A Symphony in Food

It’s 7 a.m. and my alarm clock is ringing – screaming, “Get up, get up.” I hit it once, go back to dreaming. Two scenes later and it’s at it again. I can’t win. I bite the bullet, pull it together and sit up. I sit still for just a moment, collect my thoughts and thank my God for another morning in this life, another chance to get it right, another day after the night. Then I curse as I start standing and awaken the aches from days before – the godforsaken toll of 80-hour workweeks; the deliveries; employees; the “custy”; and the owner – they own me everywhere but in my sleep. I brush my teeth, put on my costume, grab my keys, push the door and let the morning come pouring in. When I hit the street I light a smoke and pull up the hood on my coat. Déjà vu – the melody that I remember will play over, just for me – like a story, an album on repeat, I live in a memory. I’m not complaining, I am content – this is my symphony.

When I arrive I find her standing in the same shape that I left her, only empty now. She’s all cleared out and quietly waiting. First things first: I start the coffee before walking back to light the kitchen. The hood sings a squeal like an old man when I hit the switch as if he were ill and that I woke him. I say, “I’m sorry,” because I know just how he feels.  The pilot lights are lit and the hiss of gas becomes a flame. Down the line I turn the knobs and bring the kitchen to life again. I shuffle back out to the coffee pot with a cup and with sugar from the bin; I fill it up, then pour cream in and watch the spirals until they blend. Outside the city is showing signs of life; the headlights and traffic lights bicker back and forth like fireflies while commuters sigh behind the wheel. I step outside to steal one more smoke and, with a note, join the chorus. A verse from a hip-hop song pours into my head and I grin, reciting the lyrics as the beat drops in: “I spark up the caffeine and nicotine binge and that’s pretty much the pattern of how the day begins.”
Each day begins this way, this tempo – tranquillo. Like a track though, it’s coming – the transition to rapidity. This is my rendition. This is my symphony.

Back inside. My hands are washed, my apron tied and my knife is upon the board. I walk into the cooler and check the rack; I’m two soups short. I finger the produce, wondering what will induce my fancy. What meats talk to me about the soups they could be? To cream or not to cream. Butter – yes, almost always start with butter – nothing smells better melting. I help the onions in and listen as they begin to sweat, then celery and leeks, then garlic. This is my minuet.

Before the morning crew arrives, as the sun begins to break the sky, with the radio tuned to classical, most days there stand I, over a stockpot or two, and a saucepot or a few, wooden spoon in hand, a happy man, conducting soup as usual. There I find my peace, my minuet, in this, my symphony.

The bedraggled boys of the morning crew have found their way to work. Their stations are set for the lunchtime fight, their knees now deep in the prep for tonight. It’ll be noon soon and the crowd will come all at once. The lawyers and the businessmen, the women and their lunch break friends, the out-of-towners and the regulars – their hunger upon our hands. I stand ready for testing – the first round of service, the sudden pop, the rush, then emptiness – the quickness of a summer storm. Torn between calm and calamity, lunch dies as quick as it’s born. Andante now for the finishing, the diminishing list of prep. The cleanup and the curtain call, the clocking out, “until tomorrow y’all,” and like that – Act One is done. I’m the only one left, remembering that Act Two is still to come.  I look to my shadow for sympathy. This is my symphony.

Intermezzo: the slow midday hours, somewhere between 2 and 4; placing orders, checking reservations, having meetings, making sure we’re set for the week. To be honest, I’d rather be in the back, on the floor, by the ice machine, taking a much-needed nap. I settle instead for a cigarette, out back where the alley cats meet, the galley for the industry, the stoops on the back streets where cooks meet and discuss the meaning of life. Who did what to whose wife? By balls do you mean these? And what in the fuck happened to what’s his face? He never showed up last week. I would say that I don’t mean to be so crude, but I do, I do indeed. That doesn’t mean that I mean what I say; I just say what I say when I feel the need. My mother would be ashamed of me but this is my symphony.

The night crew enters a well-tuned kitchen, discussing the night before. They are the owls of the industry, the ones who work till 2, stay up until 4, and sleep away the morning. They are war-torn combatants, proud of their scars, ready for the revelry, with hardened hands and sturdy hearts. My line cooks play their part – a full-speed start, the race for mise en place, the prepping of their line, the back and forth banter of the frantic order, all the while preparing themselves for dinner time. We all know what’s coming because we’ve already been here, but, underneath the confidence lies the undertone of fear: fear of the unknown. No matter how many times we’ve played this song, we play it differently every time. The rhythm of the rush will change the lyrics with which we rhyme. It goes:

One for the customer and two for the food they fancy; three for the way the server rings it, and four when the cooks start dancing; five for the freedom, six for the stress, and seven for the madness when we all fall into step.

Allegro: As the expeditor I’m yelling, “Fire!” Plates come flying from all directions; section five has food that’s sitting. Where’s my runner? What cover’s missing? Six soups all day, I need a Caesar, I’m down two Ahi – on the fly! Why in the hell is this sauce separating? Take it back and do it right. Bump table 12 – their steaks are resting. I need those sides to make it sell. Hey, tell the bar I need well whisky and change the Blue Points to Chesapeakes.
This cacophony carries on for several hours with tiny lulls. In the midst of the poetic madness I’m aware that I love it all – the successes and the failures, the good, the bad, the ugly, the smooth and the oh-so rough. I may earn pennies for my passion but the pennies are enough. This is my finale, my rush, my symphony.
The rush dwindles and the tickets trickle; the sigh of relief is mutual. As usual, the banter thickens now that it’s been given time to breathe. The camaraderie of accomplishment echoes down hallways and soaks the walls. The chaos is on our aprons but off our hands as the rush withdraws. There will be no encore until tomorrow. The time to clean is coming on soon – we erase the evidence of our battle and tomorrow start anew. The curtain call is never all that it’s cracked up to be. I’ll get some sleep and a bite to eat before I repeat this memory. From the top, I’ll play it again.
This is my symphony.

~ John Zoet