner. I might write a few more essays on here just to recall some people and things that happened during those days, but I'm done.

One final note. On the last day that we served lunch the news was out on the internet that David Carradine had killed himself.
It was somehow so fitting to me. How driven I had been. How Kill Bill had been my theme- that I would rise and conquer. I'd actually won. Bill had been killed. And like the Bride,I was driving down the road and moving on.

Sure I'll chop your salad, if you toss mine...

What gets into people that makes them behave so badly at restaurants? To make them treat servers like servants? Never, ever would I even think of acting the way some of these people do and that was even before I was in the business.
We had a busy lunch today. I had two servers on the floor and myself. It got to the point where I started taking names to make a waiting list for tables. Two ladies were waiting, eventually they were seated and their order was taken.
Now, another concept I don't get. Why do people order things that are not on the menu. If you don't like my menu, perhaps you are in the wrong place. I have a lot of nice salads on my menu. A little variation here and there and of course, we will work with you. I think shrimp on a Caesar salad is disgusting but I'll do it for you.
These ladies wanted chopped salad. Chopped salad is something I don't get either- I think that they are hard to eat and that if the lettuce is prepped ahead you end up with a lot of waste because it goes bad quickly. So the server takes the order, explains to the kitchen, they chop and send it out.
Where's all the stuff? The ladies want to know. It needs more stuff.
The server takes it back to the very busy kitchen to get more "stuff". The whole place is still hopping. And on those days folks, please do not ask your server for something else every time they bring you something. Try to ask for it all at once. You are not the only customer in the joint.
They needed water, they needed this, they needed that. And the salad still was not right. The server was my hot-blooded Venezuelan who had hit her limit and said to me I had to take them or she was going to blow. The other server, the young man who though he makes a lot of sarcastic comments under his breath can put on a good face, went over to the ladies. They complained about the other server, they complained about the food, about waiting and sent those salads back again.
Frantic he goes back to the kitchen with the two salads. The kitchen takes them, gets out a cleaver and chops the hell out of these two salads. Puts more "stuff" on them. Chops the "stuff" again. Everyone says a prayer that these two bitches start stuffing the greens down their gullets.
I stayed away. All I seem to do is put out fires. I am fantasizing about taking a vacation in the near future. So as a test, I am starting to pull back just a little. This was not a case where we screwed up. When that happens I always fix it, usually by comping them. Not this time. No comp. They ordered something that we don't offer, they alienated everyone who tried to help them, and they were just overall impossible. I love my customers, each and every one of them. If it weren't for them there would be no business. But sometimes, they go too far. And as I said, you want a chopped salad? Sure, but if you make trouble I'll make you toss mine.

Gotcha!!

I was ready for him.
One of my spies told me that he had been circling the restaurant on Monday, when we were closed.
For the past two months I have been terrorized by health inspectors. Every time I turned around there was another one. Last week a woman from the state came, the department of consumer protection. I had a dream one night about cockroaches because that's what these people were like. They kept crawling out from everywhere.
And I am one of the cleanest places in town. It was making me crazy.
Since I had the heads up I knew he was coming for his re-inspection. The man in the white coat And yes, he actually wore a white coat to draw extra attention to himself as he showed up in the middle of lunch service.
He had his clipboard, and I had mine.
"Helloooooooooooo", I said ever so warmly. "Please come right this way". This after I had done a quick run-through- "TW- put your hat on!, You- throw the box away, Pop- STAY OUT OF THE WAY!!!!"
"So", I said calmly, "Let's go through the list". And one by one I showed him everything that he had checked off and how I had addressed it. Everything. I had signed papers from each of my staff stating that they had been trained in food safety, I had my sanitizer strips ready, my sanitizer solution had been bumped up, Everyone was wearing a friggin' hat and every single thing had been corrected and then some.
What could he do?
He gave me a 98 out of 100. The sanitizer bucket behind the front counter showed that the solution was a little weak.
HA!!!
That's nothing.
I fought The Man, and this time I won!

