First Day Clumsies

Even the most confident of cooks are nervous come dawn on the first day of a stage.  A stage is derived from the French term stagiaire, meaning “apprentice”.  It is typically unpaid, underwent by students or professionals in the culinary industry for the purposes of learning new techniques and gaining experience.  An applicant for a cooking position will often undergo a stage for the purposes of exemplifying their skills and proving worthiness. 

The most difficult obstacle to overcome is operating in a foreign environment with new people, a different menu, and unique methods of preparation of that menu.  Any cook who proclaims how they feel at home and quickly adapt in any kitchen is a liar.  Able to adapt more quickly than at, say, stepping onto an ice rink at the exact moment they change the skating direction?  Perhaps.  But complete ease of stepping into a new kitchen?  There are too many obstacles stacked in the way.  Flaming, sharp, slippery, perishable, hot-tempered obstacles. 

In an effort to arrive in a timely fashion, I gave myself forty minutes to accomplish a fifteen minute walk.  Arriving to a locked door and dark windows, I decided to walk off my nerves and rounded the corner.  When I came back ten minutes later, the kitchen was in full swing.  Of course.  I was so flushed from the cold that tears stung my eyes in the new warmth and my hands were close to numb.  I fumbled with my shirt buttons and apron, barely able to grasp the zipper of my knife roll.  My shaking fingers were surely misinterpreted as nervousness.  (Thinking back, perhaps my hands were shaking from nerves, maybe I blamed the cold to make myself feel better).

I had prepared by researching the restaurant ahead of time.  The menu was available for download online, and I had done my best to memorize the components and preparations of each dish.  Apparently that was last week’s menu. 

The overwhelming feeling upon entering a new kitchen for a stage is that everyone, from the Chef to the guy on Garde Manger who is afraid you’re going to steal his job, is watching you.  Willing you to succeed.  Willing you to fail.  Typically a stage works for several hours before anyone even speaks to them.  I was surprised to find out that all of the cooks had reviewed my resume, and spoke up quickly about my work history and previous experience.  (I trailed in a restaurant last fall, and the cooks did not speak to me until the third day.  And only then did a line cook who had been eyeing me for three days say, “so, are you like, a student or something?”  The Chef piped up to the other cooks about my experience, and they spent the next two days asking questions about it and trying to compensate for having been so aloof.)

Even through the tougher questions pertaining to my French training, this part calmed my nerves a bit.  Looking around, I could begin to clearly see where equipment was stored, and started taking a mental inventory of ingredients.  I took in the ovens, the dish pit, began sorting out who held what position.  A deep breath.  Getting comfortable.

And then, while removing a thigh bone from the chicken I was butchering, I stabbed my finger with a boning knife.  Instead of being the fierce and fast intern I had planned to be that day, I was quietly trying to locate the first aid kit without anyone noticing.  I had planned to be stealthy with my prep, not wrapping a self-inflicted stab wound.  Ask any cook out there how they feel when they cut themselves.  Nobody cares about the pain or cleaning out the wound, they just don't want it to slow their progress.  But the fact of the matter is that we can't have a bloody wound all over our quality ingredients.  So we have to deal with it.  Mothers would be mortified to see their cooking sons and daughters doctoring cuts with super glue and duct tape, anything to contain the annoying blood so that they can keep working. 

Every cook I talk to has first day horror stories about how they managed to filet open their hand, sprain an ankle, pour boiling water on the Chef de Cuisine’s clogs, or cook rice for staff meal not realizing it was the truffle rice.  Interns have been known to use potatoes to make stock (this does not work, trust me), accidentally tell the owner that his wife seems like an odd lady, mistake pork lard for fondant icing, and dump 50 pounds of hot veal bones on the floor.

While in culinary school, a good friend staged at a well respected restaurant downtown.  Before service, she supremed open her finger instead of the blood orange she was holding.  Later, while in the walk-in fridge, she slipped and fell on the floor in a very dramatic cartoon-like flop.  Instead of the responsible next step of checking herself for injuries, she quickly looked about to make sure that nobody had witnessed her embarrassing act.  Instead of asking if she’d been okay, even I quickly asked, “oh no!  Did anyone see you?”.  When we talked about it just last week, she didn’t immediately recall what she learned that day, instead remembering only the mortifying details.

Someday I will probably talk about what I learned the first day.  For now, I’ll summarize what stands out in my memory, much like the aforementioned details of my friend.  After cutting myself, I impaled my gut on the handle of the prosciutto slicer twice.  I then got it caught in my apron and had one of those embarrassing flailing turn-stumbles.  In our last encounter, I was passing through the tight space on my tiptoes and got the handle caught in my pocket, ripping my pants open enough to expose my underwear.  (I do not need a reminder as to my widest body part, but that damn slicer just had to heckle me all night).  While fetching an eight quart batch of brodo (that is an Italian style broth), I poured enough down the front of my shirt to enroll in a wet t-shirt contest.  Rounding the corner toward the dish pit, I forgot to announce myself and ran right into a server, accidentally grazing her boob.  To top it all off and really complete the night, I splashed bleach water across my legs and turned my already ripped black pants into a polka dot design. 

I’ve never considered myself to be a clumsy person.  Arriving home a hot mess twelve hours later, I had a hard time feeling otherwise.  Overall, it had been a very successful night for the restaurant.  Whether I rode on the coattails of the other cooks’ hard work or stood out on my own, misadventures notwithstanding, I was perceived to be worthy of working in the kitchen.  While I pulled dried bits of dough from my hair in the mirror that night, I smiled at my reflection.  I would live to cook another day.  And it will be in the same kitchen that seemed like a war zone on day one.  I’ll conquer it yet, it will just take a little time.