America's Testosterone Kitchen

A very large toque is not unlike the long front of a sports car, if you catch my drift. Perhaps compensating for something lacking?

Gay, straight, fat, thin, tall, short, American, Italian, Mexican- they can't get enough of themselves.
The male chefs are big, they're loud.  When you get a bunch of them in a room together they call each other "dude" or "man" or "bro". This is usually in a conversation where they are one-upping each other. Who has worked more hours straight in a row, who gets the best weed, who has the worst burns, on and on. If a female so much as tries to open her mouth during one of these brag-fests, she will be completely talked over. There is no room for her in this jungle.
Male chefs bark orders out. They bond with other male chefs, even if they hate them. I've seen young, inexperienced and kind of dumb guys get accepted into the fold before a female would. Often by opening their mouth and bragging about something (i.e. secret bbq sauce, the most expensive wine they ever drank or how much weed they could/would/should/ smoke).
Even the nicest ones can't help themselves when it comes to being overbearing to their female counterparts. It's genetic.
I've seen women chefs who are mean, perhaps compulsive, downright nasty or crazy but it's just not the same thing. Not to say that female chefs don't have egos. Some of them have terrible ones and they get branded "bitches" of course. These gals aren't a picnic either.
Male chefs might call you "honey" or "sweetie" or "darling". Or I've gotten "Miss" from time to time.
No, that's "Chef" to you, buddy.
It's not mean spirited, it's really not. They are not being cruel. These guys are just full of themselves. The kitchen is the jungle, they are warriors who are sent to kill. They must do the tribal dance to impress one another. They must pound their chests and yell. They rattle their spears (knives) and see who has the biggest peace pipe and who has the best weed in it.
A female chef comes to the jungle in a different capacity. If she is a single mom like I was, she carries her babies on her back, quietly washes the laundry in the river, kills an animal, butchers it and cooks it. When she is done for the day, she cleans and goes to her hut. She does not have the time nor the need to show off.
The male chef must be heard. He needs underlings to be spellbound, colleagues to be impressed. The female has mouths to feed and is efficient in how she does it.
In my early days as a cook, I know that I missed out on possible promotions because I did not have time or frankly the need to hang around. In my first post-school job a way less qualified cook cut in front of me on the line. I worked pantry/salad station in the day, he did in the night. I constantly came in to find that he had used all the dressings without replenishing and left the low-boy a mess. Overall he wasn't that great but he just kissed up to the chef constantly.  If I had done the same, as a female employee it could easily have been misconstrued and would have been the cause of gossip. He was lazy and a putz but he was accepted into the tribe.
My former partner the pastry chef ( male plus artist = super ego) did not talk to me for two days when I suggested that though he was more experienced than I, since I would be putting in the same ungodly hours that maybe I should be paid the same amount of money as him.
Some of my best friends are men. I've gotten pretty tight with a number of male chefs. I have always enjoyed the camaraderie of the kitchen. Horsing around, crude jokes. I've been known to be just as bad as the guys are. It's just that like the proud peacock with his feathers fanned out, the male chef has a lot of bravado and can be very insecure down deep. He'll squawk if you threaten him. You must be careful when criticizing men. Truth is they have very delicate constitutions and can be crushed easily.
When it comes to strength, yes they can lift the 60qt stockpot or work with a bloody hand wrapped in side towels because they are too macho to go to the emergency room and later have 12 stitches and a wicked infection.
But it would be refreshing if just once in a while, during a who's got the biggest, bestest or greatest session, one of them might turn to the lady in the room and say, "What do you think?"

Keeping it Simple.

Rome wasn't built in a day...

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago there was a lady who went to Italy and when she was there, she found out who she really was.

She was meant to have her hands in the food, washing, prepping, cutting, rolling, patting, baking, frying and finally designing it on the plate, giving it to people and watching their faces light up when they ate.

In Italy she smelled for the first time what young, unfiltered, virgin olive oil was.  Bread that had a crust that was crisp, an interior that was chewy with just enough salt to make your mouth water. Fish that melted in your mouth that only needed olive oil and lemon, perhaps some fresh herbs. Wine that was plain, served in a pitcher.

The lady pursued her new dream, to get behind the stove.

Of course, this lady is me. I've had quite a career with many ups and downs. In the last year I went from having a promotion and a great summer, to the fall where I was fired. Since then, there has been much time for introspection and questioning what the hell I'm doing and do I even want to do it anymore?

