The Cook... Signs and Clues by Jason King

The cook is a by nature is no different from his fellow man. Genetically speaking, a doctor can't identify a kitchen worker under a microscope. A full body exam could reveal clues to a subject's chosen trade however.

Non-dominant hand's will bare the testimony of too closely regulating the thickness of an onion slice. The forearms will speak volumes about times a hurried cook reached into an oven with almost surgical precision. Kissing the top of his arm to the oven threshold, realizing then his dry oven towel was no longer dry. No worries, we have kitchen hands.

A cook's hands, like that of a long forgotten X-Man, can take heat close to the point of physically burning. To a person whose hands are still protected by sensitive nerve endings, a 120 degree anything is too hot to touch. Not a veteran line cook. His hands are like a Phoenix, rising from the flames, reborn - just scarred.

Poorly planned neck tattoos and the almost required chef ink of a knife, while common, aren't mandatory.

You may not know someone cooks or otherwise works in the service industry, when you're first introduced, but look for certain tells.

Asking how the most recent holiday was involves the reply  "I worked", preceding a description of how busy it was.

They do things at times abnormally fast, like wiping down a counter.

They carry 3 glasses in one hand. Say "behind you" and "heard".

Two minutes is a certified amount of time. It means at least two minutes, followed by another two minutes before you ask again.

They mysteriously show up two bars into a birthday night with friends, no time before 11pm. You may smell a myriad of kitchen aromas, aka... Cook smell.

A bit of situational genius, contextual Spanish language comprehension, and a weird appreciation for Sharpie brand markers.

If these signs are present, one other clue can seal the identification process. They give hints through sharing first hand experience with things people at work in the morning, don't.

If several signs and an affinity for The Price is Right are there, you have a kitchen professional. Or maybe some one who is unemployed or a drug dealer, may exhibit these characteristics. That's because some cooks have been either or both at one point.
 

Is this your pen... By Jason King

Casino the movie stars Joe Pesci in a particularly memorable scene... Bobby De Niro politely ask a guy if a pen is his. The guy, in an attempt to put De Niro in his place, responds less than cordial.

Pesci steps up and demonstrates with said pen to jugular vein, why we don't act that way as grown men.

While a graphic, Hollywood display of alpha male fueled homicide, and not particularly reality, there are lessons to be had. In any kitchen you go into as a new hire, you're  the jackass with the pen.

If a more senior cook, which is everyone there on your first day, lends you advice or help, take it. Thank him, be humble, make a new work buddy. Do not attempt to impress or set yourself apart. Your abilities and action should speak loudest.

If not you will be initially marked for extra scrutiny by the rest of the staff. You may have worked busier lines, longer, for less pay, and with a tougher chef. This isn't there. This is the your new job.

Don't be the guy getting scraps at family meal in a week. Or as in Casino the guy with pen wholes perforating their neck.

While most kitchens really won't stab you in the neck if you come in acting like a cocky badass, I only say most.

Great Foie Gras, Decent Cocaine... By Jason King

There is often a huge divide between chefs, and the ones that enjoy their creations. Sure, a great cook or chef has the palate of a refined, traveled epicurean. They usually, however, lack the time and or funds to have acquired that the way the guest in the dining room has.

A man so familiar with well sourced, properly cooked foie gras, just from buying it in restaurants, is likely in a different social strata. This diner and the ones who cook exist in this odd duality.  The cook, who also knows good foie gras, doesn't remember where he left his car last night.

The made for TV set up, that show chefs going out on the town to another chef's spot, enjoying this royal treatment, is rare in real life. Most good chefs and cooks are cooking on the nights other good chefs and cooks are cooking. Hence the ability to go out and enjoy each other's fare is limited.

Then you factor in the cost of going to a good restaurant and enjoying dinner. Assuming the chef isn't your buddy, you and a friend could run up a 200 dollar tab so quick. Do that with any regularity and you have spent your rent and bills on dining out. That leaves very little for PBR or ramen noodles.

So when asked by a dinner guest recently where my favorite spots were in town, I stuttered. Don't say McDonald's drive thru, I thought. I spilled rhetoric about places I know about from an operational stand point or I because I know the chef, not because I had eaten there.

This is the dichotomy of our industry. Bankers and people on their anniversary date know more about the experience of what we do, than we do. Luckily I was able to give the curious guest some good places, I was just caught off guard.

