Monday, August 28, 2006
Yes yes, it's been a month. I'm a bad blogger. I'm BUSY, people!
I'm in a foul, foul mood. I get that way when I'm in pain. Today was my first "real day" at my new job. Don't panic--I haven't given up the effort to open my coffee shop! I just know that realistically, I need some money, and this is a chef/kitchen manager job at a nearby army installation. Anyway, I started today, and it SUCKED. First off, they've brought in another guy (a Sous Chef--Chef Prick) from another location that the company manages to run the place for the next two weeks while I learn the ropes. No big. The guy is a dick. Pompous, contemptuous, even. I think he resents being sent "into the sticks" to lower himself to this kitchen. Anyway, he made a tremendous effort to tell me as little as possible all day, resulting in some really embarassing moments where it looked like I didn't know what I was doing--obviously I can't be expected to be psychic, but I think it was meant to display his culinary superiority. Fuck you, asshole. And it didn't help that during the "tour" he was giving me of the kitchen, he pushed open two swinging doors, we stepped through, and on the other side, they were mopping. I slipped, of course, and fell on my big fat ass. It was awful--I sort of skated first, in agonizing slow motion, and came this close to actually steadying myself and avoiding catastrophe--which probably looked extremely comical, now with the doors to both rooms open so that everyone (no matter where they happened to be) had a good view. But just as I came to a halt, my back foot hit another slippery patch and ~wham~ out went my feet from under me. The whole time he just stood there, mere inches away from me, watching. Not the slightest effort to reach for my arm to steady me, or a hand out to help me up again. Prick. And instead of "Are you OK?" he says, "Get better shoes."
The executive chef, who travels between 6 operating kitchens on the base, popped in minutes later and tossed out a few barely intelligible requests--it's difficult to understand him because the kitchen is so effing LOUD, and the minute he walks in the door, 12 people are shouting at him at once for direction, assistance or whathaveyou. So I'm given a lame task of flouring some hamburger patties for cube steak. There is no written recipe, so I have no idea how/when/where these are going to be cooked, I can only do each step as they're given to me, which I'm sure is extremely annoying to Chef Prick, who has plenty of his own work to get done. When I'm done (which takes longer than it should because I have to ask someone for help to find EVERY SINGLE ITEM I needed), he tells me to cook them on the grill out on the line. No big. I turn it on. Slap out a few patties. They sizzle for a few seconds and then just sorta stop. It eventually becomes clear that the fucking grill has shut itself off, or a fuse has been blown or SOMETHING. So there's another grill on the other side of the line. Repack everything up and move down there. Start over. Grill. Now it's taken me about twice as long as it should have. I'm beginning to look like an idiot. No pressure or anything. I bring them back into the main kitchen, and he insists I take them off the pan and spread them out flat, instead of "shingled" (which was the way they had been thawed, and the way all the other beef patty meals had been done that I'd seen on my previous tours through the kitchen). I do so. He points to a couple of pans full of sliced onions and mushrooms and says, "Those go on top.", turns back to my pans of burgers and says, "Toss those in the oven to finish them." Huh? So I ask for some clarification, "With those?" I ask, pointing to the sliced vegetables. "Mmmm hmmm." Surely this requires some liquid or gravy of some sort, right? "Are you sure?" He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "OK, what are we going for here--I just want to be sure I understand you." I ask. "165." (meaning: degrees, which is actually 10° higher than necessary for beef THANKYOUVERYMUCH, but I didn't correct HIM.) Fine. I put the stupid assed onions and mushrooms over the top of the burger patties and put them in the oven. When they're done I pull them out, and of COURSE it looks like crap. He comes over and sneers at it--"Those were SUPPOSED to be SAUTED." [subtext: YOU EEEEEEEDIOT!!!] I go about repanning the patties and scraping the veggies into a bowl so I can go back to the grill and quick saute them. The girl who's been stepping into the kitchen manager role (April) starts to help me and hears me mutter under my breath, "That's why I ASKED you TWICE what the FUCK you were talking about." She clearly has already had a few days with him, because she quickly agreed and said, "He does things differently in HIS kitchen, and he's getting it all fucked up. Just do it OUR way--like this..." I was still embarassed--"I knew it didn't make sense, but he TOLD me to do that." "I know he did, I heard him."
