Refried Potatoes

It is the end of a particularly punishing Saturday service, and my body is reminding me, once again, that I am pretty old for a line cook.

Okay, that's a slight bit of faux modesty, done for the effect of the sentence. I'm a head chef, not a commis or a prep drone, but I do still work the line. I don't have to, I have other chefs, all of whom are perfectly competent (the maladroit get found out pretty quickly in our line of work, and so do the wankers, it's one of the reasons I enjoy it, there's no test of character quite like a busy Saturday service, and no test of consistency under pressure like Christmas) but for some reason that I have yet to fully fathom, I'm still there. I haven't even moved to expo, the traditional head's spot, standing at the pass plating and telling everyone what to do, I still work saute and grill, the grunt work, the actual hands-on stuff. I make sauces in the pan a la minute, fillet and portion to order, I don't prep garnishes ahead of time. I chiffonade herbs as and when I need them, I set my section up, I clean my section down. I think my sous and chefs de partie probably regard me as something of an oddity, but they're polite enough not to mention it.

It's been a warm day, which certainly doesn't help. There's nothing quite like the heat of a professional kitchen in hot weather. It builds through the day, with every check and every prep job larding yet more heat on, and never dissipates. At the end, when the last burner's turned off, and the fryers are cooling down, you think it will cool, but it never does, it just squats there. It will still be pretty toasty tomorrow morning, when I'll come downstairs at about half five to try to get some cool morning air in.

I've gotten fairly used to it over the years, but it's draining. And I'm reminded every time a shift finishes, and the adrenaline ebbs and, well, everything hurts.

I should step away, it's the natural order of things, and the time is fast approaching when I'll slow down, become a drag on the rest of the team, but it hasn't arrived yet.

I never intended to become a chef, I just sort of fell into it, and it turned out I was quite good at it, and then it turned out furthermore that I was slightly better than quite good at it, and before I knew what the fuck was happening, I was running kitchens. The first time I sent a plate of food out, it just felt right. This, I thought, was what I was supposed to be doing. The problem was, that by the time I realised this, I was already well on the way to being settled down. There was no time to bounce around a bunch of kitchens learning bits here and there, no stages in the great London restaurants, within a couple of years of putting a white jacket on, I was running my own, and I needed to be, because by the time I was a Husband, and a Dad, and a peripatetic lifestyle was firmly off the table.

And now I find myself finally starting to contemplate stopping.

There are good reasons to do so, sensible reasons, staff development, some things front of house require my attention, I need more time to pay attention to things like GP calculations, stock spreadsheets, all the bits surrounding the actual matter of taking ingredients and turning them into something delicious.

Which is a shame, as that's the bit that I enjoy.

I'm sure that you, as a reasonably intelligent (and, if I may say so, extremely attractive) human being have already sussed that my unwillingness to let go is tied up with the usual grab-bag of middle-aged male neuroses, and you would undoubtedly be right. Decreasing relevance? Waning of powers? Is it, perhaps, all about a bit of the old mid-life crisis? Going to buy a motorbike maybe? Get the old band back together?

And I would reply gently, but firmly, Probably. A bit. 

I don't particularly wish to relinquish line cooking in part because I'm really fucking good at line cooking, and that has probably become entangled with my sense of self to an unhealthy degree. I'm not good at many things, but this...this I really am. 

Another reason is also the name above the door syndrome. While I am in no sense known, there is a certain caste if  customer that likes to know I'm innthe kitchen, there are regulars that I've cooked for for years, in various establishments. Seeing me bobbing about the gaff in whites is what they've come to expect. There's a divide in cooking between chefs who are happy to be a name but not present, and those who feel like frauds if they're not cooking themselves. I am firmly in the latter camp.

But all things need to change, and I have a seething cast of chefs beneath me, each and every one convinced that they will shine once the old man's out of the way. So it's probably time. Or nearly time, anyway. Not just yet. Soon.

*pops laundry on, makes sure he has whites for tomorrow*