Besides being fired by people who were ignorant, I went on to work for some others who were pretty clueless too. Once you get to the level where I have gone, it's hard to work for knuckleheads, as I have written about previously.

And so I wonder, is this all there is? Did I reach the highest I can go? I'm feeling very over it all. I don't think about food all the time, I do not watch food tv or read all the food blogs and magazines. Not interested.  The whole business is just too precious. Food is getting so convoluted and away from what it is meant to be, nourishment for the body and soul.
Did the bastards win? Those who put me down, or my foolish choices get me to a place that I just can't seem to come back from?
I don't really know. But I do know that the last two weeks have been enlightening. Here is why.

First- I finally went back to Italy. It had been seventeen years since the last time. Though I didn't really have the money, I did have the time. My son and I went to Rome. It was there that I remembered what I was all about.
Simplicity.
Simple ingredients, simple preparation, simple presentation.
Rome is full of ancient ruins and people sitting at cafes eating pasta and drinking wine, out of pitchers. I remembered who I was and that there was a place that existed that had inspired me. I had just been out of touch with that spirit. I had been pushed around by horrible bosses, wacko clients, the restaurant business and simply being worried about making money.

On our last night we went to the Jewish Ghetto where we dined on carciofa alla guidea (artichokes in the Jewish style), something that I had never forgotten. The artichoke is fried so that the leaves are crisp and salty almost like potato chips. The choke is cooked through and tender. I had tried many times to make it, but it was never quite the same. It was so good, I ordered another.

We ate pasta that was truly al dente, ate that chewy bread, drank the grape-y wine. I drank sambuca, had gelato, drank more sambuca and got another gelato.  I was trying to get every last crumb of Italy in my mouth.

When we returned to New York, I still didn't know where I was going but I knew where I came from.

This week I am working for a private client of mine. They asked me to come to their family vacation home on the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. These were clients of mine way back when all I wanted to do was open a bakery. Now, having been there, done that- I have a new appreciation for nice people who will pay to have me cook in their home.

No lie, I'm working my ass off. From the moment I got off the train I took what would be the first of many trips to Whole Foods. I have been non-stop cooking and baking.  Right now as I sit here, my knees and feet are throbbing. My hands are dry from washing them so much, the joints in my fingers are stiff.  But my heart feels wonderful. Here is why.

First, these people are truly nice people. Many wealthy people who hire private chefs are not. Now that I have been around the block a few more times I feel truly blessed to be working for them again. There is a mutual trust. They trust that I am going to make great food. They give me money, I make it happen. We discuss menus and ideas but I have a very long leash and get lots of creative leeway. Unlike the micro managers who ride you, which  ulimately kills off any creativity- these people believe in me and treat me with respect. This has made me regain some of the confidence that I lost.

Today I have run out to the store twice, driving the lady's Mercedes SUV, I work in a drop-dead gorgeous kitchen, brand new appliances and an open view of the water. Yesterday I went out shopping for some necessary equipment and dropped a cool $1500 or so.

I have baked bread, cookies, brownies, cakes, tarts. I have roasted, grilled and sauteed. I have bent over countless times, opening and closing drawers, the refrigerator, the oven.

Then, the payoff. The happy faces, the compliments. The food disappearing off of the platters. The group is happy, they love my work. Though working hard, I am relaxed. I know what I am doing. I'm a thoroughbred running around the track again.

Unfortunately, I don't work for this client enough to fully pay my bills. I still have many unanswered questions to face about the next chapter in my life. Happily though, I think I am finished with the last one. I will never forget my students and the experience of teaching, but the pain and anger with the politics can get filed away now.

When I get back on the train on Monday to go home, with my aching feet and grey roots that desperately need a touch up I will bring my rejuvenated outlook with me. Though to completely different places, these two trips have reminded me of that lady who found her passion in Italy, and the satisfaction of doing great work. The joy in keeping it simple.

Three words I cannot stand...

Three words I cannot stand:
"Foodie"
"De-lish"
"Yummy" (said by adults to other adults)

I understand that food has become a culture in this country and frankly that's a good thing. I'm hoping that it leads us to a more enlightened state where we care about where our food comes from and how. The choices we have in restaurants, in shopping, even in our condiments. In my house, growing up we pretty much had ketchup, mustard (we were fairly sophisticated because we also had dijon), worcestershire sauce, and horseradish. Now it is not uncommon to open a refrigerator and see various levels of soy sauce, Thai sauces, endless varieties of mustards, chutneys, miso paste, wasabi, etc.. In our cabinets, the spices go on and on, from nationality to nationality, not to mention all of the salts,vinegars and varying levels of virginity in our olive oils.

