Changes

As I grow older, I find that I am starting to do things that I vowed I would never do again.  Some are small, like I promised myself that I’d never eat fast food.  But now, and only sometimes, there is a hazy smear of mustard where there used to be a clear bold line.  Other standards hold more significance, having more to do with reevaluating what I want to get out of life, (not that a burger from A&W doesn’t impact what I get out of my life).  After my culinary school apprenticeship, I decided that I would never work for free again.  Now, I don’t want to confuse this with charity work or volunteering to help a good cause or a friend, not that my date book is full of these, either.  I mean volunteering to work for a profitable business.  An accountant wouldn’t do this, nor would a salesperson or barista.  No cook wants to admit that they ever worked for free, but we all have. 

For those of you who have not been to culinary school, there is an odd rushing-for-a-fraternity feeling in the air.  With a definitive separation between students who worked in the industry already and those who did not, there was a constant buzz of who was working where, what position they held, and which popular chefs they got to rub shoulders with.  A one night stage at The Harvest Vine or Canlis was likened to a new undiscovered actor being invited to a movie premiere.

I landed an internship at one of the most prominent restaurants in Seattle.  About half of the interns never completed their commitment, with the Chef signing their required paperwork just to get them out the door.  After living off of savings, and (only because my mother reads this), borrowing some cash from my parents, I was left feeling an imbalance in my life with an internship.  As the weeks passed, I became acutely aware of the fact that the work I was doing was the actual job of a paid line cook, not supplemental busy work.  I made prep lists, helped develop new dishes, and was responsible for a station.  Typical intern duties included hours of washing herbs and making ninth pan after ninth pan of brunoise shallots.  I was cooking on the line, coming in by noon most days, and staying until midnight. 

So why was I doing it for free?

After my first year of culinary school, I attended a seminar with a panel of local chefs and restauranteurs.  In attendance were the Chef de Cuisine of the prominent Tulalip Casino, Ethan Stowell, owner of Union in his pre-empire days, a Chef de Cuisine of one of the big downtown hotels, and several other Chefs with less memorable resumes.  I didn’t even really know what questions to ask, so I sat back and waited for them to bestow their wisdom upon me. 

Instead of inspiration, I was shown the harsh reality of culinary school internships.  Starting with the good news, the hotels and casinos boasted steady apprenticeship hours, decent pay, and an opportunity for long-term employment.  It all sounded dreamy, like a real job in the actual culinary industry.  While listening eagerly, we all tried to forget the fact that these jobs were in sterile hotel environments with standardized recipes, corporate menus, and a human resource department that looked down on the legendary tales of knife throwing chefs screaming expletives.  (For the record, while none of us want to be the recipient of this type of lashing out, we all want to be in the kitchen where it does happen).   

Ethan Stowell politely let them finish, furrowing his brow a couple of times, nodding, and doodling on the pad in front of him.  Everyone in attendance knew the unspoken fact, including Stowell.  We were all there to hear him speak.  When he began looking around the room, we all sat a bit more straight in our chairs.  It was as though at any moment he might choose one of us, take our exceptional posture as a sign of culinary skill and offer them a position. 

When it was Stowell’s turn, he told us what we’d been waiting to hear, what we already knew inside ourselves and needed to validate.  If we wanted to learn how to cook, to really cook, (and let’s face it, so many students were looking to be abused a la Kitchen Confidential), then we needed to get an internship at the best restaurant that would let us in.  The cost of this stellar experience that would help shape our cooking futures?  Pay.  Personal boundaries.  Sleep.  Probably our relationships. 

A culinary degree with zero restaurant experience proved that we thought we wanted to become chefs.  A degree with one of the coveted back and spirit breaking internships to back it up held a lot more promise. 

Long out of school and with many paid gigs behind me, I have re-entered the world of working for free.  This time I have a new attitude and am approaching it with a humbleness that I did not possess when I knew so much less than I do now.  My next few entries are going to highlight my most recent experience as an intern once again.  Hopefully I will answer the question I’ve been asking myself all along: what is the compensation for my work?