Errrg. While later, I'd run out of things to do again, and there was a lull in the work as some people ended their shifts or took smoke breaks, and no one was around to give me another task. "Well Crap," I pondered to April, "What do I do?" She shrugged and finished packing up a couple of to-go trays that had been ordered. Some of the other employees were sitting down to eat. "I guess I'll sit down and eat something." "Might as well." she said. I grabbed a piece of fried chicken and sat down for 5 minutes when both E.Chef and Chef Prick walked through the dining room--both glanced at me, but didn't seem to stop their conversation. When I returned to the kitchen less than 5 minutes later, Chef Prick explained to me that only people who arrived BEFORE 8 were supposed to eat BEFORE lunch service (I had arrived at 8), and I'm SUPPOSED to wait until lunch service is OVER to eat. Fine.
The day continued on like that, filled with little annoyances, lengthy time spent looking for things because the kitchen is about three times the size of any kitchen I've ever worked in before and there's far too many things going on at once to know who's doing what, or what space is available to use... UGH.
But how could I complete the day without falling AGAIN? This time it was grease that was dripping off of dirty dishes stacked up at the sink. I didn't know that at the time, of course, and felt like a complete idiot AGAIN. One girl was nearby, and asked if I was OK. I sucked up my pride and continued on, even though it hurt like hell (landed on my forearm from behind and jammed my shoulder into my neck). No one else even bothered to look up. I felt slightly vindicated when not 15 minutes later, she fell in the exact same manner in the exact same spot. I felt bad for her, of course, because she had been the only person concerned about me when I fell, but at least I knew that it really WAS extremely slick, and someone really DID fuck up by not cleaning up their damned mess.
There was more garbage--getting yelled at for walking across the freshly waxed linoleum in the dining room (uh, can't LEVITATE to the salad bar, how else am I supposed to get to it??). Dumb shit like that all day. They're lucky I didn't just quit. They're lucky I'm so damned desperate for decent money I'd sell my body on the streets if there were a market for fat old ladies with a bad attitude.
Naturally now the adreneline has worn off and the results of my TWO falls are ringing through my joints. My arm and shoulder are KILLING me, and in all seriousness, I think I have a concussion, even though I didn't actually hit my head. Wah wah wah, Sassy, grow up.
Luckily, I don't go back to the kitchen til Wednesday. Funny how a boring day in the fitting room at my retail job sounds so much better now.
I'm in a foul, foul mood. I get that way when I'm in pain. Today was my first "real day" at my new job. Don't panic--I haven't given up the effort to open my coffee shop! I just know that realistically, I need some money, and this is a chef/kitchen manager job at a nearby army installation. Anyway, I started today, and it SUCKED. First off, they've brought in another guy (a Sous Chef--Chef Prick) from another location that the company manages to run the place for the next two weeks while I learn the ropes. No big. The guy is a dick. Pompous, contemptuous, even. I think he resents being sent "into the sticks" to lower himself to this kitchen. Anyway, he made a tremendous effort to tell me as little as possible all day, resulting in some really embarassing moments where it looked like I didn't know what I was doing--obviously I can't be expected to be psychic, but I think it was meant to display his culinary superiority. Fuck you, asshole. And it didn't help that during the "tour" he was giving me of the kitchen, he pushed open two swinging doors, we stepped through, and on the other side, they were mopping. I slipped, of course, and fell on my big fat ass. It was awful--I sort of skated first, in agonizing slow motion, and came this close to actually steadying myself and avoiding catastrophe--which probably looked extremely comical, now with the doors to both rooms open so that everyone (no matter where they happened to be) had a good view. But just as I came to a halt, my back foot hit another slippery patch and ~wham~ out went my feet from under me. The whole time he just stood there, mere inches away from me, watching. Not the slightest effort to reach for my arm to steady me, or a hand out to help me up again. Prick. And instead of "Are you OK?" he says, "Get better shoes."