Regeneration 101

You know how they say that the body completely rebuilds itself with entirely new cells in a certain amount of time? (Sorry- I remember the concept but not the figures). Well, the same thing goes for the restaurant business.
I guess some of the bones are still the same. Like me and one or two others, mainly family. But the rest changes, changes and changes.
Thus we are constantly re-generating new cells here.
The manager we had when we first opened was let go after a couple of months. He died less than a year later.
One of the first cooks I hired didn't show up on his third day.
We went through waitstaff like most people go through underwear. Only one lasted more than a year and I let her go in January.
A mean crazy pastry chef walked.
Dishwashers were the worst.
They come and they go. Sometimes they come back. I get attached to some but I've learned to let go quickly. Firing people is the worst job on earth. Maybe cleaning septic tanks is a little worse but at least nobody hates you for it and curses you out afterwards.
I just went through a period of being very short staffed. This is when you learn who is really dedicated and comes through for you. Luckily I have a few of those.
Having now been through this before I put my nose to the grindstone and just made myself get through it. When a waitress started sobbing and ran out the door I figured it would be a good idea to make a couple of phone calls for a replacement.
When the cook took off back to Mexico, I decided I better place an ad for a new one.
In the meantime, I informed all friends and family that I'd be out of commission to cover these positions while in crisis mode. That I'd be working double time till we filled in the cracks.
By day I waitressed. I still have my chops, I still got the moves but my lord, it is exhausting having to deal with the people constantly! Why can't they order water, ketchup, coffee, more napkins, etc. all at once instead of making the server run back and forth 15 times? And hearing that bell ringing in the kitchen for pick-up when you are trying to place an order in the computer, answering the phone for take-out and interrupted by some grubby little kid that's being led in by a parent just to use the bathroom. It's one thing when I walk around and pitch in, greeting customers. It's a whole other game when half of the tables are mine and I've got to service them all.
Then lunch is over and the chef coat goes on. Now I'm a cook. Tons of prep has to be done. Specials? Have I had a moment to think, to be creative? That would be a no. Front of the house is exhausting in that you've got to keep your face on, but back of the house is more exhausting physically. All the prep and set-up. The organization of your station. Working in all the heat and being quick, quick, quick. Timing it all with your fellow cooks on the line. At this point someone else was helping out a bit and she and I had not worked together before. This is like dancing with a new partner. You tend to step on each other's feet a bit in the beginning. If we get lucky, we get busy and the adrenaline flows. Before you know it we're done. But the worst part of being a cook is the clean-up. It just never seems to end. Every blessed thing that you had to take out for set-up you have to now clean up. And all kids know it's a lot more fun to take your toys out than to have to put them away.
In one week I had the new daytime server.
In two weeks I had the new night cook and had him trained.
And now, after three weeks I get a night home with my grumpy teenage son. The organism has regenerated itself with new cells, and will continue to grow. The crisis has passed again, for now. Till the next time.

Attack of the Web " Foodies"

