One Hundred, Ninety Six hours, and Forty Two Minutes

(a narrative about my nights in culinary co op)

My face is too hot. I’m hot. I hate this uniform. It is way too big. I’m going to catch on fire because of this thing. How on earth is this the smallest size? I hate this. I look at the clock. One hundred... ninety six hours… and forty two minutes to go… hang in there Michelle.

                                                                        ~

I’d always wanted to be a chef - that and a sheep farmer in New Zealand. It all started one fateful afternoon when I was surfing through the whole 15 channels we had on our “technologically advanced” (quote tacky salesperson from Chinatown) antenna. I was looking for something to waste away to before I wasted away to Arthur on TVO kids when suddenly, the heavens split and shone the most beautiful light upon a delicately plated single seared scallop atop a bed of lichen and basil, topped with honeysuckle jelly and drizzled with a red wine shitake reduction. Sigh And there it was: love. Love at first blissfully delectable sight. I wanted to create art on the plate and the palate.

So here I was, cooped up between a premenstrual chef (it’s funny because he’s an old man), flames roaring at my oversized sleeve, hot pans, dead cows (that I swear are expired. They’re green), some very inappropriate coworkers for a sixteen year old, and a sous chef who’s madly infatuated with me and I can’t bring myself to tell him I love him like a brother… all inside a too tiny kitchen for a too tinselly restaurant.

“Pickup table 25,” Remy, one of the waiters called out.

“You’re s****ing me. F***ing serious?” Chef spat. “That order came in five minutes ago. I’m not making a f**ing lamb roast, salmon, penne, or whatever the hell they wanted in five minutes. Tell them they can go f*** themselves.” 

Oh goodness... what colorful use of the English language…

My job was simple: make the appetizers, prep the pasta, do the salads, sides, and potatoes, make the lasagnas, manicottis, whatever ees, do the desserts (this part was actually fun… because I was in the back… away from the chef), make the lamb racks, ossobucco… all, preferably, without losing any limbs or my sanity…

To put things in perspective, there were 150 people to serve. This was my first Saturday, it was the dinner rush, and the kitchen consisted of me, Chef, the sous chef, and Raj, the dishwasher.

The clock struck its halfway point. Six thirty. Showtime.

It’s like people just stand outside, waiting for the clock to strike 6:30 so they can all shuffle in at the same time and freak out the new co-op student.

                                                                        ~

Watching people come in is like watching some kind of freakish episode of National Geographic’s Great Migrations, but with the human species. The humans are an interesting type. Before the mating ritual, I’ve noticed that the female humans like to go through this ceremonial sacrament of pressing powders on their faces and covering their bodies with the most reflective objects they can find.

Weird. I swear I learned in Biology that it’s the males that are supposed to be the flashy ones.  Ha… Blue Footed Booby from the Galapagos… double ha… because they need to inseminate their spawns into fertile wombs… oh ha ha… Michelle, that’s not even funny… you are so weird…

“Hey! I’m talking to you! Young lady!” It was Remy.

Huh? Ugh, I hate it when they call me young lady.

“I said, is this the baked goat for table 36?”

“… Yes.” My lips spoke for me. They figured they might as well; it was a 50/50 chance.

What followed was a jumbled flurry of fire, knives, dead chickens, hot oil, and bus pans. Oh, and adrenaline, sweat, what could have been human blood, a couple burns, and a crying baby.

And then peace. It was nice.

Until it got boring.

Ti-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-c…k…. to-o…ck… T-i---…. Eight fourteen. Ok so that’s…. one hour, forty six minutes to go. Not bad, not bad. You got this Michelle.

After what had seemed like the longest one hour, forty six minutes in my life, I was done! Finally free from this imprisonment of precariously placed sharp objects and rotting animals!

As I stepped out of the shabby back door, I inhaled so hard I swear I bruised a rib. Air. Cool, fresh, autumn night air. I couldn’t have enough. After breathing in what seemed to be a sufficient amount of nitrogen and oxygen, I went home. With a plethora of thoughts – anger, confusion, gratefulness, anxiety – still swirling about in my head, I meandered my way to my family’s economically sized Honda civic, and with nothing but an obnoxiously crinkly emergency blanket, plunked my dazed self onto its roof.

Ok. Go. Think.

Nothing.

THINK. How do you feel? Are you stressed? Hello? Anybody in there?

Nothing.

This self dialogue continued for a while – rational self, irrational self, rational self, irrational self… until rational self decided to tie up irrational self and bury her in some cold, forsaken corner of the brain because she was annoyed. Rational self let the crisp autumn air cool her hot face and with each breath, breathe away the stresses of the kitchen. Then suddenly…

LIGHTBULB.

 “I GOT IT!” Rational self said at once.

“Errh crooel! Wehrd ouu gt?” (Translation: “Oh cool! What’d you get?”) Irrational self replied from her cold, forsaken corner.

And in a new perspective and understanding, rational self spoke.

“I am here because… not because I made some irrational decision to follow my six year old dream of becoming Carlo Rota from The Great Canadian Food Show, but rather…  I am here because subconsciously… subconsciously I knew what I needed was to be placed in an environment that challenges me, an environment that makes me give it all I got BECAUSE I HAVE GRIT! And grit is the real world. THIS is what I struggle with most: doing things quickly, working under pressure, working under a “Gordon Ramsey”. I should be thankful! Heck, I AM!!!”   

(This is where ‘rational’ self stands up on the roof of the car, drapes the emergency blanket like a superhero cloak, and speaks much too loudly for a suburban neighborhood of middleclass Chinese families at 1:23 in the morning.)

‘Rational’ self continued, “I’m here to prove MYSELF to MYSELF, to overcome one of the toughest work environments and be able to tell myself, “Stop whining, you've done something infinitely more difficult,” the next time I’m tempted to quit something. Michelle, YOU CAN DO IT!”

“Errh crooel,” replied a voice from a cold, forsaken corner of my brain.