A Word About Sous Chefs

“Sous Chef: A cook with considerable experience on the line who now has a supervisory role in the kitchen, overseeing line cooks.” On The Line, Eric Ripert

Don’t argue! The sous chef is Always Right! Foolish cooks, cling to the notion, the kitchen is a democracy. On the hot line, there’s no time for personal feelings, around you line cooks are busy busting their ass to get the food in the pass; so what if the sous chef shouts at you “move faster.” Eight entrée are in the pass and dying fast because you forgot the “fried calamari” add on. Feeling grumpy? Wish someone would take an interest and massage your ego? Not tonight buddy ain’t gonna happen. The sous chef is doing their job; do yours. It’s a brigade system, a hierarchy set down by the great man himself, Auguste Escoffier. Never get it twisted, in a properly run kitchen the executive chef sits at the pinnacle. Directly underneath are the sous chefs, who started out where you are, to get where they are.

In the cramped environs of the kitchen, do what you’re told, do it quickly and move on to the next task. You’re a line cook, every day in the kitchen, is a new learning experience for you. If there’s no more challenge at work – leave! Find a better kitchen. Find one that forces you to push yourself. Find one where you are constantly challenged to set the bar higher and higher. Dig in, put some band-aids in your tool box, carry a note book in your back pocket and most important of all, keep opinions to yourself.

Sous chefs are responsible for the daily operations of the kitchen. They do inventory, order produce and meat, check all incoming orders, do the schedule and payroll. Sous chefs expedite the line during service. They deal with and resolve queries and issues with servers. They answer to the chef for every and anything that goes wrong.

When your sous chef speaks to you; only two refrains need be said, “Yes Chef” or “No Chef”. A sous chef is the executive chefs’ eyes and ears in the kitchen. They work the longest hours. They are constantly in the line of fire, if you fuck up, it means they have fucked up.  Expectations are high, they have to train, instruct and mentor.  Give them respect, give them credit, theirs is a thankless job. If you call off from work, a sous chef will have to work your station. They do what must be done, no line cook likes them. They know all the tricks – well done steak in the microwave, cream to thicken the béarnaise sauce. You got in trouble because of your sous chef. Chances are, they were the one that told the chef. Didn’t dump the water out of the lexans before icing down the fish, you’re gonna hear about it the next day.

It’s their responsibility to make the tough calls in clutch situations and whether you agree or disagree, shut up and do it. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but they were line cooks once, just like you. Only the most dedicated and driven stay in the business long enough to reach that position.

Emulate, act like, and learn from your sous chefs. One day, that sous chef may be you.

Books for Cooks

“There is no magic in cooking” Jomo Morris

 

“I bought another book today.”

“Where, on eBay?”

“Yes.” Artichoke shifts in his seat to face her. “Could you please slow down.”

She sucks air between her teeth. “Relax.”

Silence.

“I’m not speeding. And why waste money on books; no one reads like that anymore.”

“I do.” His hands betray his annoyance at her tone and he deliberately turns his head and ahead at the oncoming lights. “Do you?”

“It’s old fashioned.”

His jaw tightens. The tail lights of a tractor trailer wink in and out of the darkness.

“Ten years ago, kitchens used real recipes to make food. Back then I used to cook – with real vegetables that still had dirt on them. I used a real knife and a cutting board and made salads with real lettuce and dressing.” His voice grows quiet as he utters the last syllable. Unbidden an image of him wearing a chef’s jacket surfaces.

His next sentence comes out in a rush, “Now it’s just a matter of mixing one flavor strip with the next.” She grips the steering wheel tighter and the car speeds up.

Artichoke sighs and says, “Celia, let the GPS take us home.”

“No.”

“Why are you so stubborn? Let the computer do what it was programmed to do. He reaches out and strokes her cheek.  “I promise, promise to stop living in the past.”

Celia allows the tension to leave her shoulders. “It’s just that sometimes, I feel as if you’re trying to make the world leave you behind.”

He leans closer to her. “My love, let the GPS steer the car. I‘m in the mood.”

The words echo across the tiny interior of the car, in counterpoint to the fast staccato of raindrops falling on the roof. Artichoke doesn’t wait for an answer and wiggles out of his T-shirt and climbs between the seats and into the back. He pokes her in the side with a toe. Laughing, she presses the green neon button in the center of the steering wheel and a male voice chimes in and asks for a destination.

