Spiced

Not long after I started working on hot app, Meany became the sous-chef. This led to some temporary tension between her and Jessie, who had been working at Layla longer and had also wanted the position. It was a tough decision, Dolly, Joey confided in me, during another one of his enigmatic monologues. Jessie is creative . . . has a good eye, good ideas. But Meany, Meany is such a hard worker. If I could just put them together I’d have the perfect person. I took this to mean that I could learn something from both of them, that I should try to be that perfect hybrid. Meany’s promotion also meant that the grill station position would be available.

I considered this. The entrées on hot app did not require cooking meat to a desired temperature, which was precisely why they were relegated to the hot app station. The lamb shank was braised (cooked for almost three hours until the meat fell off the bone), and the shellfish was, well, shellfish. It just got cooked: Clams and mussels opened when they were done and shrimp turned opaque. Meat temperatures were mysterious.

It turned out that the grill was a whole other level of cooking. It was fucking hot over the grill, so hot that I sometimes felt like I was working over a volcano. There was no escape from the fire and smoke, only the respite of gallons of cold water to drink. Virtually every item on my station could be cooked to a variety of degrees. I had to keep all the information organized in my head, and all my proteins on my grill organized too. Toughest of all, as I had been warned, I had to learn to judge temperature by feel.

The more hours I put in actually working as a cook, the more I realized how little practical knowledge I’d gained in cooking school. Meany and Jessie were patient with me while I regressed back to the land of insecurity. Is this medium? I would ask for a second opinion, holding a lamb kebab out for them to touch. This is mid-rare, right? pointing to a salmon. Well done was the only temp in which I had confidence (just cook it until it’s too done to eat) but also the least likely to be ordered. Meany taught me how to use the different parts of the grill (the hottest spot in the center-right, the relatively cooler outer edges) to control my timing. After a while, I finally got the hang of it. I just touched. And felt. I had no other choice; the pace on the line on a busy night left me no time for thinking. I became a machine. Joey yelled out commands, and I executed them without emotional attachment—most of the time.

One busy night, Joey called out order after order as Layla’s dining room filled up. When we were really busy, the new orders began to overlap with those that he’d already yelled out. Three chicken, one sauce on the side; three lamb kebabs, all medium; five salmon—that makes seven salmon all day, three mid-rare, three medium, and one well done. Two swordfish kebabs. Three octo. Two merguez. Make that four chicken all day. Order fire! He did us the favor of giving us the “all day” number, which included previously called orders, so we’d have the total number of orders that should be in the works. I could barely get the food out of the lowboy and onto sizzle platters before he started piling on more orders.

And he sounded uncharacteristically on edge. Maybe Drew, owner of the restaurant group of which we were a part, was in the restaurant. Drew had enough restaurants that he couldn’t possibly spend every night at Layla, and since we had been open for over a year and had already received an excellent two-star review from the New York Times, he only stopped by occasionally. Though Joey was not an owner of the restaurant, he took full responsibility for its success or failure. His reputation as a chef was at stake. Still, he ultimately answered to Drew, who, as owner, had final say on any and all decisions. As far as I could tell, they had a good relationship and aside from insisting that kebabs be on the menu, Drew gave Joey the flexibility to run the restaurant the way Joey saw fit.

Drew was generally jovial and even willing to help out in the dining room during a rush. Still, when Drew came around (Heavy D. we lovingly called him, on account of his superior girth), everyone got a bit tense. He had an uncanny knack for face and name recognition, which only made everyone more nervous; if we fucked something up, he’d remember forever. Until I actually saw Heavy D., though, I had no way of knowing if he was in the restaurant. And with all the orders Joey was yelling out, I was too busy to ask.

My grill quickly filled up and was wall-to-wall meat and fish. Joey just kept calling out more orders. Add on another chicken and an octo. Where was I supposed to cook all of it? Couldn’t he see that my grill was full? I thought he was pushing me once again, testing me, on the busiest night I’d ever had. I became frustrated, and I let it show.

