While I was getting my uniform inspected on parade this morning, the Petty Officer asked me how I was. I replied my typical, ‘Well thanks, PO!’ but he actually remarked that I sounded chirpier than usual. I never considered myself to be the kind of person that could be described as chirpy in the mornings (although I’m becoming a heck of a lot better at the whole AM thing), so I was surprised to hear this. I said that our class was a day off getting into the restaurant, so I was excited to be there. Which is true, yet it’s odd that my tone could reveal so much during such a trite exchange.
It’s been almost a year since I was last working in anything remotely resembling a commercial kitchen. I don’t really count my four tastes of galley duty at Cerberus, because about as exotic as it got there was frying off more than four square metres of pork bits that looked like popcorn chicken. The sheer numbers of food our little crew managed to produce over a smattering of hours was somewhat impressive in terms of volume, but when it came to feeling the familiar pump of hospitality, the energy just wasn’t there.
It didn’t help that most of what we were prepping was for more than the next meal ahead, so the sense of urgency wasn’t anything like rolling hundreds of mini arancini by hand a mere hour before a finger food function was about to begin. Or pressing out multitudes of churros in the fifteen minutes of overtime as the shopping centre was closing its doors. Or willing the conveyor oven to move faster, or fit more pizzas, one manic 40 degree New Year’s Eve when the exhaust fans in the kitchen died at the casino. Or cooking for 40 covers as the ‘head chef’ in a kitchen containing a waiter’s boyfriend, a work-experience kid, and the occasional waiter and bartender to assist.
I can’t remember if I’ve actually kept any of my old writing on the beauty and the terror of hospitality, both front and back of house, but I do recall that as much as I loathed the anticipation of the rush, and sweated it out during the middle of it despite maintaining what I hoped was a Zen-like demeanour, I became addicted. That’s pretty much why I’m here though, I’m a sucker for the adrenalin, the pressure to perform constantly, and never quite knowing for sure whether you’re going to actually pull through.
It seems to have taken such a short time, yet in other ways an age, for our class to make it to the fabled K1 – Restaurant Kitchen. That’s right folks, as of tomorrow we’re going to be subjecting our food to the general public – paying customers, no less! We’ve had a bit of a warm-up with bulk cookery skills by feeding the other ADF trainees on the TAFE campus, and preparing a couple of takeaway menus, but the real deal is about to happen. I’m scared and excited in a way that reminds me of when I first starting waiting tables, or even working in larder after switching from floor work.
Deep down, I know I’m capable of doing what I need to. It’s just that sometimes added pressure can make me perform to my maximum capacity, and other times it actually makes me so damned nervous I’ll stuff up minor things that would be autonomous skills if I knew people weren’t watching or focusing on my output. It’s like one time I performed at an Eisteddfod, and even though I had my sheet music right in front of me in case I hadn’t memorised it correctly, I forgot where I was up to because I wasn’t really following on the page, and totally improvised a new ending to the song, because I couldn’t think straight enough to finish playing it properly.
It also thrills and bewilders me that I’m about a month and a bit off from being qualified to actually cook for a living. Sometimes I still feel like I’m playing dress-ups, and that the times my dishes actually work out, it’s been more by fluke than by design. I’ve had a teensy bit more experience in the real world than some of my classmates, but that still doesn’t mean I’m going to do any better than them at organising the kitchen brigade.
There’s a latent engineer in me that wants to refine the processes that exist in our little production line, to the point where I’m sure I’m irritating even my friends when I try to work backwards through the day to see where and how things didn’t go as smoothly. I’m all about efficiency… but it’s hard to emphasise the necessity for shortcuts when some people don’t understand that the easiest way to do things doesn’t necessarily mean a compromise in quality or standards.
I can’t wait until I get my go at Chef of the Day, where I won’t be cooking anything, but I’ll basically be overseeing the kitchen operations as they produce food for the TAFE restaurant, takeaway menu, and ADF lunches from my own menu. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll actually make it as far as Corporal (equivalent of Kitchen Manager/Supervisor in civvie street), considering my inherent fascination with logistics and secret obsession with quality control systems. Here’s hoping the power won’t all go to my head.
I’m starting off quite humbly, working in Patisserie tomorrow, which is my Kryptonite. Our two-person section has somehow got to bake bread for the restaurant and possibly prep pizza dough for ADF lunches, as well as pull three desserts and accompaniments together for the restaurant. I’ve always claimed to be a better eater of baked goods than maker of them, but I guess there’s only one way to learn!
I might not be a pusser, but I've certainly reached the deep end.
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