“Home,” she says, and the computer searches for the coordinates. After a few seconds, the metallic voice chimes in, “Your destination is 1-0-4, P-e-a-c-h, T-r-e-e   D-r-i-v-e, A-t-l-a-n-t-a, G-e-o-r-g-i-a.  The right indicator light flicks on and the steering wheel turns silently to the right, as the computer adjusts speed and guides the car in behind a white Ford Explorer.

She disengages the safety harness and squeezes into the backseat on top of him. “Ouch! Be gentle.” “Celia!”  They wiggle into a more comfortable position and his legs wrap hers as the landscape slips by, painted in jagged slashes of light and gloom. Moaning, Artichoke uses his hands to firmly clasp her buttocks and presses himself hard against her body. She responds to his advance by biting him on the ear. Their passion ends quickly, muted by the glaring headlights of cars passing.

He allows his thoughts to drift backwards to the first time they met. It’s one of his clearer memories. The first time he saw Celia kneeling over him, a hand shaking his shoulder, the sound of her voice asking him his name. The feel of old leaves wet with dew pricking him in his back. The smell of garbage, ripe, and overflowing from the bin close to his head.

The sound of traffic somewhere nearby. The sting of mosquito bites on his face. The crunch of shoes on the grass around him. Flashing lights, red and white pinpricks as he drifts in and out of consciousness.  Her eyes, hazel, looking into his. The antiseptic whiteness of the emergency room. Losing consciousness. Waking to see her speaking to a nurse by his bed.  Sleep, so restless. Dreams of a book, its words and symbols spinning like a spider’s web at the edge of his sub-consciousness. The book! Taunting him. He cannot remember.  Panic, then the sound of her voice talking to him, asking him his name, asking questions. Sleep. Her visit to the hospital the next day to talk to him, and then the next.

He strokes her hair as they lay nestled together in the dim interior of the car. A big rig glides by, tires sluicing water onto the windshield. The white line on the road brightens as city lights hover over the highway. She sighs as he gropes around for her clothes and gives them to her. The left indicator light blinks on and the car overtakes the Ford Explorer.

“Shhhh, be quiet, my phone is ringing, Artichoke look for it.”

“It’s on the floor underneath your seat, can’t you see the lights flashing.”

Celia leans forward and sticks her hand under the seat searching with her fingers.  Finally, she feels the slim outline of her still vibrating phone. Resting it on her lap, Celia touches the screen and a holographic image of Tony appears.

“Hey Celia, I need a cocktail waitress for a function tomorrow night, interested?”

“Oh yea, what about that bar mitzvah last week, Tony, I still haven’t got my money yet.”

Tony turns to face Artichoke.

“Hey Artichoke can you come in early tomorrow? Damn purchasing software has a glitch again. It forgot to place my order for macaroni and cheese flavor crystals for dinner service.”

“Gonna have to do it old school and cook some from the box, if we can find some. Should make you happy, eh?”

Celia uses her finger to poke Tony’s image in the stomach “Tony what time is the function tomorrow?”

Distracted he looks away, as if listening to someone else, “Tell them I’ll be out in a minute” he shouts to someone inside the kitchen.

“Damn, roast chicken flavor strips, can’t any of the cooks get it right” mumbling to himself.

“Sorry Celia” he laughs apologetically, “chowtime is at 7pm but you gotta be there by 6:30 for set up.”

“Artichoke come in at 1pm, and get with José, see if you can find some pots. God knows why I kept those things.” Chuckles “There should be some in the storeroom somewhere.”

“Yes Chef”

“Ok kids, gotta go, got things to do and people to see.”

“Hey Tony”

“What now Celia?” sounding slightly annoyed.

“You’re a sleazebag; I want my money when I come in for work tomorrow.”

Laughs at the compliment, “sure, sure, sure” he terminates the call and disappears from view.

With a grimace Celia slips into the driver’s seat. She sits still for a moment, thinking about Artichoke. She never meant to take him home after he was released from the hospital. But he looked so lost and alone, her heart took a chance. Her mother always said she was like Florence Nightingale; there was Sam the turtledove with the broken wing and a whole litany of wounded pets through her teenage years. It helped that she volunteered at the animal center. Celia had a gentle familiar touch with animals, she was a whisperer and it was if they sensed it.