The one pub I told him about, frequented by some service industry folk, has some awesome eats even late.

I told him the bartender can get him good blow too, once he knows you. He was a bit put off by that last tip.

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.

Loco Local. By Jason King

My good friend and creative collaborator Jarett Tolman once said, "Buy local, better the global." One of the unlikely benefits of the locally sourced movement, has been better... Mexican restaurants... Wait, what did I just say?

Mexican cuisine in Charlotte, has become as local as if we were in East Los Angeles, sort of. From the renegade taco trucks of South Blvd, to the sit down eateries that dot East Charlotte, Mexican nationals have made Charlotte a pretty damn good place to grab a taco or tomalle.

Now, if it stopped with that qualification, I would be shunning other cultures great representations in this city. Vietnamese, Thai, and other great ethnic restaurants are prolific and delicious as well. So why is Mexican a new local?

Examples like RuRu's Tacos and Tequilla, in Myers Park have cemented the crossover to classic Charlotte local. What places like this accomplish is the full circle aspect of local. They take an experience that only more adventurous diners would enjoy, put their twist on it, and drop it in the second oldest neighborhood in the QC. Brilliant.

 The food is great, maybe not all 100% authentic Mexican, but delicious none the less. I refer to items like the Korean taco, aka the Long Duk Dong. Others, like the carnitas taco, has pork belly that has been treated with the same love a south boulevard taco truck would ensure.

A many generations Charlottean can enjoy these treats, while sipping a single vineyard Chardonnay, or one of our towns finest breweries draft offering. They can also eat the worm out of a bottle of Mescal, and chase it with a pure cane sugar Coca Cola... Aka Mexican Coke.

This is Charlotte, this is local. A traditional southern city has embraced a culture's cuisine long enough to take it out of the fringes. The global local circle is complete.

Now if we could just embrace a good Pho spot, where I could get Cheerwine and cobra blood, we would be in business.

You're a chef?! By Jason King

Food, water, shelter. The essentials for survival. So carpenters and cooks provide two fundamental services for humanity's proliferation. Of those two trades, the average person is more likely to cook for themselves, than build their own house.

Everyone has cooked at least once. We have all cooked a grilled cheese sandwich, or made a bowl of ramen at some point. Cooking is not particularly hard to grasp at a novice level.

As a home cook spreads their wings a bit, perhaps make a sauce or two - their passion grows.
Then they meet a kitchen guy.

They almost always give you a promotion by asking where you are a chef at. My humble opinion is there is only one chef in the kitchen. If you aren't him, you aren't a chef.

Cook, is my preferred moniker. Though for sake of schematics, I usually just say where I work, rather than explain the tradition and gravity of the word chef.

Then comes the "scenario"... As if they have had it memorized for months, waiting to meet a professional culinary representative. The delivery is as calculated as a cold call sales rebuttal.

The novice leads with a casual reference to something they do regularly, to qualify themselves as more talented than an average home cook. Something like how they make fresh mozzarella the day before they make eggplant parmigiana. Whatever the statement, the intention is to let the pro cook know this guy is no slouch in the kitchen.

Then comes the crux question... How do you use... What's the best way to... Every time I... Always the questions are honest, and my answers to anyone are to hopefully help them. I just always wonder if carpenters get these queries.

"Shit, you're a carpenter?!, I was digging a footing for the slab I'm pouring for my shed. HOA says I gotta use complimentary material for any out buildings. So we used recovered lumber from an old barn for the facade of our home. I'm not trying to drop that kinda coin on my shed though. Do you have any tips on distressing 1x6 oak? or know of a good MDF that has that look?"

Now don't get me wrong, Home Depot would be out of business if people didn't try to do what carpenters do. It's just more intimidating to build a mantle over the fireplace, compared to making a box of Zatarain's red beans and rice.

While at the core, cooking is what cooks do for a living, it's so much more than that. The ability to put a great meal on the table for your girl or some friends, is awesome. Now do that hundreds of times in a night. This is after you busted ass for hours to get your kitchen line ready. Prepping unnatural amounts of product. Then after the rush, clean it all up like it never happened. That's cooking for a living.

Food, water, and shelter... I wonder if people that work at a water bottling facility consider themselves in the trifecta of noble, essential trades? Eh, probably just glad to have a job with benefits. A rarity in the cook and carpentry fields.

