Don't Fire the Salsa Maker

DON'T FIRE THE SALSA MAKER

The kitchen was breaking down, not enough mise en plas had been set at any station save for the pastry, but not many orders had been taken from the coolest place in this inferno of a kitchen. The walk-in was like a revolving door of futile attempts to break down a par cooked greasy duck on the fly or else a head of organic baby lettuces dirtier than two rinses away. And all this with a full dining room. A Solarium full with reservations. I stood quiet as a mouse turning vege. In hopes this might help some. The Potato's Anna were being cooked at too high a heat, customers were returning them, burned on top, raw in the middle. Some body had the great idea of making a big pot of mashed potatoes, I cringed when it was agreed by the other cooks to leave on the skins. How the hell would the mash get thought the pastry tip? Would we try to make canelles? With this un-smooth red and brown speckled potato disaster?

I was going to try to take no responsibility for the botched starch, but I would be unsuccessful as I was pantry/prep and the only female in the kitchen I was being tutored by none other than Julia Child. In other words, the kitchen staff assumed that my cooking teacher protected me. Fact is, she would offererd no protecrion whatsoever. Others who worked with me saw it differently. Surely she had begged and pleaded Michel and Stephan Roux they hire me. Surely I was kept about because I was a bit of a play thing for the Frenchies. My shiffts included the duties that pertained to my apprenticeship and to avoid the well placed food mines that Jean Francoise abd Bruno enjoyed deploying, replacing my mayonnaise with soft sweet butter. My salt with sugar and so on. When I cried about this to M.Child she laughed at the pranks and told me to get on with it. Kitchens are like this, I rolled the sleeves of my men's x-x large chef coat up, tightened the cellophane belt holding the sized 42 chef pants and got on with it. Tonight, I was also ducking and dodging staying pans, whisks, ladles that were being thrown about like missiles. Frustration was palpable, who knew it would be so busy on a Wednrsday night. The chef had no idea what mayhem ensued in his establishment as he was off accepting some award for culinary excellence. No cell phones meant the shit would hit the the fan in real time. When he came by to make a check on his chef,sous chef, pantry, pastry chef. When he saw that we were all in the weeds, in the shits save for one guy who had made a aqua Fresco from the melon scraps, some salsas from avocado's he had brought from home. Clickity Clack went the pots, the pans, the white dishes. in and out of soapy water with the only real timing in this bloody place. Even when he used the frayed stainless stees scrubber to remove the attempt to create a 15 minute pommes fondant- he was smooth and un affected. I kept my head lower than my shoulders, turning potatoes seemed easier this way.

And then i was called from my near to hypnotized state by an order for Canapes, three guests, table eight. I set the puff pastry pizzelles into the dangerous salamander, tsssk another burn on my scarred wrist. Piped a bit of liver pate onto an apple slice garnished with thee slices of Cornichon, pizelles were done, I removed them before they burned. Hell, I might throw the flow of this mess off. Some ass had taken(stolen) the tomato concasse i needed for the third canape, i knelt down, knee resring on the filthy rubber mat. The pantry fridge had been pilferrred while i turned and turned vegetables unaware of the thieves amoung us. I slammed the door, fitting in with the general mood of this insanity. I tugged on the saran belt, and headed back to the walk-in. the salsa maker followed me in, i was thinking how the whole lot of us would surely be fired.

Pointing to a round servers tray he showed me my answer to the third canape. Shot glassed with gazpacho and rock shrimp, a dedicate leaf of cilantro the only garnish necessary. i took two, he proudly followed with the third. i set them up on the paper white doily disguising a silver tray badly in need of a good polish.

No one noticed save for the diners who were charmed by what was a most innovative canape in the early eighties when designer pizza's were being introduced by Wolfgang and Southwest interiors adorned nearly every fine dining establishment.

The salsa maker and I were rock-stars that night when Jean Francoise ran out of cookies, raspberry sauce and the base for Orange Souffle,we laughed into the starched collars of our chef coats.

The chef did come by that evening, as the chaos was being cleared down. He was drunk on good champagne and old wine. he did not seem to notice problems although the complaint box had been overflowing at one point in the evening, the bartender had shredded the pieces of incriminating news.

I gave my employee beer to the salsa/gazpacho maker that night,(after all I was only 19 years old) then wrote onto the back of a discarded order sheet "Do Not Fire the Salsa Maker." I slipped it into the empty complaint box while everyone else made agreements this night would never be mentioned again.