This is good. We are a melting pot of tastes now.

As a teenager in the suburbs in the 70's we had one really, really lousy Chinese restaurant. Now there are endless ones (along with nail salons) although they've become a fusion referred to as "Asian" which takes away from authenticity, I do applaud their presence. Overall if the suburbs are the barometer, global influence has snuck into what was once a whitebread culture. Again, in my opinion this is positive.
But like dogs in Halloween costumes, I don't like the inappropriate cute-ness in language about what we eat. The term "foodie" has always turned my stomach. We all eat food for sustenance, some are more fascinated by it than others. Food-oephiles may be pretentious. Food-oculturists might sound like they sacrifice a goat and eat it's head while chanting. I don't know- I'd love to get some suggestions. It's just that "foodie" is too cute and as one who attempts to make a living at cooking the stuff it I don't support it. Please readers, feel free to come up with some alternatives in the comments box. Maybe we can start a grass-roots movement to abolish foodie from the English vocabulary.
Which leaves "de-lish" and "yummy".
I don't even care about EVOO any more. For those who have lived in a cave for the past 10 years, this is Rachel Ray's abbreviation for Extra virgin olive oil. Why don't I mind it? Because she's the only one who says it. No one else does. Fair enough.
De-lish often comes out of the mouth of very affected people. Usually to their private chefs. After beating them down earlier with a case of pre-party nerves, a couple of cocktails later, the surgically enhanced, over made-up hostess who's lip liner is now bleeding through a bit and if drinking red-wine her now burgundy colored teeth will come in to her kitchen, swishing designer outfit flowing and will exclaim to aforementioned brow-beaten chef that "everything was DE-LISH!". Maybe even give her a drunken hug laced with expensive perfume and hopefully a fat tip later.
And "yummy"? Yummy should only be said by children. "My mom's arugula pesto (remember, we are a food sophisticated culture now) is YUMMY!" Or an adoring mother spooning organic mashed sweet potatoes into the mouth of her baby is permitted to say "wasn't that yummy?" Yes. This is allowed.
But not by adults. To other adults. I have witnessed chefs who use this term. And more foolishly, to other chefs. When they do, these chefs all get the same twitch in the back of their necks, that chill. Reminding them once more of summer breezes in East Hampton where while they slaved over a hot Viking range they could hear the guests in the garden talk like children, with words like yummy, de-lish and "oh have you met Simon? He's a real Foodie."

May the wind be always at your back

I keep on saying it over and over. The wind has to be at my back. No more upstream swimming for this salmon. 

As we get older and gravity hits us, the collagen in our skin lessens, yet our brains get so damn smart. So here is my lesson learned.

1) I don't do toxic

2) I don't do crazy

and number 3:

The wind has got to be at my back. 

My bf doesn't seem to get it. He's worried about me. He keeps showing me help wanted ads for executive chef jobs. I repeatedly say no. No means no. 

It's not just the hours, the time spent on my feet, the burns, the cuts, the pressure.  Because frankly I can handle most of that. But not if it takes more effort than is really needed to do the job. I have now been fired twice in my life, which is not bad when you think about how many jobs I have had. It's a shitty feeling though and I don't want to have it again.

Sometimes I panic inside. Money- kid in college, health insurance, rent, I can go on and on. But I do know this; that any time I have faced adversity I always come out stronger and better for it.

When I was out of work two years ago, it led me to teaching. Teaching was something I found  great satisfaction in, I met people who became real friends and I grew a lot.

When I gave notice to Ms. Crazy last week regarding the private chef job I tried to put it in the most simple terms, "square peg, round hole". Does not fit.

I felt so relieved because though I was losing a paycheck, I was leaving an uphill battle that I would face every day trying to be the right person for that job. Truth be told I have only had one personal chef job where the people were really, really nice and not crazy. It was also my best paying job. Most of them are not like that.

I once wanted desperately to have my own business, something I fought for, worked at tirelessly, but being that so much was wrong, in the end gave me heartache both professionally and personally.  It did make me stronger, but that lesson has been learned and I'm done.

I live a good life. I got rid of so much that encumbered me. I now live in a small apartment with two dogs. My wonderful kids have grown into such amazing people. Great friends, love in my life and I am still young enough to have more adventures. Why should I be desperate?