First Second Chance by Jason King

Tupac Shakur has a verse... the realest shit I ever wrote. This is a food or lifestyle blog, if you will - not a mid 90's gangster rap album. So it remains to be seen how accurately that verse can relate to what I am going to write.

Within the confines that my other posts have built, this is a honest as I can be about my experience as a cook, chef, server, or bartender - of which I've been all.

I've had a lot of great jobs over the years. When one is talented and can perform, it's not difficult to stay employed. In the restaurant business a cook can benefit from working in different kitchens, as a way to grow. Journeymen, if you will - I have been that, I'd say.

I have no culinary background educationally speaking, besides experience. I don't have a pastry class under my belt. Instead I filled in for a pastry cook who was sick once. Rather I shadowed a grumpy old dessert chef, when he'd allow. This has been my syllabus.

My education, if you will, if not for one restaurant owner, would be nil. That man gave me a life changing second chance.

If not for him rehiring me I may have gone another route. Had I took to another trade, this could be a landscaping or deck building blog.

After a just termination from my first full service restaurant job, prior to a battle with bipolar disorder, I returned to the restaurant a few nights a week. I really had no where else to go.

I would sit at the bar and eat wings. Some of my oldest friends worked there, as well as the man who originally inspired me to cook. It felt comfortable there.

The owner was always gone by the time I got there. I knew he still disliked me; I would time my arrival to ensure we'd not cross paths.

One week, Ray the GM (my first chef) came out to the bar. I'm imagining he'd deliver his usual quote of random classic rock knowledge or fun food fact. Instead he informs me the dishwasher had quit and, if I wanted to work off my dinner I could.

I had experienced situations during my hiatus as a direct result of bipolar disorder. Events that should have killed me. Everyone there had heard about it, some more than others.

As I walked back, putting on an apron, a few people clapped. I was a badass cook there once. They were happy to see me there on dish. I was happy to be there. Ray hid it from the owner.

This happened a few more times, working my dinner off in the dish pit. Then one night, as I sat at the bar, the owner Tom came out. Fuck he hadn't left yet, I thought. He came right up to me and asked to speak to me in the back.

In the back dining room he colorfully explained why he didn't want to, but would give me another chance. I took it.

Today I reflect and write about a life of cooking. Which is good, since if he hadn't given me that second chance, this would be a lousy landscaping blog.

I don't know shit about landscaping.

Hunger Games... The "You Looked" challenge by Jason King

In the hot confines of a kitchen, even the surliest and seasoned cook, enjoys a distraction. I'm not talking about a hot young hostess, coming to the back for a drink cup either. I'm speaking of the jokes, games, and pranks that keep every kitchen on the lighter side of crazy.

I am going to assume for a moment, you the reader, have never worked in a kitchen. The most simple game some cooks play is the old, " you looked" game. Take the tip of ones index finger, and creating a circle, touch the tip of your thumb. Your three remaining fingers stay outstretched, the symbol for ok.

Place the finger configuration below the waist, this is really the only rule. Now ask someone near you any question... Like "Hey, did you prep more of these?" If the mark looks at the hand configuration, well, they looked.

Now a trained pro, would not look. With assassin like precision they would casually deflect the question, while thrusting their finger into and out of the index finger/thumb created circle. The originator's only hope then is to grab the targets finger. So three rules of play.

Then the game has variations of penalty ranging from a punch, to an insult, to whatever creative punishment the winner can sentence the violated to.

One kitchen I was in took the You Looked game serious. It was two bucks a look, finger poke, or catch. Three of us played the game with a level of dedication probably not seen since. One of us payed the most during the months we played: me.

The two bucks was collected and kept in the chef's office each night. The funds accumulated quick. A few I.O.U.'s here and there aside, by Christmas time we had over 800 dollars.

When we divided the pot, one participant bought a chef's knife, the other something else cool. I, however, didn't have that fiscal luxury.

At the time we cashed out, I was a little behind on bills, so I got a welcomed bonus to my weekly pay. Which I dutifully spent on either a past due notice or Jim Beam, I really can't recall.

To this day my eyes have an almost physical barrier to looking below the waist of a fellow cook.

