like being raped with the unpleasant end of a rake

Hindsight is a marvellous thing. I should have printed a copy of this off and kept it in sight whilst I was applying to be a RAAFie cook. Things might have turned out quite differently! For better or for worse, I've still yet to decide. :) I figure I've been writing this blog long enough to have a flashback episode. I remembered the other day that I had once vowed never to work in a kitchen again, and then tried to dig out what I'd written from the archives of the internet...

From an old journal entry written on November 23, 2005:

Fuck me.

Actually, that's already happened. Up the butty and around the corner. This shit'd put Mary Magdalene to shame. Screwed over by the kitchen, by the customers, by the waiters in a hospitality bukkake. Grinning maniacally at the end of it, fighting the urge to sing.

From the first to the last docket, everything simmering, riding high on two lattes and a Red Bull. Nerves bundled up like cancer in my belly, shoulders tight and forearms already feeling the burn. Not enough spoons, too many bowls, what the fuck is that bacon doing there and not on the steak sandwich. What was the secret to Lin's perfect poachies at Pancakeland two years ago? Do I remember how my Mum cooked rockling, let alone how Marino did it yesterday?

My head spins and I keep having to remind myself to breathe. And reminding the larder kid what goes into a side salad. Yes, it's the same as the last one you made. Lettuce, no, not the cos lettuce, the mixed lettuce. Tomato... cucumber... yeah, and the onion. The spanish onion. The purple shit. I resist the urge to grab the plate off him and do it myself, because there's stuff on the stove I should be paying attention to. The fourth docket comes in and I'm still not sure whether to laugh or cry.

More water in the pots, spray some oil there on the grill. Shit, there's no bacon, of course, because Marino automatically preps it every day so it's never on the actual prep list. I want my brain back. I think I dissolved it with the second coffee of the day. No sugar. Got enough bacon for two pastas. Haven't you made a pizza before? Read me out the ingredients of the express pasta sauce. Fuck it, I'll make it up as I go.

You've got chips down for a burger, right? And that steak sandwich? Do you know how to make a caesar salad? Bacon bits, croutons, cos. Yeah, you gotta chop that up. Well, if you run out then wash some more from the coolroom. Throw it into a silver bowl and mix it up with some of that dressing. Shit, dressing on the side for that one. Cut up enough for a normal salad bowl. One of those.

I've got chicken for that, now cut the egg in half. Shit, lengthways not sideways for the next one. No, I only need one. Hang on, I'll fix it. What docket is that for? Have you got fries down for that? Jesus. Fuck, the pollo's burning. Get some garlic bread and bruschetta going. On the ciabattas, yeah? You're going to need some garlic butter... butter's right there, grab the garlic, some parsley and go.

I feel like I'm about to induce a seizure, forcing my personality to split between being buddies with the larder and kitchen hand, to mortal enemies. Nothing seems to be going right and in the heat of the moment I realise that I can't do this right without them, even though it's excruciating trying to do anything with them. I need a robot and a third fucking microwave. I want Marino back. He said if I freak out about anything just call, but it's like calling an ambulance if you've already sliced your leg off. There's not much you can do about it by that point.

I'm going nuts trying to keep track of what's on the grill, what's in the oven, how long the pasta's been in the water, whether there's enough chips in the fryer, if I've got enough salad plates or any prepared at all, whether Gaz is going to shut up or keep continuously asking me if there's any dishes to be done. Han jumps in every now and then when tables outside are just waiting on their food... trying to be my second brain and organising the boys to help and not hinder. I lose count of how many times I say fuck.

Six hours after I step into the kitchen, I emerge, a battered soul. Coated in sweat, smoke, and a slight spattering of napoli, I feel sick to my stomach. Han gives me a hug, like I'm a wounded soldier in need of support. The egg on toast that I had for breakfast churns away in protest, and I'm not sure if it wants some company or it's complaining about the view. I don't feel like eating at all. After dishing up some pastas for the staff, I swallow a couple mouthfuls of lemon squash, tell Meke to finish up cleaning the floor and get on with the ordering so I can skip out of there.

I stare at the prep list for tomorrow, forcing my brain to process with what little power remains in it. Seano opens a Becks and offers it to me. I take a good, full swig of that cold liquid gold and feel it travel down my throat to greet the remains of the egg on toast. It's good. It's all I need, after more than a month without beer, it hits me sweetly. I make a couple phone calls and get the fuck out of dodge. I remind myself again to breathe. I tell Han I don't care what happens to Marino next time around, it's in Lou's best interest to get a real chef in, because even though we made it through the day, I'm not going to forget the experience for a while.

Someone point me to this entry the next time I get the urge to be a chef!

Strangely enough, reading this all over again, so many years later, it actually makes me miss working in civvie kitchens. About the only real pressure we get is whenever we do function work, and we have to pump out/plate up multiple plates within a short space of time, having each dish look the same and tasting great. Functions only happen every once in a while, with the day-to-day work being a-la-carte breakfast cookery and bulk cooking lunch for anywhere between 50-300 troops.

Being pushed out of my comfort zone by function work gives me greater respect for people that do this sort of stuff all the time. I don't think RAAFie cooks that haven't worked in civvie kitchens have any idea what it's really like on the outside. Even after a few years out of civvie kitchens, I did manage to forget what it was like, enough to sign up as a cook, anyway!