“No child wants to play with a Charlie-In-The-Box!”
~Rudolph The Rednosed Reindeer claymation special
Shrouded in mystery and clouded with smoke and mirrors and fire, you may catch a glimpse of the cooks in the back of the house wrangling flame and blade, boiling oil and sizzling pans, exacting masterful precision over their tools of the trade to provide our customers with something more than simply sustenance.
Just as numerous and diverse as any other group of folks you could lump together. Perhaps no crowd or demographic of people is more diverse than those of us who find ourselves walking out the back door late on a Saturday night cursing our inevitably hungover return the next morning for Sunday Brunch.
In no crowd is one’s sub-class less important. Cooks don’t care about each other’s color or creed, sexual orientation or lack thereof — all we care about is that our kitchen compatriots can produce. Can you work? Can you show up on time? Can you work late? Can you sacrifice everything else in your life to do your job? Whether you’re well-rested or hungover? Whether you just had your heart stomped on by a lover or suffered a death in the family? Whether you’re cut and burnt — your feet screaming, your back on fire?
There is a difference between someone who punches a clock to work in a kitchen and an actual cook.
Not a Foodie
The one thing cooks share — real cooks, anyway — is dedication. Cooks are engaged. Cooks care about food — passionately. Possibly above all else.
The way a cook cares about food isn’t the way a hedonist does. A cook is not a “foodie,” not necessarily. A cook is a devotee of food, a fervent and dedicated disciple. It’s fair to say we almost worship food, and nothing garners more respect than the masterful crafting of it, the understanding of it, the appreciation of it, be it an ingredient, or a technique.
We’re most likely sadomasochists because, to be quite honest, I’ve been doing this gig pretty regularly for twenty-some years, and I couldn’t tell you why.
We don’t do it for the money. Most cooks live at or below poverty wages. No one’s ever gotten rich from holding down the line on a busy Friday night.
We don’t do it for the fame. I walked off the plane from winning Guy’s Grocery Games, drove back to the restaurant, and did a couple hours in the dishpit because the utility guy no-call/no-showed. Some fame.
Art
Why do we put up with the long hours, the physical pain, and the emotional turmoil? Why do we push past the failures and the bad Yelp! Reviews, and roll with the punches to accommodate dietary fashion and allergen concerns? Why do we yell obscenities at one another, yet still come together when we’re caught in the weeds? Why do we pour over cookbooks in our down time, always looking for something better, different, or new?
We don’t do it for ourselves.
No, we do it for an intrinsic sense of beauty and quality. For a dedication to an ideal of craftsmanship and art.
We do it for the food.
The food!
It’s all about the food. Everything.
Modern day beatniks, angry hippies, punk rockers, and hip-hoppers — cooks know what it’s like to feel marginalized. We know what it’s like to make the most we can with the least possible. We dance with madness on the edge of a chef’s knife. Sometimes we win.
We are the quintessential underdogs sucking all the marrow out of life — and that beef shank. We are the mad ones desirous of everything. We are answering a call-to-arms to live beyond the mundane and quiet desperation.
After all, we live in the off-beat of society. We’re working when the rest of the world is off, we’re sleeping when everyone else is working. We live in the cracks.
Who are cooks, really? We’re freaks and geeks who have finally found the Island of Misfit Toys. However, unlike the toys in the old Rudolph special, we don’t want to leave; we’ve found our home.
