You just don't see a lot of old chefs around.
Maybe on tv, Jaques, Julia. But not in the kitchen at your local bistro.
It's a job that is meant for the young. Kind of like having and raising children. There is a reason why fertility drops off at a certain age. Because our bodies are not meant to be used in this way at that age.
I've just turned the corner and am heading straight in to the half-century mark, in other words, I'll be turning 50 in 6 months. I'm in pretty good shape. Weight is ok, healthy as a horse and strong. But I'm not 25 anymore.
It is typical for me to work 6 days a week (Mondays I really try to stay out of there when we are closed). On a late day I may come in by 10 am. I am on my feet from the moment I walk in to the moment I lock the door at night somewhere around 11:30pm. Sometimes I am on the line cooking, other times I am waiting on customers and running back and forth, upstairs and downstairs. Or I have to jump in my car, apron and all to pick up my son from band practice, get three avocadoes from the supermarket and stop at the bank to get singles.
I work Sunday brunch. I come in about 7:30 am. My co-worker on the line that day and I grunt hello to each other and do our prep and I bake some pastry for when we open at 8:30. Brunch goes in waves, from not a customer in sight where we all stand around and look at each other or to very busy with patrons lined up at the door waiting for tables to be cleared for them. And again, I'm either flipping pancakes, pouring coffee or being charming to my guests.
Then at some point around 3pm I say to the servers, "that's a wrap, lock the door".
This is where we clean up. For some reason brunch is just so messy, messier than other services. Something about the eggs I guess. I start getting this feeling of heartburn looking at pancake batter and bacon that time of day. We break down, we clean. The food is looking tired at this point. We divvy up any leftovers. Since we are closed the next day there is extra to be cleaned, the fryolator gets emptied, the ovens will be cleaned later. Every surface is to be wiped down and the walk-in gets organized. The poor dishwasher makes his way through mountains of pots, pans, dishes and glasses.
All throughout this I'm still moving along. Quickly. I'm on my knees wiping out the lowboys. Cleaning, cleaning. Been on my feet all day and still hopping around.
Finally- it's done. The dishwasher says "vamanos" and I turn off the lights. I usually have a cupcake or 2 for my son. An open bottle of something good. I'm liking cava these days. I'm greasy and dirty and as soon as I sit down I collapse.
There was a movie in the seventies called "North Dallas Forty" about aging football players. In it Nick Nolte, who was actually a good actor before he became a professional lunatic, is a just this side of over the hill football star. I will never forget the scene where he lowers his once strong and athletic physique into a whirlpool bath. He groans, He moans. They shoot him up with cortisone. He pops pills. He is in agony and he just has to keep going, somehow, some way. He's got to stay in the game whatever it takes. This is his life and no matter how much he aches he must get up and get in there again.
On Sunday nights my son and I order Chinese food. Mom is not cooking. No f-ing way. I take a shower. I light incense. I put on my "fatty-pants", a t-shirt and am bra-less.
Once I get off of my feet- I'm done. Every bone is calling out for Aleve athritis pain reliever. I pour a glass of that cava. I pop a something, maybe a lorazepam, or a vicodin if I can score one. My feet call out for help all night. My hands ache. When I get up I move like an eighty year old woman.
I marvel at making it through yet another week. Getting through whatever surprises popped up. At my body still going, longer and stronger than people I have that are half my age there. I guess like Nick Nolte- I'm a pro. They may have to prop me up when the game is over but I've still got it.
