Get the Led Out

Two weeks later I'm shod in new black, open-heeled and very comfy Croc's gliding across a kitchen I am beginning to now own. At a certain point, not sure when, I stopped pausing, thinking and asking "stupeed question" and am now doing instinctively. By 5pm setup is prepped and my mis en place is chopped, whipped and assembled adjacent the line. Mis en place (meez ahn plahs) is a French term that literally means 'everything in its place'. More specifically it is your prep. It is the accumulation of ingredients, chopped parsley, shallots, demi-glace, etc., that carry you through a service.



I get 4 fluffy towels -4 towels ONLY - keep linen and laundry service costs down. I wet 2 towels to wipe down surfaces and reserve 2 and keep them DRY throughout service. Dry towels are necessary to grab various SEARINGLY hot metal objects on and around the line. Wet towels conduct heat much more than dry ones and NEVER grab a pan with a bare hand. That pan has likely been in a 500 degree, fire-breathing convection oven (x 2) and on or near a six burner stove that is on HIGH during the entire service. I have grabbed what seemed an innocuous looking pan-handle only to rear back with a bolt of pain that shoots up my arm and straight to the roots of my teeth. It is a highly unpleasant surprise. Francois does it every once in awhile. He invariably shoots me a dirty look with a terse, "move zeez!".... oui, Chef!! Chef is NEVER wrong. Pots, pans and metal trays build up quickly in the battle-like conditions of a busy service. It is my job to move them to the dishwasher... as soon as fucking possible.



I get a slightly euphoric feeling right before service. My meez is top-notch and the kitchen is humming with a latent heat that is about to come to a roiling boil. Surfaces are wiped down and the kitchen, for a time, is looking sharp. Francois is usually feeling giddy and mock critiquing some aspect of my setup. We now enjoy engaging in banter that is faux-macho-bullshit. The time honored tradition of busting chops. He likes to tell me I am a useless American. I let him know if it wasn't for us he'd be speaking German. Francois is fifty eight years old and puts in hard days. I respect him for his dedication to cooking well, working hard and NEVER letting something leave his kitchen that he feels is sub-standard. He busts his ass and doesn't complain.. too much. I like Francois a lot.



From five to seven it's appie time. Get the fried calamari to the 'happy hour' folks in the bar and pate, made in-house, oysters and escargot out to the early-bird diners in the main room. By 7pm the tickets are stacking up. We have a small 'jam-box' that sits near the line and is crusted over with flour, oil and other kitchen detritus. Chef has a penchant for classic Rock-n-Roll and we are tuned in to 104.1 , The Hawk, classic rock station. We are both big fans of classic rock so this arrangement works out well. At exactly 7pm they put on a program dedicated to playing a solid set of Led Zeppelin songs called 'Get the Led Out'. The pulse of Kashmir or Black Dog adds an intensity to the chaos of a kitchen that is, in many respects, already a mosh pit.