"For me, the cooking life has always been a long love affair, with moments both sublime and ridiculous."
— Anthony Bourdain
— Anthony Bourdain
"I'll sell all of this by the end of the day," he said, looking up at me with inviting, very dilated eyes. "You want anything?"
I continued to peel the pathetic "local" carrots the restaurant was using for the pantry station, showing no interest in his unprofessional offer. I had known he was high from the moment he arrived to the kitchen, nearly an hour and a half late. His long, seemingly unkempt hair was still vertical and his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. He staggered a bit when he walked and appeared disoriented in his own kitchen. The executive chef, an alum from my program, arrived minutes behind him, only slightly more in tune.
"I'm good," I said, glancing away from his goodie bag.
"What kind of drugs do you do?" he asked, baffled by my disinterest.
"Nothing, really," I said, peeling my final carrot.
"Nothing? Wow. That's odd in this business." He stuffed his bag back into his pants and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He began pulling up his pictures, scrolling through images of naked women and paraphernalia. "I have all of this at my house," he said, trying to capture my attention.
"Look, is chef around? I think I'm done for the day." I had been in the kitchen an hour before his arrival, and before that I had waited at the bar for 40 minutes, where a handsome bartender attempted to reassure me that a chef would be arriving shortly to greet me. Instead a dishwasher showed me a changing room and gave me instructions for prep.
"Oh yea? Ok, well... I'll find him. I'll tell him that I think you'd be a good fit here. We're a pretty busy kitchen, you think you could handle it?"
I smiled, humored that this man had barely touched food since he had arrived, let alone observed my skills. I had prepped his entire station before he even arrived and made his scallop ceviche as he texted and threw pans in the dish pit with an unnecessary intensity.
"I'm actually not interested in working here," I said, removing the gloves I had insisted on wearing after I observed the sous touching produce with unwashed hands; Hands that had been in and out of his pants, each unclipped nail with dirt and resin beneath it. "I'd just like to say goodbye."
The sous began looking for the chef, eventually arriving back to tell me that he was sleeping upstairs in the dining room. Not totally surprised, I changed and grabbed my knives. I went upstairs and met the chef at the staircase, who was in a sleepy daze.
"Chef, thank you for the invitation to come in and stage. I'm headed out."
"Yea, what did you think?"
"Well, I think you're kitchen is a mess and your sous chef is highly unprofessional. He's clearly high and he tried to sell to me. I'm not interested."
He looked stunned as he searched for words. "Wow, well, I'll be talking to him," he said, in an unconvincing, apologetic tone. Afterall, he was probably just as high as his buddy.
"Have a good service," I said as I headed for the door. I walked out, put my sunglasses on, and continued down the street, back to the East Village. I'm not naive to the fact that kitchens are often occupied by criminals and drug users. I've met plenty of cooks with a past and various addictions, but I don't want to be in a kitchen where my supervisors are unprofessional. Point blank. The stage was a nightmare, but it showed me the kind of kitchen I didn't want to be a part of, on any level.
My search for the right fit continued. I don't care if I work with ex-jailbirds, junkies or drug dealers — I mean hell, I probably work with some right now. While I was staging in New York City, I just wasn't looking to work somewhere where personal problems and issues tampered with my goals: to deliver great food, to learn and to constantly seek improvement.
My next stage... coming soon!
