So I had been on the lookout for an exciting job in a professional kitchen for a long while now. It was only recently that I found an ad that seemed like people that actually love food were looking for other people that love food. I figured "Why the hell not?" and applied with a tender cover letter and a few potlicker photos... I didn't know who would be seeing the application and I figured it wasn't standard procedure to send images of food along with my resume' but again - Why the hell not?
I sort of figured either I had sent food pictures to the wrong email, technology gave me the bump or they looked at my lack of professional experienced and printed my info so they could then shred it, burn it and urinate on my resume and photos ashes. Or something like that. A week or two later I got a call. I got an interview with the Executive Chef and Sous Chef. By the end of the hour they disappeared to collect another fellow who they introduced me to as Prep Chef he would potentially be my most direct boss. My go-to-overseer. He was the friendliest of the three and beamed with the most openness (none of the three being unfriendly at all - just this fellow seemed far more cheerful, he revealed he had a newborn at home so perhaps some of his cheer can be chocked up to weeks of sleeplessness that is turning his insanity into euphoria as a coping mechanism)... it seemed like they were at least interested. After spending this much time with me and they also seemed like serious people - serious people aren't into wasting time - so then were they interested? I had a lot of strikes against me. The only thing I had going for me was kitchen comfort, eagerness and the willingness to apply. As S Chef mentioned ...a downside was that they couldn't ask me to make 6 qts of hollandaise and leave me to it. They'd have to show me. I told him, yes... yes they would. I don't understand things like that in my current world.
So two days I had to wait after leaving the interview and I tried to focus on other duties... like the ducklings in the incubator. Is this a blob? Is this a dead duckling? Or is this a healthy red-squishy-soon-to-hatch duckling? There was plenty to worry about without worrying over the job. I wanted it so badly... I wanted their secrets... and there are three of them! Three trained chefs to greedily soak up everything they are willing to let go of. I managed to fit in plenty of time to worry I wouldn't get it.
The pay was not anything grand. It was my usual cruddy pay except I wouldn't have the usual opportunity to work like a fiend and get tips, which in the past really made up the difference between paying rent and paying rent and eating. So my pay will pay rent. Just the rent. It wont pay for the rent and my bus fair. I ... uhm, can do this - right? I have to. They'll call me, at least to say thank you and be friendly.
So late in the day I've finally managed to forget that they were supposed to call and then Brrrriing!
They offered me the job. I was syched and accepted and it all kind of rushed forward. Now I am going to have to be spry and surrounded by people again. I had sort of forgotten what a comfort I'd made of being a recluse.
As it turns out, Kitchen pants are not so different from the pants that Sinbad wears.
Well, here we go!
Still, I can't help but think I was at all their best possible choice for the job.
I will put little journal entries here about my days, things I learn, and anything else not top secret.
I'm going to have to hit the ground running. So this could be at least a little entertaining.
