FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Glamour of a chef's work overestimated
By Wanda A. Adams
Advertiser Food Editor
The next time a beautiful dinner is set before you in a restaurant, send a heartfelt thank you back to the kitchen.
The work of chefs may seem glamorous and benign, but it is hard labor: demanding physical work carried out under difficult conditions, often without much reward.
For the first time a couple of weeks ago, I found myself in a restaurant kitchen not just watching and taking notes but helping to prepare a meal featuring the favorite recipes of local food writers at Bali by the Sea in the Hilton Hawaiian Village under the direction of chef Robert los Ba–os.
My task didn't sound like much: Inspect and taste a sample plate, create a garnish. I even wore evening dress, thinking I would just cast an approving eye over my entree and then join my friends. "Chef" had other ideas. (You always call the head chef that: just "Chef," in the formal, buck-stops-there manner of a nurse saying "Doctor.")
Chef had appointed himself expediter: the one who assures that each finished plate looks as it should, who smartens up anyone who is moving too slowly and gets the right plates to the right waiters in the right order. I was assistant expediter and chief garnisher.
The night went something like this: Chop parsley until your arm aches. Chop some more. Ask Chef if it's OK. He says "yes," but you can tell he wants the parsley even finer.
Stand around nervously waiting for the first order, sweating. The collective BTUs from the grill, salamander (overhead broiler), warmers and other equipment are the equivalent of standing in the middle of a parking lot at noon on a cloudless day. One chef makes repeated trips for cups of ice that he chews as he works. Everyone wears sweatbands. The chefs never sit down. Ever. They lean on their hands a lot, though.
When the orders come in, it's all at once. I wish for the many arms of Shiva as I pull the hot, heavy plates from the warmer to the counter below and re-create the garnish protocol that Chef and I have devised: sprig of parsley tucked under ahi, a couple of drizzles of pungent olive oil, a few dots of bright green parsley oil, minced parsley scattered in a diagonal line down the plate. Wipe the rim clean, find the right waiter, start again.
By 9 p.m., I was wilted, red-faced, ready to drop, and ready to kiss the feet of every chef in town.
My friends had an uproariously good time, joking with sommelier-for-the-night Chuck Furuya, sampling Bali creations and enjoying the flurry of activity that surrounded the arrival of an unexpected guest, Bill Clinton. (Yes, he sampled the press menu.)
"Was it fun?," they asked. "Yes," I answered. But my thoughts were with the people still at work back in the kitchen.
