UncleBuck
Well-Known Member
An old friend of mine has been doing some writing lately, and I for one feel it is some brilliant stuff. Here is his latest:
When I was all of nineteen years old, I worked at a high volume restaurant as a prep-cook/indentured servant. I took the job on the advice of my father, as the men in my family are all fantastically underrated cooks, including myself, and I suspect that he suspected a job like that was exactly what I needed to get my life on the fast track to having my own little place where people could have chicken wings and fried zucchini. But after unloading Sysco trucks in the heat for hours, slaving over stoves to make twelve pounds of chili at a time, nearly slicing off my right index finger with a meat slicer, and severe sleep deprivation, I gained a tremendous amount of respect for those people who are brave/crazy enough to run a restaurant, and I gained the knowledge that I was not one of those people. Honestly, I wish I was, but this laziness of mine is such that if I knew of a restaurant that was owned and operated by me, I would not eat at that restaurant. I would avoid it at all costs, and if my friends said “Hey, let’s go try that one guy’s place tonight”, I would say, “No, I know that guy. He’s lazy. If he put the same passion he has for being witty on the internet into his Chicken Parmesan, maybe that place wouldn’t be such a shithole. I’d rather eat at the fucking Olive Garden. Frankly, I’m a little offended that you would recommend that place. Maybe you should just wait in the car while the rest of us enjoy our dinner tonight. I’m tired of looking at you and hearing your stupid bullshit. And I don’t think I’m alone in saying that. And if I am alone, I don’t care. I stand by what I said. That man has no business running a dining establishment.”
So although I most likely won’t pursue a career in kitchen management, I will say that it takes a real special brand of person to take up that trade. I put those people right up there with firefighters and Alaskan Crab fisherman. It’s a quality of balls and commitment that I know I am a long ways away from, but I do plan on getting there someday.
But as I get older-ish and more adult-esque, I find that working in a high volume kitchen isn’t too far off from living your life. You need to be on top of things in ways you probably weren’t prepared for, and it never gets easier. In fact, it gets harder, and all you can do is get harder right along with it. So that’s why whenever I get into one of my “Aw shit, what am I gonna do?” moments, I pause, take a deep breath, and imagine that Gordon Ramsay is yelling at me.
I can almost hear him now, his thick English accent barking at me so loudly that if he was here, I couldn’t make eye contact with him without scaring up a level-five panic attack.
“What the fuck is this?! You got your clothes in a bloody pile at the foot of your bed! What the fuck is the point of that dresser?”
“Look at this credit card bill. Un-fucking-believable. Get it through your thick fucking skull! You WILL have to pay this money back!”
“How long has that ‘check engine’ light been on, for Chrissakes?!”
But anyone who watches Kitchen Nightmares as much as I do knows that once you get past all the berating, Chef Ramsay is a good man. He’s here to help you, here to pull you by your collar and demand that you get a hold of yourself. And if you can’t get past his methods and accept his help, then he storms off. He leaves you there, to wallow in your own shit, and you have to live with the fact that he’s out there, and he’s pissed at you. You’ve wasted his time with your nonsense, and I can assure you that he will never forget that. For the rest of your life, you must know that Chef Gordon Ramsay gave you a chance, and you fucked it up…
“How the fuck can you justify drinking that much when you know damn well you have work in the morning?!”
“What is so fucking hard about visiting your Grandparents?”
“Oh, for fuck sake… you’re not even really watching television! There’s no purpose to this flipping about through channels! You could have gone to bed nearly two hours ago!”
But I want Chef Ramsay and I to part on good terms. I want to turn it around, even though it seems like things might be beyond repair. I want to look at the new menu that he revised for me and say with confidence that I can nail this. I want to throw out all the old shit I have stocked in the walk-in and restock it with real food. Flavorful food that has substance and has to be cooked with passion or not at all.
“There ya go! See how much nicer your flat looks when you straighten up a bit?”
“See what you’ve done here? You’ve gotten up at eight, even though you have a day off, and you’ve made a list of what you hope to accomplish today. Bloody brilliant!”
“And I’m sure you’ve noticed this already, but beer does taste sweeter after a long day of work, doesn’t it? And there’s no need to go past two pints, is there?”
Then Chef Ramsay and I will unveil my newly renovated gastropub to the public. The culmination of all the hard work he forced me into will result in people remarking how the Strip Steak is simply amazing and the Tortilla Soup is to die for. I’ll look at my newly renovated eatery with pride, knowing full well that Ramsay may have been the one who told me to man up, but I was the one who actually went along with his wishes. And then he’ll leave. Off to abuse someone else, until they reach their potential.
I’m not sure if I believe in God, but I know Gordon Ramsay is very much a living force on this Earth, and I gotta tell ya, I’d hate to disappoint a guy like him.
