Call and Response

Like many professions, the kitchen has its own private language – an intricate set of terms, codes and phrases that rapidly and efficiently communicate the business at hand … "Ordering one Sea Bass, one Char and one Scallop Special; That's three Chars all day; Fire table 14; Firing one Beef Special and one Char; ready in the pass on that Char in about three minutes; right can I get more sauce for that Beef on the fly; Hot behind!; Let's go up with table 14… "and on it goes. As a new and young cook I have recklessly embraced the kitchen vocabulary; reveling in each coded call and response.

Imagine then my disorientation and initial dismay when I found myself in a kitchen with a whole new set of vocabulary – almost an entirely new language! Mild confusion set in immediately when, on my first day, people would race past, around and into me muttering (and sometimes shouting) something that sounded like "Shope" or "Shope behind." I was guessing rather confidently that this was some Gaelic word for "move," or "caution" or "get out the way, bitch." Not until my third day did I have the courage to ask, "Excuse me, but what are you saying?" It turns out they were yelling "Chaud!" and "Chaud behind"…not Gaelic at all. French for "Hot!" and "Hot behind," one I actually do know.

The "Shope!" confusion was just the tip of the iceberg however. Tonight, as I hung out in Michelin heaven -- plating hot Pre- Theater starters and literally standing in the pass watching two hours of service, I landed on completely foreign soil …. "Check 14 order one pheasant, one Arctic Char, one John Dory and one Beef Daube; Oui; Chef, away table 12; Right, Check table 12, one Charcuterie one Langoustine, gone? Oui; Check table 12 away, one Beef Daube and one John Dory; Alright boys, let's pace up here and get these three Beef Daubes in the pass; Chaud behind!; Service to table 10, one Arctic Char and one Venison…." and so forth. Though we were in Ireland, the entire kitchen was operateing in French. Starter and entree checks came in simultaneously and while starters went "away" immediately, entrée orders were called and on hold until a Captain came back and sent the table away. "Oui" was the affirmative response to every order called or checked. Each table was plated one at a time in about two minutes. I suddenly imagined a much more skilled version of myself thrown onto that line and the "five car pileup" that my American kitchen jargon alone could cause! An amusing mental image; a destructive tragedy if reality. I was glad to be watching from the side.

Every plate and accompanying side was placed on a sterling silver, linen-lined tray and I stood with gauze and hot water to wipe any last minute drips or drops. With my little sterling silver tasting spoon I was encouraged to lift a bit of sauce here, and a smidge of garnish there. Every tiny spoonful was honestly fantastic. Every last component of each plate is checked for flavor and accuracy every single table … it seems like madness, but taste is built into the performance. There were moments when I looked into the red faces of those entrée cooks and thought, "are they going to make it?" But then, just as suddenly as the rush of activity had seemed to begin, it was over and we were cleaning again. Girl cooks were wrapping and wiping, men cooks were marking orders for next week, and boy cooks were begging the Pastry station for bits of ice cream and brittle. The evening's final dialogue occurred as Chef perused each station for cleanliness and ingredient orders, reviewing last minute notes about tonight's performance and releasing each cook to leave.

And so I left too – now a welcome member of the team for "coming in on a Saturday," cleaning sweat breads, grinding cumin seed "on the fly" and staying till the end to clean. Things I did with pleasure, happily, became my terms of endearment.