She was referring to table thirty-five, whose order had been called what seemed like hours earlier. It was a four-top with two of the entrées coming off of my station: two grape leaf-wrapped salmon with chickpea pancakes and tahini vinaigrette, medium rare. It was a recent addition to the menu and one on which Meany and Jessie had collaborated. Joey liked their idea of wrapping salmon in grape leaves so much that he worked with them to create the full dish, making sure that it fit with the rest of the menu and still had his touch. He was secure enough in his own talents and abilities that he was ready and willing to teach and encourage his cooks to experiment with food, a trait sadly not always present in accomplished chefs.

That night, Jessie was working the sauté, or middle, station. She led the line, controlling the timing of the pickups, organizing the various entrées and tables so that everything went out in a controlled and timely fashion. She timed her entrées to be ready when mine and Meany’s were (Meany was on hot app that night; as sous-chef she rotated through all the stations, covering other cooks’ days off) and vice versa. I gently squeezed the sides of the two dark rectangles of salmon that were close to being done.

“One minute,” I answered, moving the salmon to a sizzle platter so they could rest on the edge of the hot grill. Even away from direct heat, they would continue to cook, and by the time we picked up the table, the salmon would be perfect. I was thankful to free up a tiny bit of space on my grill.

Side towel in hand, I pulled down a stack of sauté pans from the top of the sally, short for salamander, the overhead broiler that ran a third of the length of the hot line. Always on, it provided the perfect hot spot to store pans and plates to keep them warm. After months of working on the hot line, my forearms had taken on a new shape as a result of the palm-up lift I used to retrieve an entire stack of sauté pans from the top of the sally. Meany, Jessie, and I often compared muscles, proudly flexing different parts of our arms and hands; no one could top Jessie’s biceps. Catching sight of my own bulging forearms, a tangible symbol of my growing strength, was always satisfying, even in the midst of being slammed.

I moved the two salmon onto my cutting board and, side towel in hand, pulled down two dinner plates from the shelf that sat above the flattop (strategically placed to keep them warm). I may as well have had folded side towels surgically attached to my hands since I needed them to touch virtually everything on the hot line.

I set one of the chickpea pancakes, studded with small squares of tomato and chopped black olives and cooked in brown butter, in the center of each white plate. Now the salmon. With my sharpened chef knife (a sharp edge is absolutely imperative; you need to cut, not tear), I sliced each rectangle of fish on the bias with one smooth motion. Then, fingers proverbially crossed, I pulled the two halves of the salmon apart to check the color: perfect. The deep coral-colored center gradually gave way to the pale pink of the fully cooked outer edges of the fish. It didn’t matter how long I’d worked on the grill, I always crossed my fingers before cutting open a salmon. If the salmon was too rare (which happened a lot in the beginning) I had to smoosh the cut sides back together and put the fish back in the oven on a sizzle platter to finish cooking, which never resulted in the perfectly graduated glow of color I was aiming for. At least once a week I had an anxiety dream in which, no matter what I did (even if I barely set it on the grill for a second), every salmon I cut open was well done—overcooked and useless. Garbage. It was only marginally better than my recurring stress dreams from garde-manger in which I woke up in bed with an enormous bowl of tabouleh on the pillow next to me.

But those salmon were perfect. I placed the two halves atop the chickpea pancake, showcasing the beautiful pinks, and spooned the tahini vinaigrette around the outside of the plate. A drizzle of deep brown veal sauce (an unlikely but delicious pairing) contrasted with the thick, sand-colored tahini and finished my work on the plate. Joey would put on the final touches: a tiny quenelle of thick yogurt and a salmon skin chip—the fishy version of a pork rind. As Jessie was putting the final touches on her roasted cod and pan-seared monkfish, we set our plates on the pass for Joey to finish, wipe clean, and hand off to a waiter. He barely looked at me as I passed him the plates. I hoped he’d forgotten my earlier grumbling.

With so much food to put out, more than I’d ever had at once, I didn’t have time to worry about Joey. My grill overflowing, I had to access all the techniques and skills I’d been honing to get the food out. I needed to be “in the zone.” I went into serious automatic pilot mode: I spun into action, arranging everything in the appropriate places on the grill. Anything well done went on the hottest spot, while swordfish kebabs that cooked more quickly stayed near the edges. Zaatar-spiced chicken took the longest, even though I had “marked” or par-cooked each portion at the beginning of service, so I put them on first. I had my own system to keep it all straight, so that the well-done salmon was finished at the same time as the medium lamb kebab and so on. I’m not even sure how I developed this system; I just did. I intuitively knew what was what.

