Dinner: burrata and tomatoes off the vine, both drizzled with
olive oil, sprinkled with kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper mélange, side of
arugula tossed in homemade champagne vinaigrette, handful of oil-cured olives,
glass of Riesling blend. Do I always eat this well? No. I enjoy my boxed
macaroni and cheese (the cheap, powdered kind), a bowl of marshmallow cereal,
and the occasional peanut butter and jelly, but today I deserved a little
luxury. Today I defrosted both industrial freezers.
“You look like a woman on a mission,” my pastry chef said as I
trudged through the dish room with a garden hose engorged with scalding water,
instructing the waitress behind me to hook up the shop vac. I was on a mission.
I wanted the meat freezer organized, rotated, and frost free before unpacking
the newest delivery of imported bangers. I wanted the two cases of useless
frozen green beans removed from my sight before I got crazy and made cream of
green bean soup from them. I wanted all the meat products in one freezer and
everything else in the other. These are not extraordinary things to ask, I
feel, but I manage a team of boys headed up by an even bigger boy. Sometimes I
feel like Wendy lost in a culinary Never-Never Land: they hide things, they
half-ass things, they come up with crazy shortcuts to undermine my thorough methods
for doing things; I wouldn’t be surprised if my dishwasher tries to use the
shop vac to mop the line tonight.
The vacuum had to be emptied three times. The mop bucket added
another water load. It took me an hour and a half, even with the waitress’ assistance,
to melt down both freezers, reorganize, unpack new sausages, and scold the
whole staff before I was finally satisfied with the outcome. The green beans
were donated to a food drive at one of the churches down the street. I thanked
my bandana for soaking sweat off my brow, accepted my boss’ thanks for cleaning
out the appliances, and exhaled a sigh of relief as I exited the building,
never believing for one moment those freezers will look the same a week from
now.
Maybe I martyr myself with the long hours I work. Maybe I do so
with the disgusting/dangerous/difficult tasks I insist on performing myself.
Maybe I want the credit, or more likely, I want the satisfaction of knowing my
work ethic is sound. I want my staff to know I’m the kind of manager who isn’t
afraid of getting her hands dirty. What employee wants to work for someone who
stands on a soap box and cracks a whip, rather than hikes up their sleeves and
picks up a shovel? Dues, shmues. There’s no room for arrogance in a kitchen.
It’s too hot, and there’s too much work to don pride as a robe.
Comments
Post a Comment