Dear Diary

“Dear Diary

I almost ate alive one of my cooks. Yeah the one that wanted to leave a couple of weeks ago. Today he decided that 5kgs of basmati with 2 carrots a bit of oil and some soy sauce was good enough to be camouflaged as fried rice. You would understand that rage that comes from witnessing a half-assed job being done and then having the whole staff meal of the restaurant ruined by his lack of, how do I say it elegantly, giving a fuck. His answer: “chef the chicken was frozen”. Fuck you.

How did I solved the issue you asked? 

Oh well dear diary, first I wanted to give my old chap a lesson in cooking guerrilla, ‘cause we’ve all forgotten a time or two to defrost something on time. And then getting shit given at us.

Second, it needed to be something fast and tasty. Fast cause people were hungry, and tasty because there is only 1 way to cook.

47 minutes, 5 chickens, 1kg of potatoes, 1kg of carrots, 2kg of onions, a bunch of garlic, soy sauce, ketchup, salt, pepper and 1lt orange juice later, we were ready to eat.

I was swearing and sweating while abusing my cook and making the meal, which proves that you don’t need to be in the right mood to cook a good meal. But I was motivated to show him and my team that a good meal doesn’t require hours of prep, or expensive shit, just a lot of reading and daily practice. Those 2 will get you far in the chef-ing lines even if you are an average Joe. You get those two and add talent, and you get the MPWs, the Blumenthals, the Botturas, the Ramsays, the Redzepis, the José Andrés of the world.

After the level 8 reactor melt regarding the evening frivolities, I took him to the prep room. My boys know what I mean when I say “Everybody out”. I wanted to scare the fuck out of that child but also wanted him to understand why mediocrity is not a regarding way of life. If you are mediocre at something because of actual real limitations, I’m sorry mate, my bad. But if it was that you, a professional cook, didn’t care about the meal that the whole FOH and BOH were gonna have, then mate, it’s been a pleasure, you are free to find a place where that kind of behavior is tolerated.”

That happened around 4 weeks ago. If he performs well during December madness, I’m thinking about promoting him to Demi CDP by January.

About yesterday...

Fuck me.

Knees hurt from last night 12 hour shift. Throat is dry and craving a drink. Anything but water. I fucking hate water. People say it’s flavorless and odorless. That shit doesn’t taste right and I won’t let nobody tell me the contrary. Coconut water is my new favorite thing. And Ibuprofen.

Emails start arriving. Order cost from yesterday. HR asking me about missing documents from a couple of cooks. Purchase confirming my 9k order from yesterday. Marketing wanting to review the new menu promotion. Finance reviewing my food cost. I’m still in bed and haven’t open my second eye yet.

The alarm pounds like a maul tenderizing schnitzels. I try not to wake Elena, and go to the bathroom. Pee burns from the excess of alcohol from last night, and the strong yellow color tells me what my doctor will be saying about my kidneys in a couple of months. Some teeth brushing, some face washing, some coffee making. Uniform in and I feel Bourdain would be proud of me.

Check list. Wallet, phone, keys, cigarettes, ipod, knives. Kiss Elena goodbye with a promise of coming home early today. Me and her already know I won’t. Breaking promises before they are made.

Get into the car. Door closes. What am I craving today? I need an extra boost of energy, so Kasabian it is. Club Foot? No, I don’t deserve it yet. Underdog? No, I’ll need it to deal with the fucktards on SZR. Bumblebee? Perfect. Tom Meighan screams through the speakers and I hit the gas.

Going under 120 kph to avoid that sweet 600 aed fine. My receiver texts me he rejected the order of Uzbek tomatoes because some of them were bruised, and that the meat delivery came incomplete. Tomorrow is Friday, and deliveries don’t work on the weekend. Fuck me. Will deal with it later, maybe a transfer from a sister property will save my ass. Gotta cost those new recipes my exec just did. I hope nothing is 86. The traffic goes easy and I take it as a good sign of the rest of the day. Too many Patrols and not enough Beatles.

