a day in the life, part 2

outdoor dining room

bastide (closed), chef paul shoemaker

It was the day of our meeting. I had dressed up in a fancy dress shirt, slacks, and black dress shoes, hoping to impress the chef with my intentionality and serious approach to the opportunity. The hostess had me wait at one of the tables while he and his team wrapped up lunch service. My mind scrambled through hypothetical questions that he could ask me: Why do you want to cook at a restaurant? What can you bring to the table? Do you plan to pursue a career in the industry? At the most, I could half-ass my way through one of the questions. Finally, the chef walked out from the kitchen. He was unbuttoning his chef’s jacket as he briskly walked to my table. His undershirt and jacket were smeared with sauces and assorted food particles that had stained his clothing during service. He sat down across from me and quickly read over the application I had been filling out while I had been waiting. He looked up at me and asked me the million dollar question.

Why do you want to work at a restaurant?

Before I could reply, he added, “You know, this profession is not glamorous. Its long hours and low pay.” I quickly assessed how I could best impress him after his attempt to dissuade me. I told him about my passion for food and the market-driven approach that he brought to the kitchen. I told him that one day I wanted to be able to cook more than just hot dogs and spaghetti for my kids. I told him that the culinary knowledge and experience I would gain from this opportunity would help me grow as a person. He seemed to buy it. He was nodding his head as if he understood where I was coming from. After what seemed like an hour of silence, he said, “Well, let me show you around the restaurant.” He took me through my first time in a restaurant kitchen, introduced me to his line cooks and the sous chef, the different stations, and a brief summary of how the food gets from the hot line to the customer’s table. I was in love. The hot and muggy atmosphere of the kitchen coupled with the smells that emanated from the kitchen confirmed what I had read and heard so much about.

We sat back down after the tour and he looked over my application again. I could see him reading over my educational and work experience probably questioning why the hell I was applying for this job. He asked me questions about UCLA and what I did in my free time. Finally, he looked at me and said, “We could probably rotate you through salad, pastry, and desserts. You have to work really fast. Orders come in, one after another, and you really have to be on top of your game.” After that first sentence, I stopped listening. My mind had wandered off to fantasy land imagining myself in a pristine white chef’s jacket, plating exquisite sauces, ordering fresh culinary grads to wash spinach, and chuckling with 3-star Michelin chefs while Mozart played in the background. My mind finally came to and he asked if I was available that weekend for a test run. He said, “Be here by 7:30am. Service starts at 11:00am.” I told him I’d be there. We got up and I thanked him for the opportunity.

We parted ways but before I walked out, he called back to me, looked me over, smiled, and said, “By the way, you might not want to wear something that nice.”