Like marriage and partnership, both at which I failed at, I really understand now just how important it is to be the right one. I'll take any job out there short term but in the long run, I want that warm sun on my face with the wind at my back gently helping me go in the right direction. Wherever that may be.

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

May God be with you and bless you:
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.

May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.*

*Irish proverb (and quote from Johnny Depp in the movie "Blow")

I don't do crazy

I think at this time of my life I can make a few proclamations.  I have earned them.
First, I don't do toxic. If it's at all possible, I don't ever want to work in a toxic environment again. And by toxic I don't mean working in a nuclear power plant where any minute we could  have a meltdown.  I mean a place where there is poor management and backstabbing, that sort of thing. Been there, done that and I really don't want to do it again.
Next on the list-
I don't do crazy.
I have been a boss and I have been a worker-bee but I have never been a crazy (at least not in my professional life).  Some crazies are very successful people. I do think that creativity does require a little bit of loco and that brilliance can be tainted by meshugenah. Just look at Vincent Van Gogh.
I'm talking out and out mean, nasty, infantile, bossy, crazy. The kind of people that the movie "Horrible Bosses" was about. Which, by the way I went to see the first night it was out. I'd had one of those kind of weeks with my own horrible boss.
In my recent travels I had left toxic and felt the weight off of my shoulders. I no longer woke up to nasty e-mails every morning telling me what I did poorly or did not do correctly the night before. I wasn't someones bitch anymore and that was fine by me.
When I was called to a job as a private chef, I could not turn it down. The money was good and beggars cannot be choosers. So I traded in the field-hand's overalls and put on my clean domestic uniform. If you'll pardon the expression I went from being a field n----- to a house one.
When you move into the "big house" they make you sign a confidentiality agreement so there will be no mention of names or specifics here. That's not important anyway.
What is important is holding on to one's soul and dignity. I'm a class act. I am polite and gracious. I work hard, I'm honest and trustworthy. I know that most of these people are very rich and very spoiled and they are used to being pampered. It's all part of the deal.
At first there was a coolness factor being an insider on the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Shopping among the surgically altered faces of the upper east side ladies at Citarella. Being loaded into the shiny black Cadillac Esplanade (this is the vehicle de rigeur of the wealthy now) with a cooler containing thousands of dollars worth of ossetra caviar that I had to hold on my lap on the way to the Hamptons. The famous names that are all part of this circle that you will be feeding and waiting on.
What was not cool though, was being told one thing, then something different, then different again.  Being treated disrespectfully one minute and then treated like a bosom buddy the next.  Too many rules and regulations about a lot of minutia. A lot of micro managing. Insults.
I guess the one that pushed me over the edge was being berated over a piece of meat that I had little to do with. This berating took place in front of a guest who was also someone who works at a famous four star restaurant in New York. That clicked a switch in me.
After that I realized I was not dealing with someone who was rational. She pulled a really rotten move on me last minute and took away time I was supposed to travel and work with them and gave it to another cook. She had been begging me to hold off on taking any other work while she made her plans. I had rearranged my whole life around that two weeks for her, counted on that income and on a whim, she changed her mind.  Then when I called her on it, she lied and said she had merely suggested that I hold off on taking any other jobs while she solidified her plans. This is also a person who when she walks in the door looks at me and says, " I CANNOT EVEN THINK ABOUT FOOD RIGHT NOW. I AM MUCH TOO BUSY!!"
Cooking has to be done with some love and creativity. Unless you are just emptying a box of something, adding water to it and setting a timer- your brain must be involved. When I got crazy flying around my head it sucks those abilities right out of me. I tried to be invisible. Like writer's block, I could not think of what to make. She had a comment for everything and you never knew when she would fly off the handle.
I worked for one of the most famous crazies for a long time, but she was truly brilliant and as painful as the process was sometimes, the outcome was always spectacular and I was proud of what I produced. In this case I was often embarrassed by what we put out thanks to her input. One minute she's screaming at me about not touching the special $100 piece of meat, the next she is putting her "special barbecue sauce" (read- ketchup and mustard) on it.
So when the misery factor was just getting too high, and she last minute changed the work schedule that I had counted on, I knew I was done. Just like the $100 steak that she had burned.
She was just another crazy-ass mofo.
Really, I would rather be baking in a basement somewhere. Crazy breeds crazy and the more you are around it, the more you pick it up. Everyone runs around in these households trying to keep the king or queen crazy from going off the deep end.
Being a hair past the half century mark I gotta have some principles and I think that I have earned them. Maybe I won't have a pot to piss in, but I ain't  crazy and I don't work for them either.