I park nearby and light the first of the day. It hurts. Pass by my prep section. Everyone is either doing staff meal, cleaning tenderloin or defrosting prawns. Some Nepali music comes from the speaker and I know my Ugandan commis is hating his morning. I ask them to change it, and some reggaeton starts playing. They all know the lyrics, but no clue what they mean. At least now they look like an ugly weird happy family.

Next stop is Pastry, I know Nurzada will be doing honey cake and baking some puff pastry for the Napoleon. She offers me a spoonful and a smile. I take both, love my pastry girls, drama free zone. My 6 square meters of peace whenever the walk ins are crowded with crying staff.

Cold section, hot section, grill and dough. Everyone is there already and a coffee is waiting for me by the pass. 

• “Morning boys”
• “Morning chef”. “Salam Aleikum”. “Zdrastvooyte”.

Make sure my stewards received their coffees. Their smile and head shaking shows me they had. Now to my receiver to update me on the frivolities of the morning. The meat supplier will come back in the afternoon with the rest of the order, but no tomatoes till Saturday. Now I need to change the promo menu that I’ve prepared for the next 2 days. Maybe local tomato, maybe beef tomato. Maybe datterinos, maybe heirlooms. Fuck it, I don’t have time for this shit. Cherry tomatoes will have to do the trick for now.

Still hangover, but overloaded on caffeine I feel like doing a lot of nothing. No time, gotta do a bit of everything. First let’s get the production of the day going on. Distribute directions to all sections. Head to the bar and ask for a Bloody Mary.  “Sunglasses and Advil, last night was bad real” as Kanye said. “Make it Virgin” I tell my barman while I wink him an eye. “Suuuure chef” he replies as he winks me one back. God bless his soul.

There is a storm in Dubai, and it looks in between the apocalypse and just another Tuesday. Nobody spoke about no storm shit before I came here 5 years ago. The people flow will be low, that’ll give me time to get ready before tonights 100 pax 5 course meal sharing style. 

My prep cook tells me he doesn’t feel comfortable doing the staff meal. The fuck you think you are? We all do shit we’re not comfortable with. It’s in here the territory for growth son. Nothing will prepare you more for being a cook, than making big amounts of delicious meals every day on a short notice and with limited help. Equipment? I made sure that you got every toy in the store. That smoker is expensive and you are just saving them for special things. Throw those semi bbq chicken wings in the 1/1 and add some salt for the love of god. A little more honey and breading them before is not a terrible idea either. They grab more sauce that way. You learn this shit by eating, by cooking, by pushing, by respecting your product which died not for you to make it at least, very delicious. 

Hope he gets inspired or threatened whichever he chooses, because here we are all wearing the same t-shirt, no name tags. Because here nobody plays less than the one next to him or her. So you show your good game or you don’t show up, you feel me?

Back to the line, lunch starts slow with tables of 3, of 4 and 5 pax. I got my favorite runner on the pass, so I know orders won’t get confused in the way to the customers. He’s a mix of drug dealer, low-key singer and military courier. Absolutely dependable, a key and under appreciated position in today’s restaurant. Hope he doesn’t realize how good he is, at least, till I make my move in a year or so.

My Sous arrives. When he is in the pass, I have more peace of mind than a teenager with a negative pregnancy test. I give him directions for the 100pax function and he distributes the work through the kitchen.

The hours go by while the coffee goes down. Promotional menu? Done. Costing? 28%. Passports? Sent. Roster? Printed. And it’s suddenly 5 pm.

Back to the kitchen to check on how the prep is going for the big group. Everyone is on it, and with a very good attitude. Nothing like a busy night to ignite adrenaline in the hearts of the true cooks. Nobody more excited than my Sous, he loves that shit. I approach a busy service with a mix of caution and anticipation. I keep approaching the young members of the team to recite the words of Matt, an ex head chef: “Do you smell that? That’s fear.” Works every time. I wonder what that angry young man is up to today. Can’t thank him enough.

The printer starts singing to us the song of his people. It’s show time.