More here: http://mickeyphantasmo.com/
Enjoy!
When I was all of nineteen years old, I worked at a high volume restaurant as a prep-cook/indentured servant. I took the job on the advice of my father, as the men in my family are all fantastically underrated cooks, including myself, and I suspect that he suspected a job like that was exactly what I needed to get my life on the fast track to having my own little place where people could have chicken wings and fried zucchini. But after unloading Sysco trucks in the heat for hours, slaving over stoves to make twelve pounds of chili at a time, nearly slicing off my right index finger with a meat slicer, and severe sleep deprivation, I gained a tremendous amount of respect for those people who are brave/crazy enough to run a restaurant, and I gained the knowledge that I was not one of those people. Honestly, I wish I was, but this laziness of mine is such that if I knew of a restaurant that was owned and operated by me, I would not eat at that restaurant. I would avoid it at all costs, and if my friends said “Hey, let’s go try that one guy’s place tonight”, I would say, “No, I know that guy. He’s lazy. If he put the same passion he has for being witty on the internet into his Chicken Parmesan, maybe that place wouldn’t be such a shithole. I’d rather eat at the fucking Olive Garden. Frankly, I’m a little offended that you would recommend that place. Maybe you should just wait in the car while the rest of us enjoy our dinner tonight. I’m tired of looking at you and hearing your stupid bullshit. And I don’t think I’m alone in saying that. And if I am alone, I don’t care. I stand by what I said. That man has no business running a dining establishment.”
So although I most likely won’t pursue a career in kitchen management, I will say that it takes a real special brand of person to take up that trade. I put those people right up there with firefighters and Alaskan Crab fisherman. It’s a quality of balls and commitment that I know I am a long ways away from, but I do plan on getting there someday.
But as I get older-ish and more adult-esque, I find that working in a high volume kitchen isn’t too far off from living your life. You need to be on top of things in ways you probably weren’t prepared for, and it never gets easier. In fact, it gets harder, and all you can do is get harder right along with it. So that’s why whenever I get into one of my “Aw shit, what am I gonna do?” moments, I pause, take a deep breath, and imagine that Gordon Ramsay is yelling at me.
I can almost hear him now, his thick English accent barking at me so loudly that if he was here, I couldn’t make eye contact with him without scaring up a level-five panic attack.
“What the fuck is this?! You got your clothes in a bloody pile at the foot of your bed! What the fuck is the point of that dresser?”
“Look at this credit card bill. Un-fucking-believable. Get it through your thick fucking skull! You WILL have to pay this money back!”
“How long has that ‘check engine’ light been on, for Chrissakes?!”
But anyone who watches Kitchen Nightmares as much as I do knows that once you get past all the berating, Chef Ramsay is a good man. He’s here to help you, here to pull you by your collar and demand that you get a hold of yourself. And if you can’t get past his methods and accept his help, then he storms off. He leaves you there, to wallow in your own shit, and you have to live with the fact that he’s out there, and he’s pissed at you. You’ve wasted his time with your nonsense, and I can assure you that he will never forget that. For the rest of your life, you must know that Chef Gordon Ramsay gave you a chance, and you fucked it up…
“How the fuck can you justify drinking that much when you know damn well you have work in the morning?!”
“What is so fucking hard about visiting your Grandparents?”
“Oh, for fuck sake… you’re not even really watching television! There’s no purpose to this flipping about through channels! You could have gone to bed nearly two hours ago!”
But I want Chef Ramsay and I to part on good terms. I want to turn it around, even though it seems like things might be beyond repair. I want to look at the new menu that he revised for me and say with confidence that I can nail this. I want to throw out all the old shit I have stocked in the walk-in and restock it with real food. Flavorful food that has substance and has to be cooked with passion or not at all.
“There ya go! See how much nicer your flat looks when you straighten up a bit?”
“See what you’ve done here? You’ve gotten up at eight, even though you have a day off, and you’ve made a list of what you hope to accomplish today. Bloody brilliant!”
“And I’m sure you’ve noticed this already, but beer does taste sweeter after a long day of work, doesn’t it? And there’s no need to go past two pints, is there?”
Then Chef Ramsay and I will unveil my newly renovated gastropub to the public. The culmination of all the hard work he forced me into will result in people remarking how the Strip Steak is simply amazing and the Tortilla Soup is to die for. I’ll look at my newly renovated eatery with pride, knowing full well that Ramsay may have been the one who told me to man up, but I was the one who actually went along with his wishes. And then he’ll leave. Off to abuse someone else, until they reach their potential.
I’m not sure if I believe in God, but I know Gordon Ramsay is very much a living force on this Earth, and I gotta tell ya, I’d hate to disappoint a guy like him.
More here: http://mickeyphantasmo.com/
Enjoy!
