Upon re-reading yesterday's post about The Bear, but ostensibly about my perspective of working so many years in the restaurant industry and knowing the kitchen inside and out and even behind drywalls (later on that), it occurred to me I had left so much out.
I had, in the vernacular of the culinary proletariat, "86'd the good parts."
Indeed, I said to myself, "I could write a whole book about my time beneath the salamander (the flash broiler right above the pan built into the venting unit), the waitresses I have known, some in a biblical sense (though not as many as I would've liked) and the truly horrible megalomaniacal bosses I've had the displeasure of answering to."
Truth is, I don't have any more books in me, despite the millions of dollars to be made in the very lucrative book publishing game. But, I thought, I do have a blog and a bewildering number of people who like to nibble on my amuse bouche of glibness and nostalgia, so I thought I'd follow up with a Part II.
For one thing, I'll try to keep this evenhanded because if the truth were known, none of us would ever go out to eat ever again, stunning Yelp reviews and Michelin stars notwithstanding. Hint: It ain't pretty in there.
For another, I owe my life in California to those first few baby steps I took in 1979 when I came here on a one way ticket. Hopped a bus from LAX to UCLA. Secured a sleeping spot (on a ratty old mattress on the roof) at a frat house. And within 2 days had gainful employment at the Good Earth Restaurant in Westwood Village.
"I've cooked burgers and omelettes, but never worked a wok before."
"Don't worry about it kid. Turn the flame up really high, throw the shit in the bowl with some sesame oil and keep stirring," said Les, the jovial 300 lbs. kitchen manager who seemed to know a bit about food.
A day later I was making a Cashew Chicken bowl for Dustin Hoffman.
Unlike The Bear I was never sent to Copenhagen to study under some masterful chef. I was however sent to a local hardware store to pick up rat traps. Here comes the drywall story.
I was working and managing one of West LA's most popular steak and rib joint, SH Kickers on Santa Monica Blvd. It was modeled after the roadhouse in Urban Cowboy. You kids can look that up. We had a rat issue. OK 'issue' is restaurant spin.
We had RATS!!!
Lots of them. Behind the drywalls. Above the ceiling. And on more than one occasion, scurrying across the dining room (The House, in restaurant lingo) and taking shelter behind the mechanical bull. Little buggers even left a contrail of their getaway on the sawdust floor.
Newsflash: a rat contrail is not an image any diner wants to see.
Bad service, overcooked meat, watered down drinks can put a crimp in your restaurant business, but it's been my amateur observation that people rarely pay a return visit to a place that has RATS.
We went rodent belly up in no time.
I've barely sliced into this 23 lbs. perfectly BBQ brisket of stories and I'm already out of time. Please come back for a second helping at a later date.
Or maybe, I should get going on that book?
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