Can you say weeds?

The good news is that I’ve got my station down pretty good.  After two shifts and 12 hours yesterday, I feel pretty confident. 

The bad news is that the guy who I thought was the sous chef may actually be the chef.  Not that it matters, because nobody thinks he’s going to last.  And if last night keeps happening, how could he?  He’s worked three weekends now and still has to consult his notes during service.  Maybe the guy’s doing drugs – his hands shake pretty bad when he’s trying to sauce a plate and a few people have suggested as much – or maybe he’s just a complete moron.  I don’t really know nor do I give a shit.  Keep your mouth shut and get your job done.  He’s doing both pretty poorly.

I know my station is far easier, but on only my third night I was able to crank out all the orders that came in with no crib notes and no servers milling about in the kitchen waiting for me to make their plates.

So last night I ended up sticking around well past the time I needed to in order to help bail the saute guys out of the weeds.  A couple more nights of that and I’ll have the saute station down as well.

And I’m not even sure what the problem is.  This may be high end food French fare, but the whole business (volume and menu) has been designed to make it relatively easy on the kitchen so we can get it right every time. 

The guys I worked for in Chicago promised me that any job after that one would be a stroll in the park, and so far they’re right.  There we served food seven nights a week against all odds:  there were front of the house/back of the house problems, nearly everyone was doing drugs and some folks even selling, we worked in pretty shitty conditions, the sous chef was an alcoholic, and we were often doing prep work during the busiest of times.  In general, we got our asses kicked nearly every night.  So for me last night was a piece of cake.

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