In the Weeds

In the kitchen, we have a phrase that's used to describe someone who is overwhelmed with orders and can't keep up:  "In the weeds."

Let me tell you something... I just emerged from the weeds and it's NOT fun.

At the restaurant, I alternate between prep and the pantry station, which is in charge of preparing all salads, desserts, cheese & charcuterie platters, cold appetizers (raw bar, shrimp cocktail, etc.), and deep-fried items.  In my opinion, it's a lot of responsibility crammed into one tiny corner of the kitchen.  On the weekends there are usually three people manning this station.  On Sunday nights, it's just me and Daisy, a small Hispanic woman who speaks very little English and has been there since the restaurant opened two years ago (in many ways, my crutch).

Well last night as I'm strolling into work, I'm hit with this joyful news from the head chef: "Daisy isn't here tonight.  You're working pantry on your own."  (Oh so that's what she must have been trying to communicate to me the day before).

Uhhh... my incredulous look says it all.  To which the chef responds, "Don't worry I'll be on the line right next to you... so I can be the first to laugh at you when you screw up!"  So encouraging, that one.

In a panic, I do all I can to prepare in the hour and a half before we open.  I stock up on everything... from the 6 different salad greens, the 8 different kinds of ice cream, the 5 types of oysters, etc. And then I over-stock.  And knowing what a klutz I turn into when I'm frazzled, I stick a few bandaids in my pocket just in case.

Not ten minutes into my shift, I'm pulling a sizzle platter out of the oven and I manage to burn myself.  Blisters form immediately on the tips of my right index finger and thumb.  Great... kind of was relying on those fingers to get me through the night.  But I don't have time to grab a bandaid or soak it in water because orders are already trickling in.  For the next ten minutes or so, every item I grab, from the plates to the deep fryer basket to the refrigerator door handle, sends a small ripple of pain through my right hand but I have no choice but to charge onward.

I continue at a steady pace for the first hour but I'm worried because I'm already scrambling a bit and dinner rush hasn't even begun yet.

And then it hits... starting with an order of 12 oysters.  Bear in mind that my average shucking rate is still only about 30 seconds per oyster (pathetic, I know).  So by the time it's plated (6 or 7 minutes later) complete with the accompanying sauces and lemon wedges, orders have already started to accumulate.

I start with the dishes that require the longest lead-time, like the buttermilk fried chicken.  Then I move onto the salads.  As I'm scrambling to cut an avocado (which has to be cut to order), I slice into my index finger on my left hand.  Kind of needed that finger, too.  Meanwhile the printer is still screeching away with orders.  There are at least 3 orders of chocolate creme brûlée, 6 different salads, 2 orders of tuna tartare, more fried chicken, and a cheese and charcuterie plate on the board.  Not to mention I have 4 burgers waiting for fries, an order of onion rings and potato wedges (which are both breaded to order), and an oyster po' boy to fry.

And for several seconds, all I can do is stare at my bleeding finger.

Eventually I sprint to the sink, clean and bandage it as best I can.  In the time it takes to accomplish this, another oyster order and a cheese order roll in.

It gets to the point where the chef has to step in to help shuck the oysters.  And we even hand some to the dishwashers.  The food runners start forming a line in front of my station, wondering why the food is taking so long.  All the chef has to say is "Monica is in the weeds" and they get it.  But they're also very anxious so they stand there and stare me down until I hand them their plates.

For the most part, I keep up with this pace all night.  I hate it because I feel like the aesthetics are suffering.  Salads don't quite dance as prettily on the plate.  Scoops of ice cream sit like lumps on top of haphazardly scattered cookie crumbs.  And sauces slosh chaotically around the plate.

And then there's the mess.  Clutter piles up at my station.  Things begin to spill.  At one point I drip chimichurri on a bread pudding dessert plate and am forced to redo it.  My jacket (which is really just a glorified apron anyway) is splattered with melted chocolate, creamsicle ice cream, sherry vinaigrette, red beets, and grease.   Somewhere along the way, the chef comes by and picks up a knife off the floor.  "Oh, how'd that get there?" is my meek response.

I'm so thankful when it starts winding down.  The BEST feeling in the world is ripping a big stack of tickets off the board.  Of course cleanup takes longer than usual but I'm just thankful to finally be able to work at my own pace.

When I finally get home, it's after 11PM.  I throw my jacket in a tub and douse it with Biz to soak overnight.  Then I take a quick shower and whip up a nutritious meal of eggs and a much needed glass of wine.  I call Patrick who is awake in Moscow with jet lag.  And then it's off to bed as I am scheduled for 9AM the next day.

oo,