I filled sauté pans with enough curried bulgur wheat and orzo salad for all the plates, and sautéed eggplant pancakes (reminiscent of latkes) for the chicken and chickpea pancakes for the salmon. As soon as the octopus legs were ready, I passed them down the line to the new garde-manger cook to get them out of my way. I grabbed a stack of plates and lined them up along both my counter and the small stainless steel edge that abutted the grill and flattop. My entire area was white with plates, with only hints of stainless steel peeking through between them. My heart was racing, Joey’s reprimand a distant memory, quickly fading into the haze of steam and sweat and smoke. We all wore undershirts to soak up the perspiration, but also to protect us from the starchy roughness of the chef’s jackets, and the amount of sweat running off me was astonishing.

Tongs in one hand, sauté pan of bulgur wheat in the other, I glanced over at them. They had only four plates to pick up between them compared to my fourteen. They were staring absurdly at me, raising their arms and hands above their heads over and over again, grinning. What the hell?

“You got a full grill, Dolly!” Meany added. “You get the wave.” Sopping with sweat, sauté pan in hand surrounded by a cloud of smoke, I giggled uncontrollably. Instantly, the tension was broken, so that a moment later when it was time to put up the food, I was fully prepared and at ease. Jessie and Meany helped me with my plates, and we three worked together while waiters lined up to pick up the finished plates after we passed them off to Joey.

The rush continued, but more evenly divided among our stations, until it began to dissipate. Finally, we got a brief reprieve as the flow of orders ebbed and the music came on. The wobbly Middle Eastern music filled the restaurant, and from the completely open kitchen we saw the delight of anticipation on the diners’ faces. She came at the same time every night, entering just as most of the tables were relaxing into their entrées: the belly dancer.

She glided into the room, finger cymbals clinking to the music, filmy costume flowing around her, framing her bare belly and barely clad, full, shaking hips. When it was a Friday or Saturday night, it was only a matter of time before our two-star restaurant started to feel more like a bachelor party. Men in suits and ties suddenly felt compelled to stuff dollar bills into the belly dancer’s skirt as they awkwardly tried to match her moves shimmy for shimmy, while she danced away, sword balanced on top of her head.

Jessie, Meany, and I looked at one another. We realized a long time ago that the rhythm of this particular music resembled the beat of another well-known dance. We got in line, one in front of the other. We stepped twice to the right. Twice to the left. Once forward. Once backward. Hop. Hop. Hop. Dressed in our dirty, baggy uniforms, robust sweat beads, and arms riddled with scars and blisters, we went unnoticed by the diners, the women who made the food they were enjoying, as we bunny hopped down our line. No one noticed, that is, except for Joey, who could not hide his smile.

After work, we changed back into our street clothes after trying in vain to wash some of the dirt and smell and grease off at least our hands and forearms. As was our routine, we headed over to the Rat Bar. If it had a real name, we didn’t know it. It was not unusual to see rats running around in front of it, hence, the Rat Bar or, simply, the Rat. It was the closest bar, just a block away, with a bartender who knew us by name and was always happy to buy us a round.

Even more than I had at Nobu, I wholeheartedly embraced the late-night social scene. Cooking was more physically exhausting than plating desserts and, as a result, left me more wired. After a shift, we were worked up, and all we wanted was a drink, lots of drinks. After a few hours, maybe we’d want a snack, too, but mostly we wanted to drink.

Hunched around a small table at the Rat, we’d talk about the only thing all of us really had in common: cooking. More often than not, we’d rehash the ups and downs of that night’s service: Oh my God, Dolly, your grill was soooo jamming! HIGH FIVE! . . . Did you see that asshole trying to dirty-dance with the belly dancer? LOSER! . . . Juan, I never saw you roll dough so fast. Your face was covered in flour! HIGH FIVE! We did a lot of high-fiving. Occasionally Joey joined us for an after-work drink. He was the king of high fives and would stand up from his chair and reach across the table just to make contact with someone on the other side.

