Restaurant Life

In my life before children, I woked as a line cook for a fine dining restaurant in San Diego. I still keep in contact with some of my industry friends and am so proud of their successes. I can't help but wonder where I would be today if I hadn't left.  I had gradually climbed my way up the ladder, from prep to garde manger (salad) to fryer to sauté. I wouldn't trade my life for anything, but part of me will always miss the excitement of restaurant cooking. There is no high like that of working in a kitchen on a busy Friday night. I love the dance of the cooks, moving together in smooth synchronization to the frantic hum of the ticket machine, printing orders without pause. Your mind spins in anticipation. The kitchen reaches a fevered pitch as chef barks out the next pick up. You feel the sweat slowly trickle down your back as you find your rhythm: sauté, stock, butter, salt. You grind it out at a merciless pace for hours, until the last plate is done.  Then you methodically put away your mise en place, scrub down the kitchen, and head to the bar across the street. That first beer after an exhausting shift tastes so refreshing. The intensity of the night wears off as your senses dull a bit.  

 I miss the comraderie and the (mostly) friendly competition among the other cooks. I miss pushing myself physically and getting creative with the finest ingredients. Cooking is something that is either in your soul or it isn't. It will always be a part of me, even if the only kitchen that I cook in now is in my home.