Anticiplate

i cooked for 90 people one day last week. yes, nine-ty. ridiculous. and, people, that was just at lunch. i’ve put in more hours during restaurant week than i ever have at mistral. as much as i want to hate it, i love it. shh.

yes. it does get boring cooking a prix fixe menu over and over again, but at the same time, i love when three hours go by faster than watching an episode of glee. massive produce orders come in each morning in large brown boxes waiting to be unpacked, the bags underneath my eyes become more and more flaccid, and yet, i crave this busy of a restaurant. i even pine for the dramatic customers that have come from who knows where to eat at mistral for the first time during restaurant week.

some people have complained, others have rejoiced. all i know is that i am putting out the best food that i can for the massive amount of clientele that walk through that giant metal door from 11am to 2pm.

but, then the aftermath of the craziness subsides, and our restaurant becomes much like it once was. a decent lunch, steady, with a crowd that i recognize. those regulars never find my “hair” in their food, they do not think the farro is undercooked, and they get care with each dish that i cook, rather than a mass produced lunch.

i do not like working during the day. i feel odd, like the black sheep.

out. of. place.

my setting up seems to flow into the cleaning up with mere hours in between. and then, i wait around at night, tired from my ‘banker hours’ as a line cook, as i anxiously wish to be cooking for that dinner crowd. the crowd that made me fall in love with this crazy restaurant world. the crowd that i used to be a part of.

loneliness prevails, like i am the only person who has a cooking job that doesn’t work at night. but, i know i need to wait. i am still a greenhorn with so much to learn and absorb. frustration often gets the best of me because of my ignorance to the many nuances of cooking, and techniques i have not yet mastered or even have the ability to execute. you should have seen the branzino i tried to butcher over the weekend. a tragic specimen.

i am going steady with marco pierre white’s book, a scorching hot bath filled with dr. bronner’s peppermint castile soap, and some sort of alcoholic beverage as i wait. i am excited for the day when i hear, “fire twenty one arugula salads” and i shrug my shoulders and whip the whole thing out in less than three minutes, not batting my amber eyes at the intimidation of the tickets that keep flowing out of the printer.

relaxed, confident, and finally a chef.