The handover.
The overcast sky forces the day towards an early sunset. Inside the restaurant, the manager lights the candles just as the evening brigade enters. The kitchen is now densely populated by chefs, blue aprons squeezing past each other. The morning team is busy setting up for the handover whilst still cooking up orders, called out with all the more intensity by the pass chef over the sudden bustle in the kitchen. Meanwhile, the evening team is trying their best to make sense of the situation without bumping into their colleagues (largely an unsuccessful attempt).
Fridges are opened, mise is hurriedly topped up, the chefs pair up into sections to do their handover, interrupted and continued over shouted new orders, hurried plating, a speedy mid-service clean-down, and a constant chorus of chefs exclaiming “Legs!” and “Backs!” as everyone tries to set themselves up. After a disconnected handover and unfinished bits of information floating around my head, the morning chef grabs their knife roll, recounts the orders I’ve got on, and with an unmistakable sigh of relief, strides out of the service kitchen to leave me to it. I turn to face the section, set down a few woks onto the fires to preheat and take a moment to rearrange the setup – like everyone, I am convinced my setup is the only right one.
After my lazy morning off, my brain struggles to adapt to the pace of a Saturday service. Ideally, at this time of the day, there’s a little dip in orders to allow for a calm handover between the morning and evening teams, but the weekend crowd had different plans. Likely sleeping off their hangovers until midday, by 3 p.m., the East London crowd descends on our restaurant like a wake of hungry vultures.
As I’m catching up on the orders, I’m starting to notice the cracks. There’s no sugar ready on my section, utensils are missing, the oil bottles are all empty - I noisily squeeze out the dregs - and when I open the fridge to grab a portion of clams, a singular cracked clam tauntingly gawks back at me from the empty three-pan. I open the backup fridge to be met by sparsely populated shelves. It appears a lot of prep still needs to be done. Logically, I can’t blame anyone; I myself was working last night, a brutal Friday evening service which robbed us of the majority of our mise. Nonetheless, logic aside, I curse under my breath and grab containers of the little available backup.
I spot the morning chef hurrying past the kitchen. “Cheffy, I’m gonna need top-ups now!”, I shout and list half a dozen items of top priority whilst hurriedly filling up the oil and sauce bottles. Checks are still coming in at a steady pace.
After another ten minutes of frantic running, refilling, and cooking, the section is starting to come together, and my brain has finally settled into service mode. The check flow has slowed momentarily. I take the moment to fill a metal cup with ice water and gulp it down in one. The morning chef returns once more, balancing a stack of four-litres in front of them. “Go eat, I’ll cover,” they say as they shove the containers into the fridge.
I don’t need telling twice.
When I arrive downstairs, I find the prep kitchen full and bustling with chefs, front of house staff, and KPs huddled around the gastros of staff food. I manage to get through and load up a plate, snatching whichever cutlery I can get my hands on – a single spoon today – and escape the crowded prep kitchen to find the cool and empty cellar. A single beer keg is conveniently placed in the corner. I sit down, balancing on the rim, and start gulping down the room-temperature food, a somewhat eclectic mix of roasted vegetables, chips, a hardy salad of finely shaved roots, freshly made salsa verde and aioli, and a deeply caramelised chicken thigh.
Three minutes later I re-emerge from the cellar, put my plate on the pile of dishes and containers in the KP section, and walk back upstairs, still chewing and swallowing my last bite as I return to the service kitchen. Before allowing the morning chef to return downstairs, I ensure we’re on the same page, checking their extensive list of mise still left to prep before leaving. I don’t envy them. I doubt they’ll be able to leave before 7 p.m., I think as I grab a few more woks, listening out to the flow of orders the pass chef is calling out.