Almost Famous by Jason King

A cook thrives under pressure. The kitchen is fast and hectic. Seconds are minutes, minutes are hours, and so on. A cook must thrive in these conditions, better yet, yearn for it. If they don't, they won't last long.

Most people assume if you work in a kitchen, you are a great and creative cook. Though some good cooks are, all good cooks are masters of chaos. A great grill cook can temp a steak with his eyes. Know it's ready because the timer in his head told him so.

I've known line cooks that can put out 150 dishes in a night. Each one exactly as the chef imagined, when he put it on the menu. That same cook, if left with eggs, heavy cream, sugar, and instructions to make a classic dish, may disappoint. Scrambled eggs topped with whipped cream, rather than creme brûlée could be the result.

A busy kitchen line is more a choreographed dance. Behind you. Oven door. Hot coming down. Sharp knife. Like a square dance call, every cook instinctively reacts. Every odd or seemingly insignificant object is right where that cook wants it.

A cook has a folded linen next to his sauté station for a reason. It takes the excess drip off his spinach before plating. Move that linen any where but there, you fuck up the dance.

Out of these disastrous dance halls come the stars. Most celebrity chefs, were at one time badass cooks. They were creative, dedicated, fast, with an insatiable passion for food. Now, they have millions of dollars, and a line of cookware available at Target stores.

At 24 years old, I wanted it all. I could cook, well. My dance moves were strong. I was a future celebrity chef... In my head.

I arrived at work one afternoon. My chef pulled me in the office to show me a special from an incredible restaurant in California. I was given instruction to recreate this before service. I was on this assignment like no other before.

I was able do put my line setup duties on the shoulder of another cook, while I rounded up the ingredients. I would not just recreate, I would create a dish that restaurant wished they had made. This was the kind of chance a young ambitious cook dreams of. After chef sees what I have created, my own line of potato peelers will be available at Target soon.

Two hours later, I presented my dish. Chef turned the small radio on the line to sports talk radio, and took my dish out toward the lobby. The station's show, it turned out, was being aired in the lobby of our hotel.

Chef tells me to listen. The show's host presents my dish to the star forward of our NBA team.
"One of the chefs prepared this for you..."

He takes a bite. "Hmm, that's pretty good." This NBA player sounded about as excited as if he'd just found a dollar. Chef looks at me as if I was the recipient of some great present. "That's it?!" I ask.

I worked two hours, to hear some guy act like he just took a bite out of a decent burger. Does he know who I might be one day?

In case you hadn't noticed, my peelers aren't on store shelves yet. Maybe the lackluster reaction to that dish is why. Though likely not.

I hold no resentment to my lack of fame. It was an honor just to get so close to almost famous.

Did you count the fennel? By Jason King

Sometimes you miss the big picture because of the details involved. The forest goes unseen, as you focus on the tiny sapling or tree.

In the kitchen, we may be a little rough around the edges. Had most kitchen lifers been born 150 years ago, we'd have sought a living via robbing trains, or some other fringe occupation.

As willing as the industry is to give a chance to anyone, it's not for everyone. Sure we don't get paid like doctors or lawyers, but people like those are our clientele. Our mistakes are magnified if we ruin a couple's anniversary night out, a business lunch, or wine dinner.

At the hotel I worked at in the early 2000's, we transitioned to a new executive chef after I started. He was the behemoth company's Chef of the World in 2002. He was brought to our property as a liaison to the new culinary school opening a few blocks away.

He was good. He knew it. I knew it. He told me too, in case I hadn't  noticed. A few days in, and with a captive audience, he confidently demanded a large chefs knife and a button mushroom. He performed a super precise fluting of the mushroom cap.

An old school, but none the less impressive, garnish technique. Usually done with a paring knife, he did it with a 10 inch French chefs knife... "We get it bro, you're good."

As on point as every cook and chef were in the kitchen, prior to the new exec's arrival. Most were taking it up a notch. New chef was eager to prove he was all he had said to upper management as well.

The crescendo was to peak, at a mid-week wine dinner. My job was to cook crusted lamb chops. Some other cooks were on sauces or starch. Our chef de cuisine and the exec were in the wheel house, doing final plating. The sous chef had braised some wonderful baby fennel bulbs.

Let's revisit mistakes in the kitchen real quick. We have to bat as close to 1,000 as possible. You can't fix some things on the fly. Braising or slow cooking are one of those things. When a main ingredient is time, there is no substitute.

