Alt Title: I can’t even walk a mile in my own shoes today.

Less angsty entry today, gentle reader. In a way, this one is about a wedding…

My beloved offspring both work for a friend of mine, who owns a charming little bistro-style restaurant at one of our local vineyards.  The GirlChild started out as busser/dishwasher and is now front of house as a server, while her brother works as a dishwasher, among other tasks, but will choose any other job before going out to the front, despite Chef’s urging that he, also, move into service. They are encouraged, counseled, instructed (sometimes on purpose, sometimes by tacit observation), and both have learned a lot more from Chef than just restaurant work.

Very occasionally, I have helped out in the kitchen or out front for charity events, or if there is a staff emergency.  I’ve always really enjoyed it, because it’s not something I’ve ever had to do for a job (my part time jobs always seemed to be office work of some sort) and it gives me a glimpse into life on the other side of the swinging door. Because of its picturesque setting, and terrific food, the restaurant has become a popular wedding venue. As it happened, there was a moderate-sized wedding planned for this weekend, and one of the kitchen staff was on holidays, and the serving staff was at minimal numbers, in part due to the recent departure of one waitress. And so it was that I hesitantly offered my services, such as they are, in the kitchen, or wherever I could be, if I could be, of any use.

Earlier I mentioned that the kids learn more from Chef than just how to carry a tray or load a rack of glasses. What I learned, during my 2 days as a kitchen scivvy, is that nothing can prepare you for the reality of stepping into this job. No matter how many meals you’ve cooked, potatoes you’ve peeled, or pots you’ve scrubbed.

It starts with the standing. Just standing still, slightly bent at the waist, slicing, chopping, tearing and mixing.  A bucket of onions.  Then a bucket of peppers. Next, slicing garlic. Then breaking down Italian parsley.  Slicing in half dozens and dozens of cherry tomatoes. Possibly hundreds. Arranging olives in a dish. Arranging roasted garlic in a dish.  Adding the right little garnish, keeping in mind not only how it looks, but how practical for the servers will it be to carry.  Perception of what is easier depends on which side of the swinging door you inhabit.  The menu was a nod to the bride’s Indian heritage, so the menu included rice and beans and curries– and all was to be served Family Style.  Logistically, one might think that is far easier than plating individual plates, and in the main, that would be correct, especially if all patrons are to be served at once. But this was a whole different animal– each table was to receive 6 dishes, which required 2 or 3 servers to carry out. In total, there were 12 tables, 6 servers, and 3 of us putting out the food. Chef made the point several times how absolutely critical communication was to a smooth service, and critical is not too strong a word. It sounds simple– put 6 dishes down to be served, do it 12 times. That’s the second thing about the job– repetition. But the repetition must be consistent– each bowl of bean stew that went out was sprinkled with chopped rosemary and drizzled with olive oil. The prawns were drizzled with oil too, but they were garnished with chiffanauded basil, while the chicken curry got very finely chopped cilantro, and no oil. Lamb got lemon zest and cilantro. Stove to serving plate or bowl to finishing counter where the servers picked up, each time all eyes making sure there were 6 plates, all properly garnished and finished, all cleaned of any sauce splashes or errant herbs. And before anything cooled down. And the servers had to keep an eye on water glasses that needed filling or anything else a guest needed. The hours and hours of preparation– over days– distilled down into a blur of getting the food out to the guests in a matter of minutes.

And just as suddenly it was over… well… except for the clean up, which, while faster than the prep, took all of us well into the next day to put right, for the next day was business as usual– new customers who neither know nor care that you didn’t limp home until 1:00am. They want delicious, well-prepared food served by a happy server. They do not want to know your feet and back and hands are still sore. And yes, they would love another cup of coffee. If it’s no trouble.

I have a new system for calculating gratuity now when I go out to eat… did I get what I ordered in a timely and efficient way? Add on for: smiling and attentive server. Add on for: Food surpassed my expectations. Add on for Food and Service surpassed my expectations.  Add on for: some poor kid in the dish pit has to wash, sort and stack all of the dishes required to prep, cook, finish, serve.

There are a set of muscles in your lower back– I believe they are the dorsi or lats group– I have never contemplated their existence until I crawled into bed at the end of that second long day… they are now called the Chop-Slice-Tear-Mix-Plate-Repeat Muscles.

And they HURT today.

But I am still smiling…