Artichoke is singing slightly off key to a Sublime song through the speakers. She’s glad he’s distracted. His book is waiting for him, on top of the growing pile in the corner of her apartment. She felt strange holding it, now that she thought about it, holding it in her hands, sent a chill through her fingers. She had an uneasy premonition about Artichoke appearing. That evening she was jogging alone in the park and the next moment he was there, right under her feet. She almost tripped over him. The book had appeared at her doorstep in a similar manner, as if the person was tired of carrying it and decided to just drop it at her door. And yes, she had almost stepped on the damn book too. It lay with the others, “Artichokes relics of the past” she liked to call them, unopened, still in the thick brown envelope with his name stenciled across the front.

“Celia” he breaks her reverie.

“Yesss.”

“I love you baby” he puts a hand on her leg.

“I know.”

Both car doors slide upwards and they run towards the protective alcove of their apartment building. Artichoke lets her go in front as they bolt up the stairs to their second floor apartment. “Hurry Celia, I’m getting wet,” he jumps up and down as a pool of water forms around his sandals.  Celia peers into the sensor and a beam of light scans her iris. She blinks and it winks back as if acknowledging an old friend. Celia steps back, the light blinks green and the door slides open. Celia pushes Artichoke inside, then pushes past him as a crack of lightning stabs the darkness. She’s home, it’s tiny, but comfortable. It’s all she could afford on her salary. Cocktail waitresses were poorly paid in the days of gas stoves and deep fat fryers and to top it off veterinary school isn’t cheap.

Her apartment is sparsely furnished, a cube that unfolds into a sectional sofa when pressed. A 40” Sony holograph TV on the wall, a collapsible dinette set that hangs on the wall as decoration. They hardly use it, preferring to eat their meals on the sofa watching television. Celia moves around in the small space and heads to the bathroom. It’s late and she needs to get out of these damp clothes. “Artichoke I’ll be in the shower a while” the sound of running water distorts her voice. Normally they would shower together, but he spots his book sitting with the rest and moves toward it.

Sitting on the floor beside it, Artichoke gingerly takes hold of the package and holds it in his lap. For a minute he just sits there, alone and in the semi-darkness. Pointing to the ceiling, he says the words “reading light” and a beam illuminates his hands as they slowly work the seals apart. He slides a hand inside and drops the brown packaging paper on the floor. “Ghost in the Kitchen” he mouths the words and a knot forms in his belly. His fingers feel so cold, he wants to get up but can’t. He tries to look away but the pale indistinct image on the cover holds him transfixed. Something reaches out to touch his fingertips and his sanity flees gibbering and scampering out of reach as hands take hold of his. He screams – over and over again he recognizes the face of the person on the cover.

His name is Christian Artichoke and suddenly it all comes back to him in a rush of memories. The cover flips open as his vocal cords constrict and the face on the cover looks up at him and smiles. There are no teeth and he looks deep into that yawning abyss as his soul is pulled from his body with the slick sucking sounds of boots walking in mud. He thinks about Celia and what his life could have been with her. What could have been- could have been. The face pulls him closer and it pulses and squirms as the grin widens and his face is swallowed. First his short brown hair, then the mole on his cheek, then the scream from his lips. Yearning to stay conscious, finally Artichoke gives into the blackness as he is pulled deeper into the book. With a gut wrenching snap his shoes enter the maw until there is nothing left but silence.

“Artichoke, Artichoke! Are you ok? I thought I heard someone screaming.” Celia runs into the living room s barefoot with a towel hastily wrapped around her body. “Artichoke where are you?” She looks around the room growing more concerned. She walks over to the beam of light and notices the book sitting on the floor. Tears well in her eyes and she know she’s about to start crying. Artichoke! Something draws her eyes back to the book laying on the floor and for the first time she looks down at the cover. A face stares back at her as if pressed against a glass ceiling. That’s when the screaming started. A sound so wrenching and terrible that it woke the neighbors’ sleeping in the apartment. She never realized it was coming from her own throat as she looked at the cover and recognized the face staring back at her. Ghost in the kitchen.