Back to the wine dinner. Our sous chef was on braised baby fennel. Our food and beverage director watches everyone's move, flanked by the general manager. As each of my racks of lamb are split, revealing a succulent medium rare, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then I notice the pan they are retrieving the fennel bulbs is nearly empty. There isn't another either. Perhaps the sous has another pan. The exec calls to the sous for the next pan of fennel.

I brace for the shrapnel about to fly.

The sous informs the kitchen that there isn't another. He had lost sight of the forest: the wine dinner as a whole. During this blindness he hadn't actually counted the bulbs of fennel.

Upon hearing this the exec angrily asked... "Did you count the fennel?"
He asked five more times, before screaming... "Did you count the FUCKING fennel!!!?"

Though part of me was cool knowing I had not dropped the ball, I did feel bad for my boy.
From that day forward, going into any crazy dinner or event, I replay that statement chef angrily screamed... And I count the fucking fennel.

Employee Meal by Jason King

It's amazing how many recipients of the prestigious GED certificate have an affinity for foie gras -- myself included.

There are men on probation -- people you would cross the street to avoid -- who can spot over poached lobster tail a mile away.

I know people whose experience include surviving the state penitentiary and who also know delicate uses of saffron that would amaze even the palate of Persian royalty.

There are two types of people who know and love great food: The ones who buy it often enough to know what it's supposed to be, and the ones who cook it.

On a particular menu several years ago, a stuffed filet mignon called for a six ounce cut. Our purchaser, at this fancy hotel, had ordered only eight ounce precut filets. The executive chef told us to just cut two ounces off, we'd find a use for the scrap.

By the end of the night, those 2 pounds of tenderloin scrap had seen biblical additions. The reach-in cooler borrowed a page from the Biblical tale of the loaves and the fishes.

Amazingly, a half pound of foie gras, a few Maine butter-poached lobster claws and some dank Gruyere cheese had appeared along with the beef. Thank you, Jesus! (Jesus was on salads -- we wouldn't have gotten the cheese with out him.)

What does a crew of ruffians do with $100 worth of the finest ingredients? Make an expensive fucking pizza. So the Benjamin Franklin Pie was born.

Creme fraiche laid the base, as we piled on the our nights wage worth of succulent toppings. Medallions of filet, lobster, and foie gras covered this abuse of an employee meal.

We took it from the oven, finished it with some herbs and dug in. My partner in crime and I agreed: It was a little rich.

Another great culinary creation by Jason King

A living wage in 40 hours may elude most cooks working one job. While riches may be in short supply, bravado is not. 

After mastering a tight brunoise, step two is to let your fellow line warriors know. When you don't work normal hours. Ever have weekends off.  If you haven't seen mom on Mother's Day, in a few years... you better have pride in what you do.

This cockiness most cooks display, isn't to be an asshole. 

Imagine one of the landing crafts approaching the beach on D-Day. Bullets and shells whizzing by. Who is likely to be most effective on the beach? The guy cowering, kissing his rosary? Nope. It's the badass banging his helmet, calling out how many Nazis he's about to mow down. This, however is the guy I would want flanking me.

On a Saturday at 4pm, in any busy kitchen in America, a cook is in the landing craft. You are prepping your station to survive the onslaught. A trip to the cooler at 7:30, will not be an option.

After you survive a few dozen shifts like this, confidence permeates. You attack every function of a professional kitchen with gusto. Not only did you clean, organize, and mop the cooler. You did it faster than any one else. Oh yeah, you did the produce order too.

The second mentor along my journey, was a chef named Chuck. Most chefs have a presence that separates them from you. In some ways they must, in order to lead cooks on to the beach. 

What makes an effective leader for me, is the ability to have that presence, and know he can scrub pots better than me. Most importantly, in a jam, he will. It's a trait I learned from him, that I continue to practice. One of many good and sometimes bad traits I picked up from Chuck.

One day in particular, we were out of skewers for a nouveau shrimp and grits. The dish used very large prawns. The skewers prevented the shrimp from curling up too bad. During the hectic chaos of the line, Chuck layed the prawns on the cutting board. 

Like a surgeon calling for a scalpel, he requested a pairing knife. He studied the anatomy of the underbelly for a second. Then he made two quick incisions. He removed a tendon from each shrimp. Into and out of the broiler came two flat shrimp.

