The adventures of Jeff the chef - Fictitious kitchen stories based on plausible events...

My heart froze, my blood stopped flowing and my short life flashed before me. Was I not the brightest star that shined in the kitchen? A perfectionist in the making - the guy everyone else wanted to be? A culinary stud… I had screwed up and my stressful day was about to hit new heights. The public barbequing of my testicles would ensue any second - nothing could be worse, or could it?

The day had started like any other Monday. I was working in my assigned position - behind the huge stockpots on “watch duty” picking French beans fresh flown from Kenya. On weekdays this was the spot where one of the commis chefs would always work - from that vantage point the “kitchen century” had a good view of the chef’s office. The idea behind this militaristic sounding exercise was to spread word to the rest of the team as soon as the chef arrived. He was the enemy. A great chef and mentor, but never the less the enemy and a psycho if you did not stay one step ahead of him he would skip the Corn Flakes and have your ass for breakfast.

That Monday he was in an unusually good mood, he cruised through the kitchen handing out big smiles and slaps on the back like a Saudi Prince passes out Dinah to street people. At that point, the first day of the week showed potential of being a pleasant day.

My bubble burst fifteen minutes later when the evil one returned from what must have been a turmoil filled morning meeting.

“Set the pasta rollers at number two” he barked at me “I want to be able to see the ravioli filling, you know that is the way we always do it.”

Actually we always rolled them at number four otherwise the raviolis would split open when they were cooked. Points like that however are argued over by stupid, young, impetuous cooks, so of course I argued…

The sous chefs were summoned to the office for a good lashing. That morning I was able to determine that the chef was in very good voice - his window bulged with every bellow that he let out. Once the torture was over the sous chefs left the office - looking like four oversized naughty school children that had just be scolded by the head teacher. I cooked the raviolis - they split open.

The chef looked over my shoulder “make them again Jeff, this time set the rollers at number four, they won’t split if you roll them a bit thicker.”

“God help me” I thought, “Dr. Jekyll has been reincarnated as a chef.”

At times like that I would consider what motivated me to come to work; I was building my resume, I had been working at the hotel for just over a year, promoted twice and in six months I planned to move on. Six months, one hundred and eighty two days, with the possibility of fifty-two days off. I could deal with this sh** for another one hundred and thirty days. I visualized the calendar that hung inside my locker and imagined myself crossing off another day - like a prison inmate counting the days as he took his daily step towards freedom.

That evening we had a VIP banquet for three hundred and eighty. The menu whole roasted duck - carved as the appetizer was cleared - it was last minute stuff, but our banquets were the best in the city. The chef had said that who ever was going to take on the task of cooking the required one hundred and ninety ducks was going to have to really watch what they were doing. He wanted them to be cooked perfectly; he did not want them to be well done… It sounded like a heroic kind of job - I stepped forward.

It was a smooth evening the team functioned as one. The sweat poured as I basted the ducks it was a labor of love but they looked sensational - crispy on the outside pink inside. I unloaded the ovens; the ducks would need to rest. When we were given the signal we would carve - the tension built, but this was why I had become a chef, I lived for this kind of pressure.

The chef gave us the “nod” and we furiously began to dismantle the birds, cooked to perfection I glowed with pride. As we carved the last few ducks the chef spoke.

“Nice job Jeff”

Memorize those words I thought he is unable to say them on a regular basis.

Two seconds later he exploded, “we are short forty-eight orders! Quick everyone check the ovens, I know we had enough ducks”

We threw open the ovens and no ducks were to be found - then I remembered I had placed six trays in the crappy oven. We had been short of cooking space so I had used the iffy oven. I had always hated that oven but now I was ready to dismantle it.

My heart froze, my blood stopped flowing and my short life flashed before me. Was I not the brightest star that shined in the kitchen? A perfectionist in the making - the guy everyone else wanted to be? A culinary stud… I had screwed up and my stressful day was about to hit new heights. The public barbequing of my testicles would ensue any second - nothing could be worse, or could it? I cranked open the oven’s antique doors and there they were, forty-eight ducks. To my good fortune they were not burnt, but you could have carved them with a fork. The only red meat we would be seeing from this point on would be my back side once the chef had stopped kicking it.

He stood beside my, the close range shouting would start any second. And then from nowhere came a calm almost parental voice.

“It’s OK Jeff, duck taste great when it’s cooked like this.” He turned and stared at the kitchen’s perplexed looking sous chefs and roared, “ I want to know why you let this happen!”

We carved the remainder of the duck, scalding our fingers every step of the way. The sous chefs paraded into the chef’s office, the door was slammed, and the window bulged. I sculked out of the kitchen, like a dog leaving the vet’s office after having its nads removed.

Now that might have sounded like a bad day but I knew the next would be worse, I was going to be dealing with the wrath of four sous chefs who were verbally flogged beaten and humiliated on my account.

I swung open my locker and with my black marker pen and put a line through that days date, and then once more for good measure.

“One step further towards freedom - one hundred and twenty nine to go”

Written by: Jeremy Emmerson