Here is something that really cranks my craw.
The foodie websites.
I admit, I read 'em. A lot. I'm checking out the competition. I'm seeing if anyone wrote about my place. I live in fear that one of my servers is going to do something rude or unprofessional and one of these people will write one of their little "reviews" about it. Or, one of the rare times that something comes out of the kitchen poorly done- it goes to one of them and they write it up.
Everyone is a critic now. It's bad enough that there are real critics, published with followings. One, from a major newspaper that I live in fear of is like 80-something years old and is a little cranky. She tends to review places when they have just opened and NOBODY has their act together in the first 3 months. I'm sorry. It just takes some time. I was terrified that she'd come to us when we first opened this place but she didn't. And she still has not, so now I feel like we're being snubbed. And yet, she could walk in any moment and we'll be under the microscope unbeknownst to us.
But- my pet peeve as I said before are the "foodie" bloggers and commenters on blogs.
Here is my favorite.
A new place will be opening. In one case it was a Crumbs bakery. These people have nothing better to do than to write about when are they opening, "I looked in the window the other day but nothing was going on",or, "I hope it 's better than so and so's". If I weren't going to get kicked off of the thread I'd write "why don't you people get a friggin' life? Do you not have anything better to do?" Looking in windows, for crying out loud and then reporting that nothing was going on.
Then they start the countdown. "Opening in 5 days!!". Then they start up with "Crumbs, not opening on time". Then the know-it-alls come on and tell why- because of the zoning permits or some other way to show what a big-shot they are that they know the behind the scenes story.
Then "saw a light on in Crumbs, could they be opening??". Crickey mate! Shouldn't you people be working or helping poor people? They'll open and sell their damn cupcakes one of these days.
Finally, "Crumbs, Open!!"
Then the posts about getting free samples, the lines were too long. We didn't get our free samples, the employees didn't even know we were supposed to get free samples...
And next, the dump.
"Crumbs, not so great"
" Yeah, I tried 15 different flavors and though the red velvet was pretty good they seemed pretty commercial tasting"
"The layout of the store is weird. And the help wasn't very good"
And on and on. I swear, one of these things had a thread about 27 posts long about this nonsense.
Then there's the difference in perception. Most of the bloggers seemed to think my prices are reasonable especially for the quality of the food. Then some other moron gets on and says that we're kind of pricey and the portions are skimpy (they're not).
Some people are just plain crazy, behave badly in the restaurant and unfortunately they have computers where they like to vent in a public forum. Yet I am not allowed to go on too and say "this person is mentally unstable and is unfit to be a reviewer"
There's one guy on a foodie website,(and by the way, I absolutely hate the term "foodie") who is so pompous and such a know-it-all that he thinks it is his place to welcome new posters on the website, like it's his home and he's answering the door in his smoking jacket with a pipe in his mouth, "come in", he says, "welcome". He also writes in the third person, an incredibly obnoxious writing style. His identity is that he is supposed to be his dog writing about his owner's opinions. How are we supposed to take him seriously?
But I am a slave to the public. As I walk around my dining room smiling and talking with my customers I wonder. Who are these people? Are they the same ones I read who sit up at night and critique me? Is the dog-man sitting in my place right now? Is he someone I actually know? That's why you have to suck up to everybody. Because you never know who's an amateur critic waiting to put you down.

