“Hey, Sarah,” says a voice. “I’m Michael. I haven’t met you yet.”
I turn to find a tall, toque-wearing boy sticking a hand out after setting down an order of lobster shooters. “You look familiar. Did you go to SMU?” he asks. I can barely mutter yes before he runs back to his shooters. Let’s see. Mental checklist of ideal boy: handsome, polite, chef. Done, done, and done.
When the dinner rush is almost finished, Kent puts a hand on my shoulder and asks what station I’d like to work tomorrow. I look over my right shoulder to the calm, peaceful, clean world of the salad and sushi station, and then over my left at the sweet, sugar-filled world of pastry. In the middle is a swirling chaos of flames, sizzling pans, and sweaty boys furiously cooking. I start to tell him I’d take the desserts, but he raises a finger and says, “I think I’ll put you with Omar.” I follow the finger and see Enrique Iglesias’ doppelganger pulling a deboned quail out of the scorching hot pizza oven with a look of concentration seen mostly on brain surgeons and diamond cutters. He is also the only person there who has totally ignored me all night. Perfect.
The next day, I show up more confident. I want to cook. Even if Omar hates me. “I guess you’re stuck with me tonight,” I say to him, expecting an eye roll or a brush-off. “Hey, that’s great!” he says. Is he being sarcastic?
We make the aforementioned loose champagne sauce, and then I chop up a pan full of portabello and crimini mushrooms. I must cut them up in equal sizes and save the crimini stems for stock. To my amazement, I don’t cut myself, even though slicing the “gills” out of the portabellos requires that my fingers bounce typewriter style to avoid slashing myself. Somehow it’s almost time for service to start, and I’ve been chatting up Michael, the cute fry boy from last night. It turns out he dated a sorority sister of mine in college, so we had in fact met before. I try my hardest to flirt despite lack of makeup, gum, and flattering outfit. He responds to my flirtations by showing me how to plate up the hamachi appetizer (the trick is smashing a bundle of julienned vegetables into a tiny funnel and placing them just so on top of the rare fish) and how to properly season the truffle fries (lots of truffle oil).
Suddenly, tickets start coming out. Zach, another cook, grabs one and yells to Michael, “One order of shooters!” “Can you set them up for me?” he asks. I nod, and my biggest job of the night becomes sprinkling scallions into tiny sake cups and dropping fiercely hot lobster nuggets—many times directly from the fry basket—into each one. “Now sell it,” he says. Sell it? How? What does that mean? Oh no, oh no, oh no. “Just take it up and give it to the servers,” he says. I grab the plate and with cups jiggling, I hustle my way to the front, screaming, “Behind!” like a crazy person every time I pass someone.
Omar grabs another ticket. “What do you want to make?” he asks. I point at the macaroni and cheese, and he shoves a towel-wrapped saute pan handle into my hand. He instructs me to fill the pan with a ladle full of cheese sauce (no Velveeta here), a few handfuls of pre-cooked macaroni, a smattering of bacon, and a pat of butter. Then he puts a spoon in my hand. “Stir until the butter melts. Then put it all in here,” he says, sliding a small cast-iron pot my way.
I stir and stir, my arm getting singed from the flames shooting up around the pan. I start to feel anxious again, but no one is watching me. The guys are all slicing lobes of beige-colored foie gras for a tasting. I look down, and the butter is melted, so I scrape the creamy mixture into the pot and tap Omar on the shoulder. “Put some bread crumbs on top, and then put it in the oven,” he says, without looking up from the foie. I mash a handful of crumbs on top of the macaroni and slide it delicately into the pizza oven. I stand and watch the pot. I can’t move, for fear I will forget to take it out. A minute goes by, and I slide it out. The top is golden and crusty, so I ask Omar for inspection. “It’s good! Sell it,” he says. And I pop the top on and take it up to the front—with quite a bit of pride, I might add. Hey, look at me. I made mac and cheese!
I return to my spot next to Michael, and he shows me how to make an order of edamame (open bag, dump contents in boiling pot of water, stir, taste, douse with salt). There’s no denying it. We work very well together. Very. Well. Together.
Next, Omar is at my shoulder again. “Wanna make the quail?” he asks. My eyes widen. I had barely spoken the word “quail” in four years. But there was no turning back now. I season the tiny bird body with a healthy amount of salt and pepper on both sides, then slide it into the oven. Omar starts whipping up a batch of scrambled duck eggs, and I stare at the quail, waiting for a sign. I look at Omar. Back to the quail. Omar. Quail. Finally I reach in with my towel and pull out the scorching hot metal plate. Without waiting for an okay, I flip over the perfectly browned bird with my fingertips—yee-ouch!—and shove him back in. Two minutes later, it’s finished. “Great. Now, glaze it with the sauce and put it under the salamander for 30 seconds,” he says. I do as I’m told and stare up at the bird while the broiler heats it through and through. I count in my head, and pull it out. Omar cracks open a tamale on the plate, and shows me how to place the quail next to it. I trot up to the counter and lay that dish down.
At this point, reader, I realize: I’m kinda good. And this is fun.
For the rest of the night, I plate, run orders to the counter, make more mac and cheese, and try not to burn myself (too much, anyway). I don’t even break my stride when a lady in a long, blonde wig and a top hat comes up to the pass. “Sarah! Sarah!” she yells, waving at me. I wave and turn back to my work. “Was that some kind of bag lady?” Omar asks me. Nope. Just Nancy Nichols, our food editor, in disguise.
I’m not ready for the night to end, but around 9:30, I am ready to join my friends in the bar for a cocktail. They’ve come to congratulate me on not losing a finger. So I take my last order of shooters up to the bar and thank everyone in the kitchen for such an amazing night. I save Michael for last. “Nice to see you again!” he says, and looks back down at the corn cakes he’s grilling. Oh. Not exactly the goodbye I was hoping for.
It would probably be asking too much to overcome one of my greatest fears and to have found a boyfriend in the process—despite the pants. But, hey, if I can manage to work behind a stove for five hours and not be a total disaster, anything’s possible.
As I walk away, Jermaine, the executive sous chef, says, “I don’t understand why you decided not to work in a kitchen!”
I do. But at least now I’m no longer afraid of the fire.
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