Whisper voice… The Stage’

A look at working auditions by Jason King

If glutinous adoration for punishment was more widely enjoyed, I think more people would work as a line cook. Thanks to the old school badges for how shitty, evil, busy, and little one was paid on their way to the top, an archaic institution still permeates, if not flourishes in the kitchen. Whisper voice…  The Stage’. Working for free, like an audition.

That epic movie trailer narrator often moonlights as my inner dialogue. Especially when I walk in a professional kitchen for the first time. The raspy, authoritative voice tells me I live in a special world. I have near super-human kitchen skills, a daring, near lethal affinity for oak-aged bourbon and may or may not thwart a terrorist plot. (The last one may be part of my long relationship with delusion, but the kitchen skills part is true.)

Like my other comrades in arms, I am a cog in the restaurant industry machine. A mercenary in the epicurean discipline, fueled by the rush of a flawless night of service, by the fourth push of the night helped by an Ecuadorian commando’s little bump of coke in the walk-in cooler. This is the glamour I know.

This same fire is in the soul of everyone who loves this industry. Not the cocaine per se, just the passion. For a few -- the best talents, the hardest workers -- success in the business can lead to meteoric acclaim. I want to believe that all those who have “made it” want to help cultivate the next great cooks or chefs.

Enter “The Stage” – ( Whisper voice please) the working audition many kitchens use as a way of ensuring that only the best, most eager aspirants join the team.  We work for free in some cases, whole shifts sometimes. If the spot is nice and reputable enough, God forbid a Beard winner, then there's often a waiting list to offer free labor in exchange for a chance to get in.

I appreciate every lump I have taken to make me a better cook. I don’t want to seem like a whistleblower too light in the wrist to even succeed at an audition. I’ve seen those guys.  They show up so high, don’t write down what chef asked them to prepare, and end up interrupting a purveyor meeting to ask how the wanted the egg cooked

.

Over easy asshole, it’s not rocket science. Your future employer has asked you to do six things to demonstrate your prowess. We all know you were up late duplicating a day two of Coachella playlist.

I left the diamond fields of Sierra Leone for a reason: Slave labor is not cool. What happened to nailing an interview and taking thirty minutes to show what you can do?  What about having a consistent resume that you can parlay into a decent wage?

I have severed countless good relationships, bled, sweated, and nearly killed to make myself a commodity to a new kitchen. I didn't do it to stand in a breadline like a luckless hobo from the 1930’s.

The working audition is a tool, and shouldn't be abused. Doing things for free to get a chance is one thing, but be sure to know your value. Do a risk/ reward analysis. I set up a free glory hole at a rest area one time. I did not end up a porn star.

Reverse Engineering Gramma's Cooking by Jason King

As I have said before, my interest in cooking lacked influence from cable food channels, or brand promoting celebrity chefs. My awareness of food and its possibilities began early.

My first recipe I attempted was gingerbread man cookies. In the book, the well baked cookies jumped off the pan, shockingly coming to life to celebrate Christmas.

While Gramma helped make my four year old ultimate culinary vision a success, she was ill prepared to deal with my disappointment. While they were tasty cookies, no abiogenesis took place. The cookies were soulless after they cooked. The book had lied.

Growing older, Gramma reigned supreme in our family's kitchen. She had her corner, don't get in Gramma's way. Don't go in the corner. Gramma threw down every night of the week almost, and beasted holiday meals.

With the execution of a production kitchen, and a chef grade palate to boot, Gramma was the HBIC- Head B@#ch In Charge- in the kitchen. Then I asked... "How much chili powder is in the chili Gramma?"

Gramma politely tells me she's not sure. Not sure?

Has she been dropping epicurean treasure on the table all these years, like a savant can calculate Pi to the 53rd place? Has this woman just raised an aspiring chef, but can give me no concrete direction to replicate her masterpieces?

I must, I will learn to cook. Then, like Indian Jones I'll trudge back threw the relics of great dishes. I'll apply my knowledge like a secret code, unlocking the ability to cook like Gramma.

The more experience I got in the kitchen, the more I realized what she was doing. I began to appreciate the art she made. Like Picaso can't tell you how many milliliters of blue paint he used in a masterpiece, Gramma couldn't give me exact tablespoons old bay, in her shrimp.

My reverse engineering was working. I was figuring things out. My clam chowder was getting closer to hers. I was catching up.

Then the phone calls. Gramma had noticed my skills. The humble angel she is, she knew who to start asking for tips.

I love my Mama, but Mama had not inherited Gramma's prowess. Gramma was asking me. The teacher became the student. Kung Fu the TV show's Asian theme song played in my head. It was a weird place to be.

Gramma has picked up a few tricks from me, and ran with them. I'm still never supervised. One day in a quick fridge forage I thought I saw some take out Chinese hiding. Asking her if I can heat some up  she casually throws out how she made some Lo Mein the night before.

Citing some techniques, I know aren't native to a mid-seventies white woman. I'm impressed.
Gramma stares me in the eyes, and drops the mic. She kisses her two fingers, as she throws up deuces.

Grammma... Wins.