As a cook, whose duty it is to appease the appetites of others, I have found only two things that whet my own appetite for solid substance in the morning. The primary culprit is the sweet sizzling smell of smoked pork, expelling its porcine perfume from any and all equipment used to cook bacon. It is the almightiest of meats in my opinion, worthy of its own spot in the foundation of a properly balanced food pyramid. The only other odor I have known to arouse hunger in the morning hours is a bit peculiar. There is a sludge-like substance found at the bottom of most deep-fat fryers once the oil is removed for cleaning. No matter what has been cooked in the fryer–fish, fries, rangoons, rice noodles, churros, or chips–it always smells the same. Every time I catch a whiff, I’m smacked stupid with a desire to devour something real. This is one of my cooking-acquired quirks.

Everyone is idiosyncratic.  It’s part of what makes us human, what makes us intrinsically unique, and our idiosyncrasies continue to develop over the course of our lives. I have become increasingly aware of certain quirks, born in the kitchen, on display in this cook and in other cooks as well. By definition, a quirk is a way of behaving, thinking, or feeling that is peculiar to an individual or a group, especially an odd or unusual one. By my observation, there are restaurant quirks that are commonly shared, and others that are especially peculiar to odd and unusual cooks. These cooks are the ones for whom I have the greatest affinity.

After bumping all around the Lower 48 for a few years, I currently work in the greater Charlotte area, I’m back in the South where quirky kitchen folk aren’t hard to come by. For instance, I knew a broiler cook in Michigan; I called him Sims. All day long the radio played on his station, and for most of the day he would improvise his own lyrics particular to whatever was happening at the time.

A hip hop chorus of, “Ghetto prisoners, rise, rise, rise,” would become, “I need a burger with fries, fries, fries.” Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” was overwhelmed by Sims singing, “Sear us a steak, you’re the broiler man, sear us a steak tonight. We’re all in the mood for it medium; it’s coming back if it ain’t cooked right.” There are countless songs marred by this man, none of which I’ll ever hear the same way again. For that I am grateful.

A chef named Scotty who, well (there’s no P.C. way to put it) “swung both ways,” would always remind people when he slid by them in the narrow spaces up and down the line that, “Everything is cool.” It was his way of telling people that he just needed to ladle a cup of soup, or grab a side of Caesar dressing, and that he wasn’t trying to cop a feel. Scotty must have worked in a hellacious, way-too-busy weekend joint before we worked together, because no matter what the restaurant looked like at 6:30 on Friday night, he’d start getting jittery. At the first sight of tables showing up, he always–and I mean always–remarked, “Here they come boys,” as if the Roman legions had just finished conquering Europe and we were the unfortunate cooks sentenced to feed them all. Scotty, if you ever read this, I know it’s cool and I love you, you kooky old bastard.

Then there was Rick, “Tricky-Rick,” as I called him, or even “Silent P” (as in “P”rick), as he sometimes introduced himself. During the summers Rick came in to work the dinner rush in a pub out West that I once referred to as my home away from home. In the winter, he worked in the kitchen at the ski lodge so he could snowboard for free. Rick rolled in at 3:00 p.m. to set up and work the cold side, which took the first hit from customers at around 5:30. In his two-and-a-half hours of relative downtime amidst the trickle of tickets for happy hour customers wanting nachos, Rick cleaned and restocked his line cooler and steam table in an immaculate fashion. I’m O.C.D. when it comes to prepping my mise en place prior to service, but this kid took it to a level for which psychoanalysts haven’t yet developed a term. Right before the dinner rush hit, when his line was less than a smudge away from perfection, he covered every visible inch of stainless-steel with a double layer of plastic wrap, making sure to keep it cling and wrinkle free. Then we’d get hit–sling this, sling that, do our thing, feed the masses, have a laugh, wind down, and, finally close. After the ceremonial post-rush/pre-clean smoke, Rick would come in, switch out his cooler containers, stock a little more if necessary, put the lids on, rip off the plastic wrap, and within ten minutes be in his street clothes clocking out.

