LCFL #014//Family & Friends

So I am walking my daughter into school a few Mondays back. I see a classmate of her’s mother walking towards me. I have seen this woman a few times. She seems friendly yet I can never remember her, her husband or her daughter’s name. She stops directly in front of me, requiring me to stop whilst I am walking. She has my attention.

                    

“I came out to your restaurant Friday night.”

“Oh, fantastic. With… (what’s his name? what’s his name? fuck!)  your husband?”

“Yes, Chris (Chris!) and I enjoyed everything very much.”

“What did you get?”

“The duck and the scallops.”

“That’s great. I really app-“

“You didn’t come out to our table.”

“Oh. I don’t remember anyone telling me that-“

“Tim was our server. We told him to tell you.”

“Uhhhh…”

It all comes back to me:

It’s about 7:45. We have 26 open menus in our 50 seat restaurant. In case you are unfamiliar with the restaurant lingo that means we are about to get hit very hard. All the orders are about to come in at once. Not to mention the other 20 or so people we are in the midst of preparing at that moment. I am flying, I am delegating, I am rolling. Things are smooth, but in that not-for-long kind of way. A busboy – the dumb one who I think is stealing beers - comes in the kitchen and says to me, “Tim says someone out there knows you.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic, any further details? A name?”

“No. I don’t know. Wait… what?” He then drops a tray of glasses because I “distracted him” and the entire exchange is lost in cleaning, chastising and dealing.

Back to the school mom:

“… I don’t remember anyone telling me you were out there. There was a very busy moment someone told me someone wanted to see me, but I was-“

“Too busy to visit a friend when they come out to support you? I guess so. It was rude. We won’t be back.” She then extricates herself from my path and walks away, feeling confident she has crushed my hopes and dreams of a return visit and successfully shitting in someone else’s corn flakes.

Needless to say, I was a bit irritated.

When you come to my restaurant on a Friday night you cannot expect me to be able to walk out of the kitchen and chit chat for ten to fifteen about your daughter's freshman year at Brown. Come in on a Monday night and I will go nuts, bananas and several other delicious toppings. Multiple courses. Off menu specials. Chats at the table.

Friday? I am balls deep in other people's food.

You know that saying 'You always hurt the ones you love?' Hurt should be changed to disregard. I figure those closest to me are the ones who understand the job I do as well as the person I am. I am singularly focused. Of course I want to cook for my near and dear more than I want to cook for anyone else. Trust me that the meals I cook for my wife and daughter are my highlights each week. I want to entertain my friends at the shop, too, but within certain parameters. Otherwise I’m stressing that I can’t visit you while I’m buried in the back.

And no, do not come into the kitchen.

You are not welcome in my sanctuary of salty language and controlled chaos. You walk in and find me elbow deep in various proteins, seasoning madly away, juggling between spoons and spatulas, sweat pouring down my face and a flaring grill behind me for dramatic effect. It’s not what you expected. You expected me to be...what? Staring at a piece of chicken, searching for inspiration? Watching food network and Gordan Ramsey? Or perhaps polishing my all-clad cookware? No, I’m in the dishpit fixing the grease trap.

That’s when I hear your voice saying, "Hi Pawl!"

I come to a screeching halt.

Goddamned it.

I have to flip a mental switch, my assassin's filter is removed and my regular-dick filter kicks in. My voice changes from commanding to hospitable. I may even get a few witty comments out.

All that’s going on in my head is,"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck donthteyhearmytimersgoingofffuck."

If you're cool to be in and out without much more than a hello from me or a thank you at the end - but not both - then by all means come on down on the weekend. I do my best to pop out and chat, but I am the chef of an understaffed kitchen. The days of clipboard chefdom are over. Working chefs work. If you look around and see a full dining room, servers sweating, hostess looking panicked, please put two and two together: I will not be visiting the table any time soon. I do have some family who get bothered by this, though. You know what, I’m going to come down to your office and walk into your cube and just start shooting the shit and interrupt your busy day of minesweep and staring out the window or whatever regular ass folks do at work.

As for my daughter’s friend’s mother and her husband Chris, they have been back several times, and each time I see their names on the books – oh, I know their names now – I instruct the server who gets their table to tell them I am currently at home praying they come back and am currently unavailable.

James Pawl Kane

Chef & Way Too Busy For You