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A Day in the Life of a Chef

Raini Wright

It's Friday. Friday evening to be exact. "Julian, I cannot accept this second-rate

You're standing in the kitchen of one of the finest cooking!" he says in between bites of Flan. He~s

Spanish restaurants on this side of Baltimore, La sampling a slice that just finished cooling. "ThIS

Casa del Sol. Your feet feel like two melons _ is the third time this evening that a customer has

swollen and full of fluid - because your idiot boss sent back your Paella can Pallo, Langosta y
won't give you a break. You've only been here Almejas. This time the chicken is not done. Make
four months, long enough to make these dishes with it correctly or else. Comprende?"
your eyes closed but not long enough to demand
the respect you deserve. "Si," you reply and set the virtually un-
touched dish on the metal counter.

As you stand in front of the metal counter, Oh yeah, you comprehend. You just wish

using your paring knife you gingerly peel off the they did. Who do they think they are, anyway?
skin of a few green figs. You should have done They come into your restaurant with their over-
this hours ago - it's one less dessert on the menu _ priced clothes and learned Spanish accents think-
but even a thirteen hour shift gets to the best of
'em. ing that they can tell you how to do your job. You

didn't graduate second in your class, at twenty-five,
There's a line outside the restaurant, about from El Instituto Culinario de Espana to put up
a mile long, of people just waiting to get inside with this.
and devour your masterpieces. Masterpieces that
You decide to wait a few minutes, then
you spent hours preparing - marinating chicken, serve from the same dish that you made earlier that
blanching almonds, pulsing orange peels in the
food processor. evening. You don't have time to preheat the over

Those meat-heads outside, the customers, to 400 F, twist off the claws and joints of each lob-
they're not your problem. They don't even real-
ized how good they have it. You've been slaving ster then boil them cut each chicken thigh cross-
in this inferno all day. The air is thick with steam, wise and fry, simmer the chicken broth, saute the
so thick that you feel like your skin is melting. rice and dice the onions, garlic and tomato. It won't
hurt to refry a few pieces of chicken from the dish
Besides, this isn't even your shift. You came in at you already prepared.

six-thirty this morning expecting to leave by one, While you're waiting for the chicken to fin-
but at the last minute Ricky called in sick. Go ish frying, you walk over to the door that sepa-
figure, right? He couldn't have picked a better rates you from them. You look out of the circular
night. It's Carol and your six-month anniversary window near the top of the door, eyeing the stuffed
but you can't even leave. If you do, you'll be back turkeys to see which one sent your food back.

in the unemployment line even though you are the Then, you spot her. The second table, near the
best. It's not like the number of gourmet chefs is wall, on the far right. An older woman, a wealthy
widow no doubt. She's got that "holier than thou"
decreasing by the hour.

"Julian, JULIAN!" look that they all have. Their husbands die and
leave them immune to ever having to work again.
You tum around and see the master chef, a Her face is scrunched up permanently, as if every-
Dom DeLuise look-alike, glaring at you. He re- thing around her stinks. If her face was a little
minds you of a polish sausage when its ready. It darker it would resemble a prune. She's talking to
swells and juice seeps out indicating that it could a young woman across from her whose Gloria
burst at any moment. His fOOd-stained,white apron Vanderbilt, wool suit is a size too big. She's prob-
stretches over his oversized stomach and his red ably on one of those fad diets that they go on. The
cheeks brighten.

widow rolls her eyes and points towards the kitchen