Although all the various cooks at Layla (aside from Sprout, that is) got along, we were all insanely different people, and, for the most part, had we not been thrown together in that kitchen, I doubt that we would ever have spoken to one another, let alone become friends who spent every night hanging out. Kitchens have a funny way of forcing people, as different as they may be, to get along.

Juan was around my age—mid-twenties—from Puerto Rico, as gay as the day is long, and just as eager to talk about it, especially around anyone who would feel uncomfortable. Chris, he would say, as he snuggled up to the daytime sous-chef, a macho he-man type from New Jersey. Chris, who had a checkered past that included jail, drugs, and fights, liked women. He probably picked fights with people like Juan when he was a kid. Chris, you won’t believe it, but I had the best fist-fuck of my life last night, Juan would taunt. At first, Chris would become visibly incensed, though he would keep his temper in check. After a while, he just laughed it off, and eventually they became friends—sort of. Don’t tell him this, Chris told us, but I’d kill anyone who tried to mess with Juan.

When Sheila started, there was a lot of snickering and rumors that she was (gasp!) a lesbian. She was, but after a few weeks no one cared or snickered. Meany was born and raised in Queens, New York, and could be a tough Spanish-speaking grunt one minute and a lip-glossed sophisticated food person the next. Soft-spoken and subtle Jessie, who came from Virginia, had a silly sense of humor (she would hold a long, stiff, translucent sheet of dried salmon skin under her nose as a mustache or under her chin as a bow tie). And then there was me, a Jersey girl fresh out of culinary school. I had so badly wanted to be a chef, but after a year cooking at Layla, I was, quite sadly, realizing that maybe I had been wrong.

There was so much I loved: the chopping, the preparing, the actual cooking. I even loved the heat and the sweat of it all. I loved the camaraderie, the way we all worked together, and how each one of us brought something, literally and figuratively, to the table. But it was hard. We worked six days a week, for ten or more hours a day. Getting two days off in a row was a possibility, but it meant working thirteen days straight. The restaurant never closed, ever. In that year I rarely saw my family or any friends from my former life. I was unable to see friends that came into town, support friends’ performances in bands or plays, even go out to dinner, unless it happened after midnight. Even if I could take an extra day off, it would be unpaid, and earning only $425 a week, a mere $25 more than I’d made at Nobu, I simply could not afford any extra days off. I was still paying for my own health insurance because, of course, the restaurant did not provide it for their nonmanagement employees (cooks and waiters). And because of the nature of restaurants (one person per station per night), calling in sick was next to impossible; who would grill my chicken if I didn’t come in? Everyone else would be busy doing something else. Personal days? Yeah, right.

None of these frustrations were considered valid grounds for complaint, because though restaurant kitchens allow people to be themselves, whatever form that may take (and it is still my overwhelmingly favorite thing about restaurant kitchens), they do not allow for complaints of any kind. Joey, fair as he was with his staff, was of the school that considered the long hours, poor pay, and lack of health insurance simply part of the job. If you couldn’t take it, well, then you were weak and in the wrong business. After a year, I began to feel like maybe I couldn’t take it. Maybe I was weak.

My time at Layla also gave me the opportunity to see what being a chef is really all about. It wasn’t the actual cooking—the seasoning, the techniques, the knowledge—that intimidated me; I felt pretty confident that I could eventually master all of those things. It was all the other stuff I hadn’t thought about; being able to cook good food was only half of the job. Joey had to oversee not only a staff of cooks but also dishwashers and prep cooks, and he had to be on top of all the waiters as well. He was a master at handling the endless variety of personalities that end up in a restaurant and getting everyone to do as he wanted the way that he wanted. He had to discipline anyone who stepped out of line or slacked off, and he had to make sure the purveyors weren’t cheating him. He had to be in charge (of personnel, of food, of budgets) while simultaneously charming the press, the customers, sometimes even Heavy D. Joey was supremely confident and commanded ultimate authority, two characteristics that had just not made it into my DNA.