Flour Power

I think it may be time to come out of the closet.

I want to be a baker.
There, I said it.
Pastry chefs get on my nerves to no end. I've shared my stories here.  The temperament, the high-maintenance personalities. I am certainly NOT like that.

Bundt perfection!

So then why am I drawn to baking books? Why do I always check out the dessert articles first in the cooking magazines?  Why do I always stop at the King Arthur store whenever I'm in Vermont and check out the new gadgets? What the f---?
Of all the stuff I sold or gave away when I moved from my house to my small apartment, the one thing that I regret parting with is the bundt pan that I gave to my daughter. It was a good one, heavy duty with a smooth surface. Why? Because, Goddammit, I love to make bundt cakes!  I love the shape of them, how perfectly they come out of that pan. The simplicity.  I love to pour icing over them and the way they look when they are done. Among my favorites- zucchini made with olive oil and a lemon crunch icing.  Or the chocolate bourbon.  Or coffee cake with streusal and cinnamon marbled inside. Oh how I miss that pan!
I loved to teach baking class. I loved the look on student's faces when they saw what they were capable of, whether it was puff pastry with thousands of layers and that perfect crispiness or a layer cake that they had decorated themselves. When petit fours were still in the syllabus, it was among my favorite lessons. There were usually a couple of people who had no patience so they washed dishes. But often there were many who got so into it, cutting mini rounds, glazing, making stunning little confections. It was arts and crafts and such fun.
However, my last couple of baking classes were full of students who saw baking as something to just "get through" so they could move on to their next class. I'd had reluctant or insecure bakers before but at least they were open to trying. Most of these folks wouldn't even give it that much. They put no creativity into it and were rude. They only wanted to eat the product, usually right away with out even displaying or discussing. I started to resent them.
Did they not see the miracle that was puff pastry?  That by folding dough over a few times how it would transform once it had baked, with all those layers? Or kneading bread dough, smelling the yeast and feeling the pull of the gluten in their hands? What I found therapeutic, they saw as work and complained about being tired.
They didn't like the good quality baking chocolate either. Didn't we have any milk chocolate?
Compared to the earlier classes that I had, the low energy sucked the life out of me. When I was moved to teaching a different module I was relieved.
Right before I was canned from the job though, another chef and I switched classes one evening. His lesson was pate a choux and my class was serving their dinner menu. I could see his class was hungry for information.  To know a little about how and why. I wanted to give it to them and baking is not the other chef's passion, so we traded.
With gusto I  jumped right in. I went over their mis en place and demo'd how to make pate a choux.  They got it and were excited about it. Then I showed them how to make pastry cream, which is very technique driven. One by one, they all did it. Seeing those ingredients go from their original form to a thick vanilla pudding-like consistency was very amazing to them. No one's curdled, they all came out beautifully.
Unfortunately the oven in that kitchen runs too hot and the pate a choux came out too dark, in fact almost burnt. But the students still got the principles of the lesson and I saw I still had passion for teaching it.

Back to me now.  As I pour through the help wanted ads on Craiglist I don't even open the executive chef ads. Sous chef, line cook- nah, not for me.  Baker keeps catching my eye. Then I feel a touch of remorse for the gorgeous bakery that was once mine, with the deck oven, double stacked convection, 20 qt and 60 qt mixer, etc, etc.  Now I'm looking at junior level baking jobs?
I guess it goes back to basics. At that bakery I frantically ran the hot line and tended to catering and HR issues. Once in a while I got to make some cookies. For the most part though, I never got to bake, especially with an egotistical partner who was the true baker.
Yet, he taught me a lot. I admit, I have heard his voice inside my head many times when I am creating something delicious. Teaching baking also drummed in more technique and process for me. I did things that I  had always been intimidated by and had never had the chance to practice. Now, I am really good at those things.
Perhaps during this period while I am figuring out next steps- I go for the baking jobs. I will reach out and test the waters and see about a part time position. Maybe I am ready to step away from the flaring fires of the macho hot-line. The greasy spills and raw chicken.  Could it be that now in these uncertain times that I need precision- weighing ingredients, tempering chocolate and blooming yeast? A little quieter pace and room in my head to think?
I think it's time to find out...

