Sunday, January 11, 2009

Hazing Days

Hazing is a way of life in a restaurant. You've got to haze the new guy.

I started work at a restaurant on Thursday. Most everyone there knows me. They know I'm not "the new guy". I'm not another cookie coming in to work on the line, I'm the new pastry guy, the one the new pastry kitchen that's been sitting there locked up is finally being opened for, the sweetie who unlike the last guy, will actually be stepping onto the line and filling in, especially on sauces.

Everybody that is except for the last new guy hired. The one hired after the last time I did an emergency fill-in. The one I call Twit.

Twit took some cooking classes in high school and junior college. He may be taking some at culinary school. Not clear on that one. But he has dreams and aspirations of being more than just a guy on the line. He's going to be a chef, which automatically has him thinking he's way better than any of the guys on the line who simply see it as a job. Doesn't matter they do it damn well.

I get the heads up that they've all lied, including Chef, and said I'm just a new guy hired on the line and he's all hepped up about having someone lower on the totem pole than him. So before everyone else is due to come in, I stash my chef's jacket, which is orange of course, and put on the ugliest one in the store room, and lock up the pastry kitchen so he thinks I'm just on the line.

First off, Twit does not wonder about if I'm the new guy, practically off the street, why is he on salads and I'm on pastry and sauces? Second, guy's about 5'7". I'm 6'7". He's either got a lot of balls or is just plain stupid to mess with me. We all voted on the latter. Third, dimwit even after figuring out I was the pastry chef, couldn't figure out why people called me Sweetie. It's a name some people call the pastry guy. It's got to do with all the sweets. We had to explain it to him.

It was great fun. It finally got blown when the owner was expediting and the first dessert order got called out and she slipped up and said "Chef B~"

No, I'm not being pretentious making them use my last name. When not called Scarecrow I am usually called by my last name, not my first. It's been that was for so long, a lot of people are surprised when they hear my first name. Chef is called just Chef or Chef S [his first name] and I'm Chef B~. Wannabe chef has to call me Chef B~.

And yes, I give the kid hell. Last night one of the salads he was making used this very white shoe peg corn.

Shoe peg corn, you say? Yes I say. I have a lower front tooth that won't stay mounted to its post. Narrow removable tooth. Narrow white corn. Can I resist? No. I walked by. Sneezed. Oops. Where's my tooth?! Find my tooth. You have to go through every single bit of that corn to be certain my tooth is not in there. Check those salads! Somehow I made it his fault too for not protecting his station better. Chef said he'd get me a ride home when I was ready to leave if I'd put my tooth back in and go over and bitch out Twit for not having found my tooth yet. I did, and when Twit noticed it I completely denied my tooth was there. "Where the @#$^ do you get off questioning me? I think I should know whether or not I have all my teeth in my mouth and can you even see this far up? Ah, but you're so damn cute when riled up. Fiesty even! Rowr!" People who work with me spend a lot of time laughing.

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