After blanching the brussels, on the very first toss in the pan, I've instantly made a considerate mess for myself to sweep up after service. I think there were three total sprout halves left in the pan, like three little round Martian midget middle fingers displaying a solid "Fuck You!" and "Take me to your leader," 'cause obviously he knows what the fuck he's doing.
When Chef finally recoils from his keeled over position of laughter he proceeds to finish the plate flawlessly and sentences me to tossing and swirling chick peas in a pan in between the rest of my prep. At least it wasn't marbles like his mentor used.
I didn't think I'd ever end up here. I never wanted to be a cook. I've never seen a damn Gordon Ramsey T.V. show. I have seen quite a bit of Bourdain shows, but I always thought the travel aspect of them was what drew me to them.
I can't say I'm one of those people that have "moved around a lot when I was younger." I grew up in the same house, on the same horse ranch, in the same tiny redneck town outside of our modest upstate city my entire life, eating mom's cheeseburger casserole (equal parts store brand mac n cheese and same brand 80/20 ground beef) my entire life. You better believe I wasn't happy about it. Almost the same day I turned 18 I moved to a decrepit studio apartment in West Philadelphia, four blocks from Will Smith's high school actually. The other boys on the playground didn't give me any shit though and I sure as hell can't play b-ball - white men can't jump for true.
After I quickly realized anything I wanted to learn about video production could be learned on fucking Google, I dropped out of a shitty college (*cough* Art Institute *cough*) and botched a slew of flings with some serious Jersey Shore-type cunts, I drove my dumb ass back to Rochester at 5 a.m., a bottle deep in bottom-shelf whiskey.
After a year back here slinging pizzas out of a beautiful '95 Jetta that eventually got totaled in a drunken head-on collision on the thruway (and get this: I wasn't even the drunk one this time!) I used the lawsuit settlement to buy an extremely expensive camera and move to Phoenix to pursue a career in rollerblading (yes, people still do that) photography. Hell, I even got two photos printed, and one was a two page spread!
While out west, I was slingin' sandwiches for a little mom n' pop joint and enduring a relationship that I thought would be my last. When I broke my ankle blading I couldn't work anymore. My recurring depression forced the end of the relationship. That, I guess, was the straw that broke the alcoholic camel's back.
After almost a full year back in Rochester, stuck in both depression and my parents' house - and my first DUI - I used the cash from selling my car to buy a bicycle and move into the city. A summer of whiskey, burning cash, and living room tattoos with a good friend on a similar path, left me broke and desperate. Then I got the phone call.
"Hey you want to wash dishes at the restaurant I serve at? You'll start tomorrow."
I reluctantly obliged.
Two months after that I found myself thrust into cold line cookery, scrambling to remember recipes as simple as salads and pizzas and fumbling to form perogies in the expert fashion of an elderly Ukrainian lady.
I never wanted to be a cook. Looking back at my first job at fifteen scrubbing pans under the table in a shady Italian joint, to years delivering pizzas, and absolutely bombing in retail due to less than appropriate interpersonal skills, I see now I've been destined, conditioned - and doomed - to exist in kitchens. People like us can't sit at a desk from nine-to-five. People like us go to work when everyone else leaves their cubicles and then we wander the streets all night just trying to get our kicks, sleeping just late enough into the afternoon to make it to the kitchen mostly on time with only a minor hangover.
It's easy to love the lifestyle. In Kitchen Confidential you probably remember Bourdain writes about the people who love the life as opposed to the people that love the food. After reading that I was afraid I was one of the former, but as Chef sends me home with more and more books, such as The French Laundry Cookbook (!), I find that I am becoming one of the latter. I am very proud to have accepted his offer of apprenticeship. It was like getting asked out for the first time in high school. I'm also proud to be a part of this culture and community and look forward to sharing my experiences as a rookie cookie with y'all.
My drunk name in our kitchen is Kleb Tuckett. I promise to only embellish my stories solely for literary purposes and never to hide my embarrassments. I promise to always be drunk when writing this column and to get progressively more drunk as I write it. I promise to keep my vulgarity within reason and my definition of reasonable is pretty loose.
And I promise to always bring shame to my parents.
If you're ever in Denver please stop in to Tocabe Native American Restaurant and say hello to my friend Cody, he may just give you a cheap tattoo if you bribe him with recreational substances.
Also please check out the trailer for my upcoming fruitbooter video, The Orchard Blade Flick. https://vimeo.com/64449092
Now fuck off.
Kleb Tuckett
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