Queen of the Jungle

In my last post I described the beginning of my day, the creaky ride up to eleven hours of ups and downs full of surprises.
Some days it's relatively easy. A lesson goes smoothly. Perhaps at the time I have a "good" class. Bright, motivated and hard workers. That's a pleasure, but not always the case.
Sometimes by pick of the draw I'll get a group that is, how shall I put this diplomatically...challenged?
One colleague sums it up as, "one French-fry short of a Happy Meal", or I've heard, "one firecracker short of a Chinese New Year". It's all the same meaning that overall they are just more work and harder to teach.
One repeat student, who had failed my baking class before stood right in front of me as I demonstrated how to mix a type of dough. I slowly went through the procedure, repeated verbally the very important steps, looked him straight in the eye as well as my other students (the ones paying attention). Literally two minutes after they were to do it on their own he asked me questions that I had just explained. The exact process I had just taken him through. Where the hell was his mind? Maybe the little squirrel who rides the bicycle inside his head that supplies the power to his brain had been on a nut break. I don't know. I take a deep breath and use all my most patient skills from being a mother and explain it once again.

Okay- so I have some of those to contend with.

The biggest surprises though that require split decisions and thinking are the outbursts. One must remember that our student body does contain some people with violent backgrounds. They have the tatoos and the piercings as souvenirs (unlike a lovely crocheted poncho given to a certain famous ex-boss of mine with a record). We have a security guard on premise and any type of incident is written up.
One afternoon I strolled into our hot kitchen ready to start the day's topic. Our class the day before had been the second part of a lesson where we iced and decorated the cakes we made on day one.
My class was seated around the stainless steel table in the back of the room where the board is. There was the usual buzz of conversation, getting their books and supplies out. As soon as I reached my place at the head of the table I looked up at the face at one of my students, enraged.
"Chef, why you give my cake away?!" Large brown eyes with long lashes, usually friendly stared coldly at me. The border of his black do-rag showing beneath his regulation white patisserie cap. Most days this guy was kind of goofy and I had to keep him focused on task. Today he would not get off it.
"Because", I said calmly,"you were not here yesterday".
"But Chef, that cake was mines!" , this is one word I really have trouble with. "Mines", and it's not the plural of an underground tunnel where coal is harvested.
"The policy is when you miss one half of the lesson you don't get to finish it. That was explained very clearly from the beginning of this module. We have to keep moving"
"Yeah but why you give MY cake away. I can't help it if someone else dropped they's! That cake was mines!"
His cake had been used as a replacement when another student had dropped hers yesterday. She's another story.
Back and forth it went. The class watched, a couple of people chimed in with a "let it go, man" or "you holdin' the class up". The student only became more agitated and loud.
I have learned in my short time there that there is something very primal in our teacher-student relationships. You have to let them know who is boss. You have to do it quickly. Because everyone else is watching and they will walk all over your ass if you don't. There are not a lot of white Jewish lady from Connecticut (now of Chelsea/Meatpacking) chef instructors, or for that matter probably anywhere in their lives.
I had a moment. A moment where I stood outside of my body and looked down at this stand-off. I didn't know what this kid's background was. I didn't know how far he'd take it over his stupid cake. I knew though that I had to put an end to this. This fire had to be put out immediately.
"OUTSIDE, NOW!" A very large and loud voice from within me commanded.
"You had no right to do that, Chef!", he would not drop it.
"NOW, YOU AND ME. OR I WILL CALL SECURITY. NOW!"
The room was quiet. He pulled away from the table, and swaggered toward the door.
I had won. I had conquered the enemy in front of the onlookers.
And it felt good. I felt empowered.
I walked out to meet him in the hallway. He started again about that damn cake.
"LISTEN. I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISTURB MY CLASS ANY LONGER. I AM THE CHEF, I MAKE THE DECISIONS AND THAT IS FINAL. IF YOU HAVE ANY FURTHER PROBLEM YOU TAKE IT TO CHEF B.
I HAVE A CLASS TO TEACH.
The voice had spoken. Now I swaggered. As he went back into the classroom, muttering to collect his things, I went to Chef B. and gave him the heads up. He nodded and agreed with me.
I went back to my class and apologized for the delay. I explained the two day lesson policy again. Not only did they all say that they knew that but they gave me their full support. Apparently what he was really worked up about was not that the cake had been used but who had used it. He didn't have any love for her and it pissed him off big time.
A few minutes later the student returned to the classroom and apologized. I calmly accepted his apology and gave him directions on what he was supposed to do now.
The class went on without a hitch and he never f***ed with me again.