Tired: Or I'm a whiny teacup

Once again I'm tired. It seems as if this is a perpetual state. Everyone is tired. I don't think there is anyother way to be in the restaurant industry. If you get enough sleep then you aren't working hard enough. It's a strange world to live in. It's nice when someone else validates it. "Thank God it's not just me". I get worried that I can't hack it. That if I'm this tired what will it be like when I have my own place. It's easy to assume that those who are successful have it easy. In reality they are just as beat as the rest of us. There are no breaks, no lunches, no weekends, no vacations. It seems I write mostly about how hard this business is. In part it's venting. But mostly it's a necessary rationalization. I should be tired. This is a hard business. I do work alot. It's easy to forget about when you are surrounded by those who do the same thing. You assume that since you are feeling the effects that you are somehow not as capable, or doing something wrong, or not cut out for it. There is a necessary understanding that it's just the way it is. If you want to succeed, you're just going to be tired (of course this applies to any pursuit). Cooking on the line is most likely the most stressful job, where someones life isn't immediately on the line (of course someones livelihood is). During service you are pummeled with orders for hours. During that time you are forced to focus on several components, all of which have different cooking times, and techniques. All of these things have to come up together just to put out one plate, and that plate must be perfect. Perfect, like the one before it and the one after it. You do that hundreds of times a night. When it's all over, you clean up, take stock of what's been used and get ready to do it all over the next day. The exhileration of sevice lingers for hours. Slowly the adrenaline, caffeine and nicotine that has kept you going for the last eight, ten, twelve hours, begins to fade. The next day you wake up and head to the shop to find the same sense of urgency that go you rolling the day before. Over time you become uncomfortable having only one or two things to do. Days off become midless shutdown days. 'What the hell am I supposed to do outside the kitchen?' 'Shouldn't I be working?'. It's really bad when you wish you were working and it's your day off. You understand the necessity of not working. One must take time off or one becomes a little batty, a little scattered, and a littel pissy. Yet on that day off you just can't get comfortable. Where's the rhythm? Wheres's the commotion? Where's the adrenaline? Where's my damn prep list?!

Long week

Of course the downside of small restaurants is the lack of labor. Each component is integral to function and when a component goes down things don't work quite as well. There isn't a large part time labor pool always looking for more shifts. Somebody, or somebodies, has to pick up the slack. It puts a strain on operations. No big deal in a pinch but real gaps can be hell on consistency and morale.

Accentuate the positive: Why working in a small restauran kicks ass

Despite the bleak pictuire I've painted, I have rarely, in my life, felt more reward. There are victories on a daily basis, both personal and oragnizationally. Seeing people enjoying your work and the vision of the establishment is far more gratifying than any other industry I've been involved in. There is a level of commraderie that is only superceded by those in life and death situations. There is also a great personal satisfaction at the end of the shift. You've done your job well (to the satisfaction of the customer, the chef and yourself) and there is little left. You think about the things to do tomorrow, what prep you need, the number of potential customers etc. but outside of that there is nothing else. There is no take home job. What you take home is satisfaction in completion. Granted you'll do the more or less the same thing tomorrow, but today you've clearly won the battle. Of course there will be the bad days, but instead of impacting the future, the bad day, when done, is done. You learn from whatever made it a bad day. By having a bad day you become a better cook and hopefully decrease the chance of having another bad day. Of course there are going to be gripes, but gripes in a restaurant are not like inter-office politics. You either blow your stack and resolve it or you get over it. We work too closely under too much stress for there not to be exposed nerves, but as long as you realize that, then it ain't no thing. It is one great dysfunctional family reveling in disfunction. One great dysfuntional family grinding out good food, doing a job others don't understand and doing it at a consistently high level. So when the place succeeds (something I have far too little experience with) everyone takes pride everyday. And everyday we strap in again, slam an espresso, and enjoy the adrenaline of a long night of making people, including ourselves, happy.

Will I make it: or, so you think you can be a chef, huh?

A little Obsessive Compulive, a little paranoid, a little anal retentive, a little insecure, a little competative, a little bit of a control freak, a little bit of arrogance. It's odd that traits the rest of the world vilifies, traits that most wouldn't confess to, traits that have spawned an entire pharmacopia, are the traits that can make someone a successful chef. Cooks are on an Island. When they send a plate out there is noone else responsible for the quality of that plate but themselves. Hypothetically it's the Chef who is ultimately responsible, (they hired the cook, they trained the cook, their name is on the menu), but in the real world things get busy, and trust becomes paramount. The chef needs to trust a cook to execute properly. In order to execute properly every time, without fail, a cook needs to be aware, excrutiatingly aware. This awareness, this intimacy, magnifies even the most minute flaw or deviation. No matter wether you're flipping burgers or searing foie gras, ultimately your actions, your work, determines wether the food is received well or not. Of course there are always the cranks that couldn't tell cardboard from Cotes de Bouef, they don't count. The vast majority of customers, however, can and do count. And they are the true measure of your success. It's this relentless awareness, driven by paranoia, insecurity, and plain old fear that fuel the fires. What about passion? What about love of food? I suppose that's the positive spin. Almost no one in their right mind would consider a career cooking if they weren't passionate about food. Being in love has some serious baggage that comes with it though. Insecurity, and scrutiny eventually give way to confidence and understanding. With food and cooking this process of synthesis is a long journey. To truly understand technique (moreover food itself) you have to struggle. Struggle to master the techniques and understand the medium, not only of cooking, but of the industry as well. It is this struggle that takes the toll on so many. Those who thought it would be easier. Many realize that for them, it's just not worth it. Everyday I ask myself if it's worth it. Everyday I answer myself, 'it makes me happy. It's worth it'. I'm tired. I ache. I question my abilities everyday. Always wondering. Am I quick enough? Am I accurate enough? Are my senses polished? Am I learning enough? Am I pushing myself hard enough? Am I too old for this shit? If I wasn't questioning these things I believe I'd be too comfortable. When one is comfortable it's too easy to take shortcuts, forget the details. I suppose settling is my fear. What these insecurities really add up to. Settling. Many will settle. I'm looking forward to the day when my insecurities and fears become confidence and understanding. It won't be settling but resolution, fully understanding what I have learned and what I have yet to learn.