The executive chef, who travels between 6 operating kitchens on the base, popped in minutes later and tossed out a few barely intelligible requests--it's difficult to understand him because the kitchen is so effing LOUD, and the minute he walks in the door, 12 people are shouting at him at once for direction, assistance or whathaveyou. So I'm given a lame task of flouring some hamburger patties for cube steak. There is no written recipe, so I have no idea how/when/where these are going to be cooked, I can only do each step as they're given to me, which I'm sure is extremely annoying to Chef Prick, who has plenty of his own work to get done. When I'm done (which takes longer than it should because I have to ask someone for help to find EVERY SINGLE ITEM I needed), he tells me to cook them on the grill out on the line. No big. I turn it on. Slap out a few patties. They sizzle for a few seconds and then just sorta stop. It eventually becomes clear that the fucking grill has shut itself off, or a fuse has been blown or SOMETHING. So there's another grill on the other side of the line. Repack everything up and move down there. Start over. Grill. Now it's taken me about twice as long as it should have. I'm beginning to look like an idiot. No pressure or anything. I bring them back into the main kitchen, and he insists I take them off the pan and spread them out flat, instead of "shingled" (which was the way they had been thawed, and the way all the other beef patty meals had been done that I'd seen on my previous tours through the kitchen). I do so. He points to a couple of pans full of sliced onions and mushrooms and says, "Those go on top.", turns back to my pans of burgers and says, "Toss those in the oven to finish them." Huh? So I ask for some clarification, "With those?" I ask, pointing to the sliced vegetables. "Mmmm hmmm." Surely this requires some liquid or gravy of some sort, right? "Are you sure?" He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "OK, what are we going for here--I just want to be sure I understand you." I ask. "165." (meaning: degrees, which is actually 10° higher than necessary for beef THANKYOUVERYMUCH, but I didn't correct HIM.) Fine. I put the stupid assed onions and mushrooms over the top of the burger patties and put them in the oven. When they're done I pull them out, and of COURSE it looks like crap. He comes over and sneers at it--"Those were SUPPOSED to be SAUTED." [subtext: YOU EEEEEEEDIOT!!!] I go about repanning the patties and scraping the veggies into a bowl so I can go back to the grill and quick saute them. The girl who's been stepping into the kitchen manager role (April) starts to help me and hears me mutter under my breath, "That's why I ASKED you TWICE what the FUCK you were talking about." She clearly has already had a few days with him, because she quickly agreed and said, "He does things differently in HIS kitchen, and he's getting it all fucked up. Just do it OUR way--like this..." I was still embarassed--"I knew it didn't make sense, but he TOLD me to do that." "I know he did, I heard him."
Errrg. While later, I'd run out of things to do again, and there was a lull in the work as some people ended their shifts or took smoke breaks, and no one was around to give me another task. "Well Crap," I pondered to April, "What do I do?" She shrugged and finished packing up a couple of to-go trays that had been ordered. Some of the other employees were sitting down to eat. "I guess I'll sit down and eat something." "Might as well." she said. I grabbed a piece of fried chicken and sat down for 5 minutes when both E.Chef and Chef Prick walked through the dining room--both glanced at me, but didn't seem to stop their conversation. When I returned to the kitchen less than 5 minutes later, Chef Prick explained to me that only people who arrived BEFORE 8 were supposed to eat BEFORE lunch service (I had arrived at 8), and I'm SUPPOSED to wait until lunch service is OVER to eat. Fine.
The day continued on like that, filled with little annoyances, lengthy time spent looking for things because the kitchen is about three times the size of any kitchen I've ever worked in before and there's far too many things going on at once to know who's doing what, or what space is available to use... UGH.
But how could I complete the day without falling AGAIN? This time it was grease that was dripping off of dirty dishes stacked up at the sink. I didn't know that at the time, of course, and felt like a complete idiot AGAIN. One girl was nearby, and asked if I was OK. I sucked up my pride and continued on, even though it hurt like hell (landed on my forearm from behind and jammed my shoulder into my neck). No one else even bothered to look up. I felt slightly vindicated when not 15 minutes later, she fell in the exact same manner in the exact same spot. I felt bad for her, of course, because she had been the only person concerned about me when I fell, but at least I knew that it really WAS extremely slick, and someone really DID fuck up by not cleaning up their damned mess.
There was more garbage--getting yelled at for walking across the freshly waxed linoleum in the dining room (uh, can't LEVITATE to the salad bar, how else am I supposed to get to it??). Dumb shit like that all day. They're lucky I didn't just quit. They're lucky I'm so damned desperate for decent money I'd sell my body on the streets if there were a market for fat old ladies with a bad attitude.
Naturally now the adreneline has worn off and the results of my TWO falls are ringing through my joints. My arm and shoulder are KILLING me, and in all seriousness, I think I have a concussion, even though I didn't actually hit my head. Wah wah wah, Sassy, grow up.
Luckily, I don't go back to the kitchen til Wednesday. Funny how a boring day in the fitting room at my retail job sounds so much better now.
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