Idiosyncrasies might not quite account for the nature of a pastry chef I knew named Claire. Perhaps it was an infrequent quirk at some point in her career but by the time I worked with her, she had a full-fledged propensity toward sexual aggression. Never before and not since have I felt so vulnerable around a female. My only guess is that at some point she realized that the only way to fight a certain type of fire is by burning the hell out of it. In an industry full of foul-mouthed man-boys trapped in a mostly steel box for hours on end, the kitchen can be a precarious place for an attractive girl. Not for Claire. She was the first girl who groped, spanked, and snickered at me so viciously that I felt violated. She was so aggressive that I never once thought about initiating any type of flirtatious behavior. I had a healthy fear of being humiliated by her reaction. A friend and fellow line cook once justified my fear when he made the mistake of walking up behind her, grabbing her hips and uttering a few choice phrases too raunchy for print. If you’ve ever seen a small dog mount a larger dog then you’ll have an easy time picturing what happened. After a vicious bump backwards, while he was holding himself and moaning, she took him by a fistful of hair, bent him over the closest countertop, and proceeded to hump him–the way dogs do–shouting, “Is that how you like it!” That poor guy was too embarrassed to blush. He just turned white, ghost white, and never messed with her again. Claire, however untactfully or even unlawfully, gave me a new appreciation for women in the commercial kitchen, and, point of fact, the girl could outright bake. Years later, I still crave her spiced applesauce cake.

Cooks: my brand, my people, my preference. The twisted societal microcosm of the commercial kitchen claims the full gamut of personalities and personality disorders: from crackpots, crazies, and junkies to saints, sages, and even a few ordinary citizens. The fast-paced, stressful swelter of the line and the antithetical saunter required to rock it (i.e., to prepare food efficiently and effectively) produce a breed of body and soul like no other. We generally operate like a large dysfunctional family, bound not by love but by a common duty, purpose, and passion: to cook a damn fine product, present it in the most pleasing way possible, and hurry the hell up because the customer’s waiting. Idiosyncrasies are welcome and even encouraged. You can be as strange as they come, so long as you can hold your own when–“Here they come boys”–it’s time to cook.

~ John Zoet

I can only speak for myself but I believe that we all experience this food-induced soul-satiety on occasion, and, on a subconscious level, it is what we are looking for when we go out to eat or when we prepare an elaborate meal. Have you ever, after a nearly perfect meal, perhaps on Thanksgiving or Christmas, set your napkin and your drink down and remained in your seat, staring at the table. You do not speak, your eyes don’t drift, you do not move or even think – you stare. Before you want a cigarette or a cup of coffee, before you think about the dishes or your company, even before you want a nap, you sit saturated in renewal – it is euphoric. It may only last for a few minutes, but for those minutes you have neither want nor need, you haven’t a care – you are satiated, you are complete.

There are times when I accept my limitations as a seeker. With only so much time in this life, I, unfortunately, can’t afford to make every meal a spiritual experience – most of the time I am so busy seeking fulfillment in other areas that a meal becomes the superficial matter of filling up in order to keep moving. These are the times that you’ll catch me eating chicken fingers and ranch dressing over a trash can in the dish-pit, or sitting in line at the drive-through of McDonald’s.

But from time to time, I get a water break from the rat race and these are the times that I go out to experience food the way it should be experienced – fully. Recently I had such a break and what I really wanted, what I craved, was a burger. But not just any burger. I wanted one of those burgers that makes you wish you could walk into the kitchen, slap the cook on the ass and tell him he played a great game. With a recommendation from a friend who really knows food and knows Charlotte a lot better than I do, I took what felt like an insatiable appetite to Mueller’s Sandwich Shop.

Mueller’s is at 119 Huntley Place, off Providence Road, right before the inconvenient intersection of Providence and Queens and Providence and Queens when driving away from center city.  It’s a tricky little spot to find because there isn’t a sign visible from Providence, but as soon as you turn onto Huntley you’ll see a boldly painted, old-school sandwich cart with the name of the joint written all over it.
A giant oak tree whose roots make the asphalt parking lot look like a topographical map and whose branches envelop the sky greets you. The tiny sandwich shop, tucked in the back corner of the parking lot, was clearly built as a cottage and not as a restaurant. I felt comfortable before I even got out of my car. Walking past the semi-circle of hinged-together picket fencing, I began to notice something. Among the mix and match iron patio furniture sits a metal fire pit, kids’ toys and flowerpots, a mailbox and an old sidewalk clock. This, I noticed, is someone’s restaurant. A Christmas wreath hangs in a window and a wind chime dangles from the crest of the awning, sharing its nail with a purple hula hoop. I pushed the door open and heard the ring of the saddle-bells nailed to the door. After rubbing my feet on the doormat, I lifted my eyes and saw Dave Mueller standing behind the counter. I knew without asking his name – the restaurant belongs to him.