Holy Moly week

Easter, Passover, Good Friday, Lenten promises, no leavening, no meat, no school, no business and, a full moon to boot.
Last year it was our first year in business. The pastry chef walked out two days before a fully booked Easter Sunday brunch. (See post "Chefs v Pastry Chefs" for my philosophy on that topic) I was also going through new dishwashers at a pace of roughly every two weeks (see post, "Lazy-ass Americans").
But, I pulled it together. I asked my buddy Dave to come in and help out. He pitched right in, we worked our behinds off, my remaining kitchen crew came through and it was a success after all. My fondest memory was at about midnight Saturday night after service when we were still prepping for the next morning when 6'4" Dave started doing a pole dance on a column over in the pastry area. We were just loopy at that point.
Here it is, a year later. It's the same thing with these holidays. Make extra fish dishes for the Catholics who are observing Lent- guess what? Everyone orders meat that day. Let's make sure to have options for our Jewish customers without flour or leavening- then we run out of cupcakes by 12:30. You just can't second guess this stuff. We stayed open for dinner the first night of Passover. About 5 tables filled up right away. By 7:30 we were dead. I did a stroll over to spy on my Chinese neighbors, empty. Even the dirty diner next to them, empty. So we called it quits. Tonight, second night of Passover I decided to close after lunch. Now I know I will come in tomorrow with all kinds of messages from people trying to make reservations and leaving snippy voice mails about being closed.
Then Easter- we have got barely any reservations. I have really low-balled the food order. I don't want to over order and lose any profit that we might make. Now watch, the book will fill up and we'll be scrambling to stretch what we have.
Then the labor department. My favorite.
I lost my Mexican muchacho. He came in practically in tears to say his father had a heart attack in Mexico, his mother is hysterical and he is the one that the family had elected to go back to help them. Not only does he not know how long he'll be there for, but if he can even come back to the U.S. for certain. Okay, so I guess that means I'm cooking for a few extra nights, eh? Adios mi amigo. Hope to see you again one day.
Next, a very good waitress of mine gave me notice. Which was fine, it happens. When I told her today that I had replaced her and was releasing her 3 days early she freaked on me. That kind of came out of left field.
Meantime I have been trying to hire an extra server to fill in some gaps. But between the cook and the other server it's like trying to keep water from pouring through a leaky bucket. Every time you plug one leak, another opens up.
But the truth is, I've learned a lot. Last year, we made it through. I became the baker until we found another person who is not only talented in the kitchen but a delight to just have around. I hate to call her a pastry chef because she doesn't have that persona. And she can fill in on the line- so she can step in while I try to get me another Mexican. And, I have a pretty awesome dishwasher who's been with me for almost a year.
The waitress was leaving to begin with, she's been mumbling and unhappy for a while.
The new gal coming in actually used to work for me and after having some tough times out in the world she has a pretty humble attitude and is very grateful for the opportunity to come back.
So- I'll be filling in some spaces for a while. I'll be cooking a little more. I'll be waiting tables a little more. I'll be tired, sore and crabby. On the other hand I will have the chance to be in touch with the food again. I can develop some new dishes and strengthen some others. My co-servers on the floor will be happy when I work with them because they get all the tips. I will find new help because you always do. I hate to say it but everyone is replaceable. Some are just harder than others to replace but it's an ever evolving process this business. And it only seems to be more so around holidays. Like holy week. Care for some matzoh?

The Health Inspection

I expected the inspector. She was supposed to make a return visit to check on corrections that she wanted me to have done. They were ridiculous things for as I have learned, the health inspectors in my town are on some kind of crazy power trip and go to real extremes. Every time they come they change the rules.

So far today it's the usual. The day crew is prepping for lunch. I answer e-mails, set up the cash drawer, call the produce company because they are late with the order. I have to hire a new server so I am going through resumes. I then leave for a while to take care of some errands and as I am pulling into my space behind the cafe I get the dreaded call that the health inspector has just shown up.

Now, let me just say that I run a very, very clean kitchen. I am disgusted by some of my fellow restaurateurs- there is some pretty nasty shit out there. My place is new, up to all codes and kept meticulously clean. However, I have learned that that doesn't matter with this particular health department. When the health inspector came last month she got me on all kinds of ridiculous little nits IE- sanitizer must be kept in a RED bucket. So I made a point of correcting all of these stupid little things because I have such pride in my place and I want to score really high.

When I get inside instead of the woman who came in last month I see a completely different person from the health department. He tells me that this is not my re-inspection, but that this is a new inspection entirely (what the f---?). Because they are going to post restaurant inspections on line now, they are going to do them all over again. (I repeat, what the f---?)

So he proceeds to inspect. And if I thought the previous inspector was a nit-picker, forget it compared to this one. I see that he keeps circling things on his paper and it's making me frantic. A server drops a glass behind the bar and it shatters. As I help him sweep I silently give thanks that the ice bin was closed when this happened or I would have been emptying it all out for safety. By the way, lunch service was in full swing and the place was packed when this was going on. Then, my father who is a partner in the business and is 76 years old and seems to go behind that bar like a magnet when we are busy and there is no room for another person, let alone a person who moves a little slowly, proceeds to drop the cover to the ice bin on the floor with yet another big crash. I make a big production out of carrying it to the dishwasher to be sanitized. I keep waving to my father to GO AWAY- GET IN THE BACK! Next the annoying sound of my cell phone- it's my son's guidance counselor finally returning my calls regarding my son's failing his math class. "Uh, health inspector is here, can I call you right back?". One of the cooks forgets to put on a hat. The FIRST thing you do when the health inspector comes is TO PUT ON A HAT.

