So it has been awhile since I last wrote, and my only excuse is that I've been really tired. By the time I get home after school or work, all I usually want is a glass of wine or the comfort of my pillow. Feeling tired is a sorry excuse though, especially considering the hours I slaved away writing English papers and newspaper articles late into the morning during my years of undergrad.
Why am I so tired? Well, my day usually begins at 8 a.m. when I wake up and get ready for work. I pack my bag, attempt to make my work uniform look as clean as possible, and head for the subway around 9:30, where I usually wait for the subway in the stuffy, hot underground tunnel for up to 15 minutes. When you don't have the luxury of an iPod, you notice things that you otherwise wouldn't. Since my iPod was stolen several weeks ago, I'm one of the few travelers without ear buds in the morning. I usually observe a moment of unusual behavior or an an eccentric character.
This morning I sat across a little old lady when I got on the subway. She had her shades on, a little hat, and she wore flesh colored stockings with her sandals. She didn't match and she looked like she probably forgot she was getting dressed half way through her morning routine, neglecting to pull up on of her stockings. I kept wondering if she was looking at me through her sunglasses. As I began to stare back at her, I realized she was wearing two purses across her hunched shoulders. One was typical of an old lady and some sort of mauve color. The other was black and hot pink, equipped with a strap that read "Sweet & Vicious." This encounter was brief, but memorable for some odd reason. Maybe I just enjoyed that this little old woman was keeping it real. I want to believe that she consciously wore that purse to send a message, a message of, "I might be a cute little grandma, but don't fuck with me."
My morning commute is usually about 20 minutes long once I arrive to the station, which isn't bad. I get off the subway and walk six blocks to work, where I head to the basement to get dressed. The production kitchen crew is already preparing the day's delivery orders, roasting chickens, baking bread, and transporting items to necessary stations. One of my managers is already three espressos deep, usually typing in the office or making their way down the call list to fill vacant shifts. When I arrive to the musty, cheap cologne-misted locker room, I usually barge in on about five half naked Mexican men who greet me in Spanish. Most of them call me Lauren, but I'm also called Lorena, Lorinita, Mamasita, Mommi (it's a Puerto Rican thing), "Mi Amor," and sometimes "Mi Corozon," which means "my heart." After I'm showered with loving morning greetings, I hurry to get my stuff out of my locker where I then go to the bathroom to get dressed in peace.
After I get dressed I spend the next hour opening the restaurant, ensuring each napkin is perfectly pressed and folded and that each table looks the exact same as the other tables. If one table is even slightly crooked or if a salt is even remotely off center, I'm told. Once I've performed all the opening duties, scaling the three floors of the place many times, the staff sits down for family meal before our morning meeting. Carlos, one of the saute cooks, usually roasts chicken thighs and sautes large hotel pans full of spicy peppers, garlic, and onions. Meals are served with rice and guacamole. The guacamole is thickly mashed with onions and seasoned with chili pepper, cilantro, and lime juice. The Mexican buss boys banter, flirting and placing eachother in headlocks. The cooks usually scarf their food so they can get back to work, and the servers eat together, sometimes exchanging gossip from the night before.
A cell phone snap shot of our dining room
Today the gossip was rich with news. The French director of operations, who conducted my second interview, was fired. I knew the owner was in town, but I wasn't aware he was in town to take care of serious business matters in person. This will be the fifth vacant management position within less than a month. After the director of operations was fired, his assistant quit and her husband quit, who happens to be the chef de cuisine at our location. Three weeks ago our general manager left and last week one of my favorite managers quit with a day's notice. He told me he was getting ready to leave, but I was sworn to secrecy not to tell anyone. "Promise me one thing," he said during our final exchange. "Don't lose the Kansas in you." Needless to say, this is an interesting time for the restaurant. I'm wondering if the ship is sinking and whether or not I'm comfortable sinking with it, but a few people give me hope.
It's become evident to me that management trusts me after my short time working for them. I was asked to help them create some menu training materials and I was also asked to go to California for a week to help them train new staff. Unfortunately, I can't make the trip because of my school schedule. I've also trained new servers and I waited on our executive chef, which gave me a minor heart attack. When you're serving a chef and he created the menu, it's a little nerve-wracking, especially if you don't have half of the wine list and you're already stressed out with a full section.
Back to my daily routine- After a busy lunch shift, where we've served over 200 people, my feet start to feel some fatigue. Lunch is usually over by 2:30, and I have a break until 5:30, where I come back to work or I go to school until 10:45. Dinner is usually a repeat of what I've described above, but school is another labor.
I come back to my apartment to switch out my work bag for a school bag and my knives. If I've been smart, the bag is already packed and ready to ensure quick turnover. I grab the knives, my homework, and some clean clothes, and again head for the subway station. I take a subway downtown and get off on Canal Street, which is a limb of Chinatown, littered with people pushing cheap watches and knockoff handbags. I push my way through crowds of shoppers, weighed down by my large bags. I feel like I'm double my size when I push my way through the crowd. If I'm running late, this is an exhausting and irritating experience. When I arrive to school, I make my way to the locker room where I change into my starched whites. My identity becomes completely manufactured at this point and my face is the only thing that sets me apart from the other students.
Once I arrive to the classroom I must set up my station and arrange my mise en place. Other students are already prepping for the lesson. It's beneficial to arrive early and begin gathering supplies for the first recipe. I have a new assigned partner each week or two, which can be a blessing or a curse. If you're paired with someone who is equally prepared for the lesson, the class goes well and cooking time isn't an issue. If you're paired with someone behind the learning curve, however, the entire class is a struggle. I'm unfortunately stuck with the latter. I'm feeling a bit challenged to say the least.
Chef demos and lectures for an hour before we break into teams to recreate what he's made. We usually make three to five recipes a night and all of them have to be presented for chef's approval. Dishes always need more seasoning. The night I make something without flaws will be a true miracle.
After class we have to clean the entire kitchen. I'm usually walking to the locker room between 10:45 and 11, and out the door by 11:15. I then make my evening walk to the subway, where I impatiently wait for 15 minutes with other late night students and workers, all of us surrounded by a couple crowds of party-goers, loud and socially lubricated for the evening. I begin to examine my hands, decorated with small cuts and the occasional blister. I feel dirty.
I arrive back to my apartment around midnight, where I'm faced with the decision of going out with my roommate, writing, or going to bed. Each decision will influence the inescapable truth of having to wake up the next morning and repeat the day once more.
Another day of the path I've chosen, but frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
