During service.
As the clocks hit five pm, the chefs are busily scrambling to clear away the final messy and bulky bits of prep and hurriedly set themselves up for service. Any small prep that can still be done during the quiet start is carefully arranged so as not to taint the image of a clean and organised kitchen. I repetitively check that everything I need is ready and in place – a torchon tucked into my apron at the hips, ready to grab and carry the burning hot handles of the pots and pans; the fire is going strong, I add a couple of new coals to keep it rolling; I check for all my backups, so when anything runs out in a middle of a busy stretch I know exactly where to run and what corner of the fridge to reach into; there should be just enough oil to keep me going for the evening – but only just. I will have to be mindful all evening to avoid any unnecessary wastage. Aside from that, we aren’t running low on anything as of yet – but it being a Friday night, anything can happen.
Soon enough, the kitchen is set, and we await the beginning of service. Slowly, people start to trickle into the dining area, get seated, and the sound of their chatter begins to blend in with the music and the noise of the extraction fan. As the restaurant fills up, the tension builds. The customers are there, they have started with their drinks, but the food checks have yet to come in. As we look out into the dimmed dining area with groups of people ready to ring in their weekends, we stand there, expectant, waiting for the storm to hit us.
The first few checks come in. Small, manageable. The orders are out within minutes. Each dish only needs to be cooked in singular quantities. This isn’t too bad, is it. Two checks come in almost at the same time. A table of four and a table of eight. We get straight onto the first one, but with the big table we’ll have to wait a little longer between the courses. As I turn around to serve up the dishes for the four-top, I see we’ve racked up another 5 checks.
So it begins.
Automatic mode sets in as you start making each dish in double, triple, quadruple portions. Your logistical thinking gets activated as you have to navigate cooking 6 orders on four hobs within a couple of minutes, with the occasional extra treat of a rush order, an add-on, or a forgotten order that got lost in the midst of the checks. Shouts of “Backs!”, “Hot behind!” and “Mind your legs!” fill the air, regular like clockwork, as chefs bounce back and forth from plating dishes, ladling liquids, tossing pans, turning meats, sprinkling seasonings, and washing hands. As your adrenaline shoots up, your brain shuts down, minimising the mental effort required to build, cook, and plate each dish.
The head chef’s voice booms over all the other noise, announcing new checks, calling for a now increasingly overdue dish, and giving the occasional dreaded all-day, recounting the long, long list of things you’ve got on order within the next minutes.
“Start working four noodles, four cabbages, four rice, and two courgettes!”
“Yes chef!”
“And add a mussels into the mix when you’ve got space” - “Yeah oui”.
You hit peak performance. Your movements are quick and efficient, your perception widens as you stay on top of each of your burners cooking away whilst being aware of the other chefs’ actions around you throughout. Despite the intensity, you feel energised and ride on a wave of adrenaline. The restaurant is buzzing and the chefs in high spirits – even during the height of service, jokes and silly phrases bounce back and forth. Particularly good-looking dishes are rewarded with wolf whistles and emphatic, crudely phrased compliments.
“That looks fucking banging, great stuff!”
You’re in your own world, barely aware of what goes on beyond your cookers and the pass. But on a few occasions, you look up and watch a diner lean back in their chair with satisfied joy or notice the crowd of expectant customers waiting at the door, and you feel a sudden sense of pride for what you do.
Pretty cool.
But then the first cracks start to appear. Service has been going on for several hours now. A momentary dip in the checks interrupts the smooth continuity of the service. I momentarily lose my flow as I hurriedly top up the mise in my section. The oil bottles have built up a thin layer of grease on the outside. Sauce splatters have collected around the burners. I suddenly notice the dryness of my lips, verging on the edge of cracking, as I realise that I haven’t had any water or drink in the past two hours whilst working over hot and smoky pots and pans. Checks are still coming in as I gratefully chug a metal cup of water, but the flow is broken. With the adrenaline gone, I have to sustain myself with sheer willpower and brain strength. The others feel it too. The pace slows, the efficiency wanes, and our voices, previously booming, have taken on a croaky twinge.
Finally, as we enter the final hour of service, the flow of checks starts to slow down. We recollect ourselves and survey the kitchen – it’ll be a long clean down. As the last few checks are slowly trickling in, each of us gets sent off one by one to take a precious five-minute break before we start the cleaning. When it’s my turn, I grab my cup of water, walk through the back corridor and step outside into the cool, fresh air.
The cold night hits like an icy glass of water on a hot day. Gratefully I inhale the fresh air – or as others would perhaps more aptly describe it – the polluted London air laced with the smoke of cigarettes, sickly sweet vapes, and the smell of spilled beers. I stand there in my sweaty T-Shirt, baggy chef trousers, clogs, and apron while excited, buzzing crowds pass me by, dressed to the nines, on the way to the next spot for their Friday night. I check my phone – nearly closing time. I start to mentally prepare myself for the clean down, hopeful that we’ll be able to get out before 1 am. Once the kitchen closes, the bar staff will hand out a round of cold lagers for the chefs. A nice little treat to ring in the end of another service.
Giving my shoulders a little stretch, I take a few more breaths before returning to the smoky kitchen where several new checks of some late-night walk-ins await me. I sigh, turn back to the hobs, gather the ingredients, and exchange a tired grin with the chef next to me. “Well, it’s the life we chose”, I say, and we have a little chuckle as we finish off the orders. Finally, we hear the long-awaited call from the restaurant manager:
“That’s it guys, last orders are in – kitchen closed!”
Lager has never tasted so good.