It just felt like some kind of amateur hour. Every time I turned around it seemed someone was doing something stupid that would cost us another point.
Finally when he was done scoring I sat with him and he had failed us.

This really disturbed me. I try so hard but they keep coming up with new laws, new regulations that they don't inform us on. Crazy, crazy stuff. I said to him, "would you eat here?" because that is the mark of a clean restaurant, if the health inspector eats there. He said, "Oh, of course!". I said "I'll bet there are plenty of places in town that you wouldn't eat at" and he kind of laughed and nodded in agreement.

So now I have more stuff to fix. And pay for . And I am humiliated. In my old town where I ran kitchens I always scored 100. My lowest was a 92. A failure here is 80, which is what we got. If they published any of my violations I wouldn't give a damn because they have nothing to do with preparing and storing food safely. No, my menus don't say "not cooking meat, poultry and eggs to proper temperature may cause foodborne illness", but a -4 points for this crap?? I use a towel to anchor my cutting boards. I always have. I learned this in school. I have never been advised otherwise. -2 points now, must use some kind of rubber matting instead. The inspector didn't even know what the hell the mat is called. Or where to get it for that matter.

He'll be back in 2 weeks. In that time I have to get everything together. Go over safety rules with my staff. Move this, change that, the bathroom door doesn't swing closed by itself. Really, I say yet again, what does this have to do with food safety?

Having respect for food, cleanliness and concern for customer's safety just isn't enough I suppose.

I need a van, like the Chinese restaurant man

It's all about the van. That's when you really got it made.
A couple of doors down from me is a Chinese restaurant. We share an alley in the back. This tiny place does a good $3 million a year from what I hear. Here's part of their secret.
Everyday at about 10:30 am a big black Econoline van pulls up. And out jumps the entire work force of that place. The girls and the cooks go inside. The delivery drivers go straight to the 4 compact cars (hereafter referred to as "the fleet"), take light up signs out of the trunk, affix to the roof of the car and plug into the cigarette lighter outlet.
Throughout the day and into the evening I see my neighbors from the far east conducting their routine business. The cooks sit outside in their kitchen whites and paper hats, talk on their cellphones and smoke. The drivers go running to and from the fleet tearing out of the parking lot with a car full of warm Chinese food in their plastic "Have a nice day" bags. Unfortunately I have also had the misfortune of occasionally catching one of the cooks shooting a snot rocket as he wheels his trash toward the dumpster. Overall though, my general observation is that I see the same faces everyday and they work. They work very hard.
At approximately 10:30pm, the fleet is de-signed and parked for the night. The van quietly pulls up and waits at the door. They all exit in their street clothes, perhaps snuffing out that last cigarette or giving one good final spit for the evening and pile into the van. And slowly the van takes off into the dark.
Maybe it's going to Queens? Maybe to Danbury? All I know is it's going somewhere where these folks live maybe all together or right near one another. The boss knows. The boss holds the key to the van. The boss knows that every single day they are getting into that van and coming to work. Those that ride the van don't take "personal days" or "need a day off cause they're feeling a little burned out".
Now, I'm not a proponent of slavery. Not in any way, shape or form. But after being in the business long enough now to know that your whole livelihood has to depend on your workforce- I kind of dig the idea of your labor being a little bit dependent on you. Like for housing, food and being grateful for getting their ass out of China and giving them the opportunity to earn a living working for you.
When you have the van, you are the man.

Viva Mexico!

