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Hope you’re hungry because we’ve got another searing scribble fromDLT‘s proudly-persnickety contributor, Eric Eats Out. Check back the first Wednesday of every month as Mr. Eats OUt never fails to shock us. What’s in store for this month? Sweaty soufflés. Read on…

The sweatiest six hours of my life were spent assembling salads and soufflés in the calescent cauldron-of-a-kitchen known as Petite Maison, and I’ve had some tough jobs in my life. I installed 300 ceiling fans in an apartment complex one summer without air conditioning, I dug ditches in July and I cleaned the latrines at camp. But none of those experiences taught me the value of a back-breaking buck more than my one-night gig in a south Scottsdale kitchen. And I didn’t even get paid.

Given that my “day job” is spent mostly in leather loafers and a comfortable Aeron chair, I have always jumped when the opportunity arose to try something new and different. I rode the night shift with the police on the mean streets of North Scottsdale and I had my scrubs splattered with bone fragments while a surgeon-friend replaced someone’s hip. All of these experiences were amazing and eye-opening but, like many people, I’ve always been intrigued by what really goes on in kitchen at a good restaurant. When Petite Maison gave me that chance during Spring Restaurant Week, I said “what time do I need to be there.”

So I showed up promptly at 3, was directed to the prep area and given a list of things to do. It was abundantly clear that I wasn’t getting any special treatment for being their guest. I have relatively solid knife and cooking skills, but it was still terribly daunting. I could impress these guys, right? I mean, shit, I make the best scrambled eggs in town. I prepped about 20 orders of escargot, dredged oysters for frying, scooped dough for biscuits, and zested some oranges while generally feeling like I was getting in everyone else’s way. I also cracked a lot of eggs, but for every egg that I cracked I watched Chef/Proprietor James Porter crack four or five, a skill he learned working the breakfast shift at a resort kitchen. I felt like a real schmuck. And dinner service hadn’t even started.

As luck would have it, unusual weather moved in and it started to rain. A massive downpour. At a restaurant where most of the seating is outside and the reservation book is filled, all those people had to be moved to the tiny dining room. Translation: “Hey Cooks, you better crank out those orders and not fuck anything up because we’ve got a lot of people to feed and don’t have the time or space for any fuck-ups.” If you don’t want to de-flower your virgin ears, a restaurant kitchen is not the place for you.

Moments before dinner service started, one of the cooks taught me my responsibilities and showed me how orders were tracked. I learned a salad, a hamachi appetizer, the frying station, a berry cobbler and soufflés. The tickets started rolling-in and I was amazed that I could keep up, but things got dicey when dessert orders were fired. If a soufflé takes precisely 20 minutes and there is no timer on the soufflé oven, then how do you keep track of the soufflés that started cooking 8 minutes after the others started? And how do you do that while making sure that the orders you’ve already started aren’t undercooked, overcooked or forgotten about altogether? Then, you have to make sure that a runner is available to serve those soufflés precisely at the time they come out of the oven so they don’t deflate by the time they get to the table. The level of multitasking ability required to make it as a professional cook is simply mind boggling.

I survived my shift with only one or two minor screw ups. To the table that waited 40 minutes for their soufflés: I’m sorry. I never saw the ticket and I forgot to put them in the oven. I’d buy you dessert one day if I knew who you were. To the table that waited too long for their fried oysters: I blew it. I turned my back on the fryer and by the time I remembered about them the oysters looked like charcoal briquettes and had to be tossed. I wouldn’t serve you grub that I would be afraid to eat myself.

Despite what The Food Network wants you to believe, very few professional cooks ever really “make it.” Those that attend culinary school often graduate with a mountain of debt and a $10 dollar-an-hour-thankless-job working ridiculous hours at a restaurant that may or may not be open in 6 months. It’s really no surprise that so many cooks end up divorced, drunk, or completely strung-out. You have to love what you’re doing to put up with the physical and mental anguish that is part of the unwritten job description.

The night was over in a heat-induced blur and many of the details faded after an end-of-shift shot of tequila. But the one memory that I can’t get out of my head is this: mid-evening one of the customers wanted to thank the kitchen for a great meal, so he came back to the kitchen, thanked the cooks, handed them a $20 bill and said “buy yourself a beer after work.” Without hesitation, the cadre of underpaid, overworked and sweaty misfits handed the $20 to the dishwasher who, in his broken English, said “thanks” and, with a smile, got back to the task of washing dishes.

Because that’s how it is, and always will be, in a professional kitchen.

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