The end of last week at work was especially excrutiating, watching the owner prance around the kitchen, attempting to assert his dominance over everyone while I was persona non grata. Fine by me, but the worst thing was watching him force the dishwasher to tourne 30 each of carrots and potatoes, while making it explicitly clear that he didn’t want the dishwasher to obtain any assistance.
When the other line cook recommend they par-cook the carrots the owner gruffly replied “This is fine”.
Equally painful was the proud (almost weirdly sexual) look on the owner’s wife while she watched him “school” the plebian dishwasher. This urged me on later in the day when I had my stage.
Through it all I kept to myself and resigned the next day, giving a few days of notice.
Saturday came and I was pretty well left to myself.
I arrived to work around 10 a.m. and found out that the evening was to be the busiest we’d had since I started working in August. After having given notice the day prior I was in no mood to be busting my ass and contemplated just going home after lunch service. Instead I went to lunch with my line cook friend and found myself sauntering back to the restaurant around 4:30, an hour before service.
When I arrived back to work the owner had put on some whites and was behind the line. So I washed dishes, staying as far away from him as possible, keeping my promise from earlier in the day that as long as he was behind the line I was going to be as far away as possible. This is a guy who has no business working behind the line – I’ve never seen someone move slower, take up more space and piss as many people off as this guy. Eventually however he finished doing whatever it was that he was doing, and I assumed my position at the saute station.
Fortunately the owner kept to his side and expo’d plus assisted with desserts all night, while the other two line cooks and myself put out dish after dish, putting the front of house in the shit in the middle of service (why do servers fire tables when they aren’t ready or can’t handle it? I’ll never figure it out.).
As we got into a rhythm my mood vastly improved and I remembered why I changed careers in the first place – because I actually like cooking.
So I was in a good mood when I left for the night, even though the owner tried to keep me around to cook staff meal and had sent the other two cooks home, no doubt because he wanted to have some sort of talk with me on his own terms, instead of doing it the moment I gave notice (this was a pattern of behavior I came to recognize early on in my time there). As soon as I put the food in the windo I walked out and had a drink with my line cook friend before heading home.
Then yesterday afteroon, I took a phone call from the fuckhead owner whose very first question was “When do you start work?”.
“Thursday, I think” was my response. He then proceeded to tell me that he had just finished the schedule and didn’t need me to come in tomorrow or Wednesday and that he’d be sending me my paycheck.
In my mind I was thinking “motherfucker”, but just hung up the phone instead. For a brief moment I was pretty pissed that he’d somehow got me to work his busy ass Saturday night, only to try to fuck me instead. But then I called my new chef to tell him I can start today.
So I start this afternoon with better hours, slightly better pay, more workload, no fucktard wife of an owner to deal with and no power tripping Napoleon complexed fuckwit owner to answer to.
Merry Christmas to me!