Aaaaaaaahh, I got one. The gold standard in the kitchen.
As I wrote earlier, my Peruvian prince walked out and gave me the finger. So I put out an A.P.B. for a cook. A buddy of mine sent me a guy. A Mexican cook.
How do I put this without sounding politically incorrect? I have been hoping and praying for a Mexican cook. When I first started in the business they were the predominant kitchen help. They were coming to this country in droves and working their south of the border culos off. And they were good.
These days there seem to be other nationalities that are coming to our shores. Some of these people are very good workers. But they are the Hundais to the Volkswagen Passats.
This guy who has a sweetheart of a name came in here and learned the menu in three days. He puts his baseball hat on kind of low over his eyes, once in a while cracks a smile with these beautiful white teeth (how on earth do they grow up in such poverty and get teeth like that? I've had dental care all my life and my teeth are as brown as the pueblo!). He wears his kitchen whites kind of stylin' with the chef coat over the apron. He gets to work immediately. He's professional. He's pleasant. As per my request he's started making some of his native dishes and I'm introducing them on the menu. And his family meal! On his own dime he's been bringing in items from his local Mexican market, queso fresca, corn tortillas and making us chilaquilles, tostadas, pico de gallo. He keeps his cool on the line. He just does the job, cleans like a demon and when we joke with him he flashes that killer smile.
Oh- but woe is me. For I fear my Mexican with the sweetheart of a name will be short-lived in our kitchen.
First of all, he lives in a neighboring town over the state line. He has to take a train and an ineffective bus system to get here. It's not only expensive but he sometimes has to wait on the platform for an hour and a half for a train. He does not drive. Usually someone will give him a ride to the train but it's still a lot of money.
Second, a guy like that- a well-oiled machine needs to work. This was a part time job I needed to fill. This thorough-bred of the kitchen will work 60 hours, easily. That's what he's in this country for. He will stand on his feet and do the marathon- hour after hour, day after day and make some bucks.
How can I keep him? It's like having a race horse in the pony-ride. I rack my brains how I can get more hours for him. How I can make his commute easier. Perhaps my son could share a room with him? I throw him every shift I can, but alas I fear the Mexican, the Volkswagen Passat, the gold standard of line cooks will soon say adios- and ride his train off into the sunset. Never to flash those pearly whites and make burritos for family meal again.

You like me. You really, really like me.

Sometimes it just gets so discouraging. You work your tuchas off and you just don't see anything. Money, growth. All you hear on the news is how bad things are and how much worse they are going to get. It starts to feel hopeless.
So tonight I go and do a cable access show. Before I go I send a server home and figure it will be another slow night. After the taping maybe I'll stop by a friend of mine's restaurant and have a drink. No need to rush back.
After the taping I call in and my cute French waitress says only "I need you!!". So I fly back to the cafe. My baby (the restaurant) needs me!
The place is almost full. The lights are still on the bright setting and no candles are lit because she has been too busy to dim and light. The kitchen is moving along, humming in the rhythm of a well-oiled machine. Luckily these were all very competent people left here tonight. I throw my hair into a ponytail and get cracking- waiting on customers, bringing them wine, cleaning and busing tables. And in between I talk to them. They love this place! Three women are having the best time drinking wine, chatting. They tell me they have not seen each other in 8 months and how great a place this is, that they will have to meet here on a regular basis. One of them works in a company that has meetings where they rent a space, would I be interested? (would I? Would I do George Clooney? Are you kidding?)
The people are laughing and talking. They love to call me by my first name. They might know me from tv or just from coming in and seeing my face. But it's good. The feeling is good. With all the crap going on in the world sometimes you just need a good glass of wine, a plate of short ribs and a smiling warm face to serve it to you. They like me, they really, really like me.

Would you like extra foam in that, Ma'am?

A young man who works as a server for me reported that one afternoon during the slow time between services he had two ladies at sitting at a table having a late lunch. First they came in right as lunch was ending which always pleases the cooks a whole lot (not), but that's too bad because that's their job. After lunch they sat and relaxed in the pleasant atmosphere of the cafe. The young waiter approached them occasionally to check on them. Would they care for anything else? May I take your plates, etc.. Not wanting to be a nuisance, he took the cue to stay behind the bar and wait to see if they needed assistance.
At this point nature called to him, so he took about 5 steps over to the men's room and closed the door to do what he had to do.
Now the ladies suddenly had an overwhelming need for assistance. He hears a pounding on the door and hears the woman scream out "Hey- can we get a cappuccino?"
I wouldn't have believed him but a line cook looked up when she heard the commotion and is a witness.
People really do this stuff. I would at least have waited to make sure he had washed his hands.