"How did you know that would work?" I asked. 

Chuck steps back, under one of the halogen can lights over the line. His head cocked slightly, hands in a the pose of a religious icon. Like he was St. Chef of the Hot Line.

He replied, "AGCC... Another great culinary creation."

I laughed. It wouldn't be the last time he wielded that acronym. His confidence was strong. 

However, while Chuck seemed to just be a cocky badass, I learned something. He added a little knowledge to my arsenal. I would go on to drop a few AGCC's on the world.

First "real" Kitchen by Jason King

I stepped into the culinary world haphazardly. Once my feet were wet however, I sought the deep end. I was eager to leave the comfort of my friends at the casual dinner house I had cut my teeth at. 

Our general manager had been a chef in classic kitchens. His stories made my mouth water with anticipation. Angry executive chefs, lamenting you for being a fraction off with execution. Pots getting thrown by a fed up and  overworked sous chef. Meeting and working with people from all over the globe. 

I wanted these experiences. I was bloodthirsty like a teenage Spartan boy, excited for his first kill.

Upon getting hired at a large hotel in Charlotte's center city I was told what to expect. My first mentor said, with oracle like prognostication. "If there is a locker for just your prep, it's a real kitchen."

Of course, I lied about my experience on the application. I charismatically had charmed the interview to get hired. Now I was walking in to day one. Hoping I didn't see a locker for my prep. I was second guessing myself. Why did I say all those lies. I think I'm a good cook. Compared to where I was from, this kitchen looked way too intimidating. 

My new chef, who would become and stay a major influence in my life, gave me the tour.

"Please no locker." I'm thinking. I'm sure now I'm not ready. I'm not even sure what half the equipment he's showing me does.

"And here's the pm line's prep locker..." Chef shows me the nail in my coffin. My stomach drops, I'm in a real kitchen. Fight or flight kicks in. I'm gonna fight.

Well I fought that night for sure. 21 prime New York strips cooked, to get 16 correct temperatures. Yeah, I bombed pretty hard. 

All the lessons I learned that night, one stuck out. It wasn't getting my temps right, or modern plating practices. It was the forgiveness, and coaching of my chef. He told me he would have to reconsider having hired me, but would give me another day. He took me under his wing, and made me a better cook.

All the stories of completely over zealous and belittling chefs, may be entertaining. Great fodder for the new guys coming in about how things used to be. Rather than that, it's coaching and correcting young talent that makes a good cook. 

One day maybe a great chef.

Being the Guy by Jason King

Every cook has walked into a kitchen for the first time. Day one, FNG... Fucking new guy. You have to be confident, not cocky. Seem experienced, but ready learn. Hide your fears, by comparing your previous conquest to the battles that lay ahead in this kitchen.

In every kitchen there's one common denominator. "The Guy." He's not the chef or even the sous chef. His level of prowess commands a different respect. 

He's Friday night grill at the steak house. Saturday night sautée at the Italian joint. 

He doesn't need to see a ticket, he probably can't read anyways. 

The chef may be the orchestrator, but "the guy" sits first chair. He doesn't make mistakes. If he did, it's your bad for pointing it out. 

"Walking in.. Filet medium, four times, two chickens, three add shrimps, one tail... Need an all day?"

"The Guy" never needs an all day, unless you messed up.

The first cook I met who was "the guy", reminded me of the lead singer of Anthrax. Bald, with a long goatee. He was big, but moved fast and light. Barely any real estate was left on his grill or flat top, and he seemed cool. 

I was saddled up next to him on a Saturday night. My instructions were simple. Drop burgers, fajitas, and plate meatloaf. Kind of a side note he added was for me to plate a more involved entree. 

When asked by one of the other line cooks why I was plating that, I told them. "The guy says I do."

They laughed, telling me he just hates that plate, that's why I had to do it.

The guy doesn't stop being the man with cooking.

His parties are the wildest. He sleeps with the most servers. He gets the best drugs. He's been arrested the most. To a 19 year old line cook, he's the man.

On a professional level, I have met the the guy many times, in several kitchens. They are a source of great knowledge. Tricks no book can teach, methods not endorsed by culinary schools. Things that will save you one day. 

