That restaurant food is made at all is a miracle. The high-heat, high-speed, choreography of a kitchen requires clear, quick communication between all the cooks, and any hitch or delay or misunderstanding can derail it. The appetizers need to hit the pass first, followed soon, but not too soon, by the salad or soup. Then come the entrées and their special timing. The Pad Thai will finish as fast as the broccoli softens in the boiling sauce, but the steak was ordered medium-rare, which means it will sizzle and sweat on the grill until the flavor disappears. Beef is hearty and takes forever to destroy, so do you start it along with the appetizers or can it wait? What about those other five orders asking their own complicated questions? Then, how do you answer when you can’t speak with the other cooks?
When I slap down a ticket filled with orders on the stainless steel pass and shout, “Order, please,” the pidgin communication begins. Five languages are used in the kitchen at my restaurant. Of these, four are fully understood by four people, but those four are split into two bilingual groups – two cooks who speak Thai and Lao, and one cook and a utility man who speak Maya and Spanish. Emaciated English, comprising food names, numbers up to twenty, and simple commands, is all that connects the groups. Improvised sign language, mostly pointing, fills the gaps. The kitchen’s language is unique to this restaurant. It grew from the combination of languages, the proficiency of the speakers, the dominant personalities, and the cuisine. In a year this language might disappear in favor of another jargon.
In French-style kitchens (which means militaristic divisions of labor and hierarchy not a specific cuisine) the barking ball-busting sergeant is an archetype. In our kitchen that’s Louis, the sous chef or kitchen quarterback, a young, five-foot-six not huge but solidly built bundle of pissed-off. When everything flows, Louis warbles Spanish ballads, but the moment something offends him – a poorly wiped plate, a shoddy garnish or stumbling cook, anything imperfect – he snaps and seethes. When the bile reaches Louis’ eyes, it’s obvious he wants to dress down and humiliate the other cooks. But he can’t. His first language is Maya, a Native American language from the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico, and the other cooks don’t understand Spanish. Outside of the restaurant, Louis is a painfully shy person who after eight years in Oregon never learned English probably because he couldn’t stand messing up. So his linguistically impotent anger is limited to a growled, “No,” then pointing to what he needs to fix this mistake. Somehow, as I stand there impatiently watching the cooks scurrying scared around Louis, the problem is solved. I always grin when Louis hands me the repaired plate, and he shoos me away, irritated.
When things go smooth, a normal exchange in the kitchen goes like this: Louis takes the ticket and shouts, “Lee, salad roll.” Easy. I wouldn’t add more to it. But what if the customer wants mango sticky rice, a dessert, as an appetizer and the som yum salad as an entrée and the pad Thai without gluten? All a properly prepared and timed meal has going for it are a few squiggles on the ticket and a conversation between Louis and me that goes, “Sticky rice, first. Som yum, dos. Pad Thai, no gluten, no soy. Si?” “OK.” “Gracias my man.” “Nada.”
Somehow, it works. Not always, but much better than it should. Somehow, a smattering of Thai, Spanish, and English food names patched with a few verbs and interjections create the most beautiful food I’ve ever served. I don’t know how, but I know that when God blew all those grand plans at the Tower of Babel to hell the kitchen still got its job done.
When I slap down a ticket filled with orders on the stainless steel pass and shout, “Order, please,” the pidgin communication begins. Five languages are used in the kitchen at my restaurant. Of these, four are fully understood by four people, but those four are split into two bilingual groups – two cooks who speak Thai and Lao, and one cook and a utility man who speak Maya and Spanish. Emaciated English, comprising food names, numbers up to twenty, and simple commands, is all that connects the groups. Improvised sign language, mostly pointing, fills the gaps. The kitchen’s language is unique to this restaurant. It grew from the combination of languages, the proficiency of the speakers, the dominant personalities, and the cuisine. In a year this language might disappear in favor of another jargon.
In French-style kitchens (which means militaristic divisions of labor and hierarchy not a specific cuisine) the barking ball-busting sergeant is an archetype. In our kitchen that’s Louis, the sous chef or kitchen quarterback, a young, five-foot-six not huge but solidly built bundle of pissed-off. When everything flows, Louis warbles Spanish ballads, but the moment something offends him – a poorly wiped plate, a shoddy garnish or stumbling cook, anything imperfect – he snaps and seethes. When the bile reaches Louis’ eyes, it’s obvious he wants to dress down and humiliate the other cooks. But he can’t. His first language is Maya, a Native American language from the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico, and the other cooks don’t understand Spanish. Outside of the restaurant, Louis is a painfully shy person who after eight years in Oregon never learned English probably because he couldn’t stand messing up. So his linguistically impotent anger is limited to a growled, “No,” then pointing to what he needs to fix this mistake. Somehow, as I stand there impatiently watching the cooks scurrying scared around Louis, the problem is solved. I always grin when Louis hands me the repaired plate, and he shoos me away, irritated.
When things go smooth, a normal exchange in the kitchen goes like this: Louis takes the ticket and shouts, “Lee, salad roll.” Easy. I wouldn’t add more to it. But what if the customer wants mango sticky rice, a dessert, as an appetizer and the som yum salad as an entrée and the pad Thai without gluten? All a properly prepared and timed meal has going for it are a few squiggles on the ticket and a conversation between Louis and me that goes, “Sticky rice, first. Som yum, dos. Pad Thai, no gluten, no soy. Si?” “OK.” “Gracias my man.” “Nada.”
Somehow, it works. Not always, but much better than it should. Somehow, a smattering of Thai, Spanish, and English food names patched with a few verbs and interjections create the most beautiful food I’ve ever served. I don’t know how, but I know that when God blew all those grand plans at the Tower of Babel to hell the kitchen still got its job done.
i love being in the kitchen...there is no other work inviroment like it (8 year food service vet)
ReplyDelete