The Regulars

It has occurred to me that I complain a lot on this blog.
I realize that the concept is kitchen bitch'n but ok,ok, you get it by now. I work hard.
For all of the hours and sweat I put in, the fact is I do pull a little joy out of this place.
The regulars.. that's what it's all about.
The people who think my cafe belongs to them. Because it's their Friday night place. Or their girl's night out place or quick lunch place or their Sunday morning hangover brunch place.
For all the crap I put up with- these folks make it worth my while.
Everyday there's a least one person who calls me over to the table and tells me how much they are enjoying their experience here. How wonderful the food is, how beautiful the place is or how terrific their server was.
These little snippets are the payoff.
And as they return they become regulars.
In the year and a half since I opened this business I have met so many people. So very many people who have made my little dream a regular part of their lives. I welcome them, we talk, I get to know a piece of their lives- little bits about them. They are the jewels in my crown.
They bring friends, family. The newcomers are impressed by how their friend is welcomed and treated by me, the owner. Everyone knows me by my first name. They can always talk to me if there is a problem or just to say hello.
As much of a tired old crab apple as I am, every day I am lifted when I go to the front and greet my guests. I have a smile for everyone. I believe in manners, treating others with respect and never letting them walk out the door without thinking what a great place and that they must come back. I try to teach my help that no matter what happens, they've got to turn a bad experience around and fix it before the customer leaves. Really, all people want is just to be heard. Own your mistake and move on.
In this very difficult financial climate which we are in, we cling to anything that brings us comfort. My regulars cling to the knowledge that when they come to my place I will take care of them. And every day I get up with the belief that they will take care of me too.

The Evil Bicyclists

My place is located next door to a very successful bagel shop. And sometimes on Sunday mornings it is not unusual for us to stand around twiddling our thumbs, looking longingly over at the line streaming out their front door. Hey, they're nice guys and they were there long before I was, so power to them. Only thing is their place is kind of old and could use some remodeling. Mine is all brand spanking new with two handicapped accessible bathrooms. (Such a waste of space, I could literally seat a table of six in each!) Sometimes bagel customers use my bathrooms.
But one sunny summer day there was a pack- a pack of bicyclists, all sweaty and nasty. Used to be that people rode bikes, got a little fresh air and exercise. Now they have to have helmets with points on them, spandex shirts, padded shorts and special shoes. Oh- and the gloves of course. Now it's like skiing, with expensive equipment and an elitist attitude. They tend to get aggressive on the road too, annoyed that you, a driver of an automobile would dare be impatient trying to get around their spandex wrapped ass on their road.
Anyway, I digress.
First, they parked their 2 wheeled versions of a Lexus along the sidewalk making it impossible for my already non-existent customers to park and enter. Then, one female bicyclist walks into my empty cafe and asks to use the bathroom. Next another one, without asking. Also, I might add, without buying so much as a Poland Springs to help her rehydrate herself. Then, another one! Whoa, I said at this point. No purchase, no bathroom.
So the lady bicyclists got all huffy and insulted. "Well!!", they exclaimed, now that they would have to find somewhere else, perhaps not as clean to empty their very athletic bladders. I saw them conferring outside with their male counterparts, gesticulating wildly and pointing at me.
After they finished buying their bagels and power-ades they all sat under a tree outside across the parking lot sipping and staring. With those ridiculous helmets, beak like on their heads they looked like a pack of evil birds, watching and plotting.
I do have one regular customer who comes in on Sundays. He's a large man with long-ish hair, a beard and a girlfriend. He too is a cyclist with a uniform. The cycle is a huge Harley, and the uniform is a well worn leather jacket that says "Hell's Angels" across the back of it. He is polite and well-mannered.
He can use my bathroom any time he wants to.