Dave has a face that reminds you of somebody you know. Appearing to be in his mid-40s, (apparently I’m a bad judge of age – turns out he’s in his late 50s), he was wearing faded jeans and a green polo shirt that had a few years on it. He’s the kind of guy that you know you’re gonna get a handshake and a conversation from, whether you have something to talk about or not. He actually walked around the counter to introduce himself and take my order. I was so intent on having a burger that I ignored the list of my favorite sandwiches – the Cuban and the Reuben, the Philly and my dear chopped barbecue. I ordered the Carolina burger, and a side of Chicago-style hotdog, although I thought long and hard about doubling up and having the pimento burger. If you haven’t lived here long enough to catch the definition of “Carolina,” it means that my burger was waking up to one hell of a hot day on the grill and getting dressed with chili, slaw, mustard and onions, getting into his bun and driving into my mouth. What better way to wash it all down than with an Arnold Palmer? I knew I could ask for this most anywhere I go; it’s simply equal parts lemonade and iced tea, but actually seeing it on the menu warmed my heart.

I went outside for a smoke and watched, through the center of the wreath hanging in the green shuttered window, as Dave and his help fixed my fare. Inside, I only had a few minutes before my attention was devoted to the delight of stuffing my face, but a few minutes was enough to observe that the interior of Mueller’s was just as original as the exterior. The black and white checkerboard floor scurries underneath Coke coolers with bottled soda and shelves of chips, wrapping around the “order here” counter, only 5 feet from the door and tucking back into the tiny open kitchen, which butts up against roughly painted, light yellow walls. On the walls hang the most eclectic collection of adornments I may have ever seen in a restaurant: a men’s basketball poster for Queens College, a Grand Marnier poster from the 1970s, a painting of tennis equipment from the ’50s, and a poster depicting the alkaline and antioxidant levels in various types of water.

The Chicago dog hit the table first. I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled and it was gone – the perfect warm-up for a burger. She was a tasty little yipper, either deep-fried or grilled, I couldn’t be sure. The snap of the dog, coupled with the crisp pickle spear beside it, made for a refreshing mouthful with the additional relish, tomatoes, onions and banana peppers (more complementary than the spicier sport peppers). The ingredient-balancing act was made easier by the hearty poppy seed bun, but there was still enough love to let a little dribble off into the basket for finger picking after I finished. I would feel like a criminal if I ate a hotdog without making at least a small mess.

I had another conversation with Dave, in which he told me about the history of the Thies building next door, of the founding families of Charlotte, and damn near the rest of the city’s history. We talked about his former lives as a horticulturist, and working in the tennis shop at a country club (where he opened his first burger joint). We talked about the restaurant business – Mueller’s is almost three years old so the honeymoon period is over – and though he’s been struggling in the recent economy, he has hope and believes in what he’s doing. Most important, we talked about burgers. I asked Dave how he ate his.

“I’m a purist; just meat and cheese and sometimes ketchup,” he said with half a smile. “I like to taste the meat of a fresh burger but I’ll fix it any way I’m asked to for anyone else.”  It’s rare to find a nonjudgmental purist.

The Carolina burger arrived on the tail end of the dog, and when Dave set it down I knew I had come to the right place. Holding the burger in both hands, before my face as if to say hello, I was aware of the warmth from the lightly toasted bun as I opened my mouth in anticipation. Perhaps my anticipation altered my sense of reality and fogged my memory, but man…that burger was G-double-O-D good. It had been laid to rest just long enough for the charred walls to hold back the flavor that was loosed on the first bite. I closed my eyes and let the juice run down my chin; I didn’t care if anyone was watching. I savored each bite of that burger, working my way around the outside first so as not to let any of the Carolina abandon ship, and finishing it off without once setting it down. I licked my fingers, and I sat there. I just sat.

I had a long drive home, back through center city and up 85 North. I didn’t care about the traffic – I got in the right lane and actually drove the speed limit. I didn’t even turn the radio on. I wasn’t just full, I was satiated.

~ John Zoet

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