One day, I was in the shit, on a small fine dining line in a large hotel. I'm banging out plate after plate, in what seems like an impossible scenario. I momentarily looked up and saw a wide eyed intern staring at me. I then looked around for "the guy." He can help me out of this. I scanned the kitchen. Fry guy. Nope. Salad guy. Nope. Where is "the guy?"

I had a heat of battle, quick epiphany... I am "The Guy."

Justin Wilson and Great Chefs of the World by Jason King

I live in a city with several great culinary schools and programs. A fine city, bubbling over with early twenty somethings, with a warped dream of culinary life.
This has  everything to do with the current food culture. The idea of going to college, with the goal of landing a low hourly paying second shift job, is a bit absurd.
Being a cook is the only career where a high end salary, along with fame, is millions of dollars. While the low end can be $9 an hour... Or nothing at all.
Many great kitchens have waiting list of eager cooks willing to do free tryouts, called stages (pronounced stah-ge').
I am often asked if I've seen some show on the Food Network. Most times I haven't. Not because I'm a hater, I just don't watch that channel very often. I wasn't inspired by this "foodie" culture.
I got a job after high school, where I met a chef. This man had been to culinary school is 1970's. This man had stories, and was willing to share knowledge.
He rekindled an interest sparked as a child in being a chef. One that a suspender wearing Cajun on PBS first stoked. Saturday afternoons, after Pee Wee's Playhouse, I would watch this old man Justin Wilson. His red suspenders, blue shirt, and functioning alcoholism, were beyond entertaining. Every time he added Chablis to something, he took a sip. His Cajun accent seemed foreign, his cooking seemed like voodoo. I was mesmerized.
Then one summer afternoon I saw a show called "Great Chefs of the World", on cable. Smoothe jazz and a comforting narrator, framed chefs from places like Austria or France. They would be in real kitchens, talking in their native language. The narrator would say whatever they were demonstrating. The techniques and ingredients they used were out of this world to me.
It occurred to me then, there is something more to cooking than the nightly dinner mom cranked out each day. A sacred guild full of secrets,  that artist called chefs keep closely guarded.
I wanted in.
When I met my first chef in the kitchen at 18, I saw my chance to enter. The first authentic dish he taught me was fried rice. One lesson I'll never forget... Serve red beans and rice with a spoon.
I was getting folded into the secret society of career cooks.
Trust me when I say I've learned and hopefully will continue to learn more everyday about my craft. I smile every time I see a hurried kid, with fresh whites on, power walking to his job uptown. Likely he has spent all morning learning and having the fear of God instilled in him by a culinary instuctor. The next 8 hours he'll spend getting yelled at by a Honduran line cook for not having hot fries up. It's a beautiful thing.
Regardless of how much tuition one pays, it does not buy you a ticket into this life. Price of admission is eagerness and a thick skin. As Justin Wilson would say, in a barely understandable Cajun accent... " I Guarantee!"

Great Chefs cooking show
Justin Wilson cooking show

My first smell of the kitchen by Jason King

It was Outback Steak House, circa 1996. I was a young buck, 140 pounds with change in my pockets. 

No Food Network, celebrity chefs, or self proclaimed "foodie" title brought me here. I was inexplicably drawn to work in kitchens, as hipsters would say, before it was cool. 

I had yet to meet any of the mentors and chefs that would lead my journey.

I had only worked at Taco Bell.

As fresh a meat as there is, I stepped into a dish washers role at this factory of a sit down chain.

An angry dish machine birthed 180 degree 2 pound ceramic platters, faster than I could stack. Once caught up, I ran a mad dash to the front expo line, confused as to where everything's home was. 

A surly outside expo was my only chance of knowing where to stack these plates. These plates are giving me first to maybe second degree burns. Show no pain, this place is like prison. It will eat the weak. Finally, I find the places these plates go, run back to dish, and repeat.

I remember this kitchen had a smell. Not bad, just a smell I'll always remember. One day while almost investigating the source of the distinct aroma, I stumbled upon two men.

These tattooed, parolee looking guys were cussing. Looked hungover or just drunk, and we're peeling shrimp.

That last one was an understatement. They were peeling a small, gulf coast boats haul for the day. So many shrimp, I thought then how could they do them all?

I said to myself... " I will never be like those guys.."

How many times since, some young cook's first impression of me has been hunched over a sink. Peeling shrimp.

I never found out what the smell was.www.themfu.org