My first restaurant experience
I knew nothing. I thought I did. I had been in culinary school for 9 months by the time I thought I had enough skills to get a paid job in a restaurant. Before culinary school, I had zero experience working in a restaurant. That was the reason I wanted to go to school, to get a clue. To be able to know and understand what would be expected of me. In the end, however, I knew nothing and that became quickly apparent.
I went to culinary school in San Francisco and I was living in a dorm directly downtown on Market Street. One block west toward the ocean was Van Ness. I didn’t know it at the time, but the intersection of Market and Van Ness is pretty much the center of San Francisco. I knew that at some point in my career, I would have to work in a restaurant. But which one? A good one, I thought. Where are those “good” restaurants located? I didn’t fucking know. How do I get a job in those “good” restuarants? I didn’t fucking know.
Ok, the first question, where are those restaurants located? When I moved into my dorm, I was given a tourism guidebook with a list of restaurants. In that guide, there was a restaurant named Jardiniere that was not far from my dorm or the school. It was also well reviewed. I decided to go and see if I could get a stage (an unpaid work experience). I walked in the main entrance at around one o’clock and saw the bar man setting up the bar. He was a guy from my class! Awesome, I thought. I asked to see the Chef and I asked him for a stage and a possibility of employment. He looked at me and quickly agreed that I could start the next day.
Little did I know, at the time, is that most restaurants won’t refuse free help if it is offered by anyone. Let alone a super green, young culinary student. The next day, I walked into the bright kitchen full of cooks of multiple nationalities, languages, and backgrounds. Everyone was in a white chef jacket and was already busy at work efficiently preparing their stations for the night’s service. I was shown to the Garde Manger station and introduced to AQ. AQ was an early twenties, Latina. She was serious but also kind and fair, almost motherly. If your mother also swore like a sailor and could kick ass in a bar fight. All she wanted was to prep the station the fastest possible with the highest attention paid to quality. After a short introduction, she put me to work dicing shallots. Ok, shallots, this I knew how to do, thank you, culinary school.
Then, the Chef came in. His name was Robbie Lewis. He was tall, with black hair, medium build. And he was aggressive. He was direct and to the point with everything he said and did. When he addressed the cooks, they all stood at attention like someone had just shoved a broom handle in their ass without asking. He left no room for comments or back talk. When he was done speaking, the only answer that was acceptable was “Yes, Chef!”
I was terrified. Here I was, in a brand-new environment, full of people that I didn’t know, doing an activity that I had only a scholastic knowledge of. During my stage, was my 22nd birthday. On that day, Chef Robbie snuck up be hind me and screamed “RONNIE,” I froze and slowly turned to look and the Chef. I thought I had committed some egregious error to which he had taken personal offense. I tried to steady myself so he couldn’t see me slightly trembling just by being in his presence. Then, his face snapped from serious and sullen, to a big smile as he held out his hand and said, “happy birthday.” The relief flooded through me. I shook his hand and went back to prepping.
I know this seems like I’m not having such a hard time with this whole restaurant thing, but that could not be farther from the truth. I was too slow with my knife work. I was unorganized and constantly walking around the kitchen to get equipment and ingredients instead of gathering everything and staying in place to complete my assigned tasks. During service, I couldn’t remember what ingredients went into each dish, or where those ingredients were located on the station. I was a constant pain, I’m sure, to AQ as she did her best to teach me how to survive in a restaurant as busy and well reputed as Jardiniere. The stress and the pressure to be ready, and to perform were unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life to that point. I was constantly behind, and it was like the other cooks I was working with were pulling me along like the fat cadet in a military movie.
I don’t remember exactly what the straw was that broke the camel’s back. It could have been the constant stress from the restaurant, or the fear of a dressing down be the Chef for even the smallest slight. The long hours of school in the morning, then a full restaurant shift of 12 hours in the afternoon and into the night. My hand would shake as I reached for the kitchen entrance door, and one day, I broke. I felt like such a failure, like I couldn’t do it, I would never succeed in a restaurant. So, I did what everyone in my position would do. I called my Mommy.
“This is the first job I’m ever going to be fired from,” I said, as I started to cry. With tears streaming down my face, I told my mother everything.
Imagine, a man 6 foot 4 inches tall, 21 years old, crying on the phone about not being good enough to his mother. Not my finest moment.
It was, perhaps, my mother’s, however. “Well,” she responded calmly. “Every day you show up there and you do what you can. No matter how hard it is, and every time you fail but you continue to go back, that, is what creates the passion.”
I dried my eyes, thanked my mother, and walked to the restaurant. With a trembling hand, just like every other day, I grabbed the door handle and stepped into the bustling kitchen. I steeled my nerves and went to work. Over time, my mother was right (as always) things got easier, I became faster and more organized. The team even began to treat me as an equal.
My time a Jardiniere didn’t last for very long, but I have never forgotten that place, that team, AQ, or Chef Robbie. When I quit to go to my externship after school was over, I promised myself that I would never be that cook again. I would always prove to my younger self that no matter what, I would keep showing up and doing my best, no matter how hard it got.
16 years, three states, two countries and two ownerships later, I still do.