Eatdrink #65 May/June 2017

62 | May/June 2017
The Lighter Side
The Newbie
eatdrink.ca |@eatdrinkmag
By RENEE BORG
Fresh out of culinary school, early one
morning I found myself standing
before one of the most prestigious
hotels in town. I had scored a position
as a prep cook, hand-picked from a bevy of
eager graduates. Riding an incredible high,
I felt I was embarking on a glorious career
filled with future restaurant openings,
TV appearances and cookbooks
with my face on the cover.
Anxious to make a good
impression, I had splurged and
kitted myself out in spanking
new chef’s duds (my student
uniform relegated to the back
of the closet): gleaming white
jacket with snappy black
buttons, fresh new apron,
crisp checked pants, and a
saucy black cap that read ‘Chef’! I
had also sprung for a very expensive
leather knife case. Bristling with
hardware, it held everything I felt necessary
for my new role: assorted chef’s knives, fruit
knife, vegetable peeler and all kinds of nifty
gadgets including a melon-baller and cherrypitter.
Beaming, I rode up the back elevators
to the floor where the kitchens were. When
the elevator doors whooshed open, I stood
and surveyed the exciting panorama of
culinary activity before me. I’d made it!
After Chef welcomed me to the brigade, I
was handed over to the sous chef and given
a tour. Then he led me through the busy prep
kitchen to a lonely back counter. Stacked
next to it, standing in a puddle of water, was
a towering pile of cardboard crates. The sous
chef cracked open the top box to reveal jumbo
tiger shrimp, packed in ice. “We need all
these shelled and deveined by 5 o’clock for a
function,” my new boss said.
“Yes, chef!” I barked out to his retreating
back, as we had been taught in school. I then
forlornly turned to the tower of shrimp.
For the next several hours I shucked, peeled
and deveined at a ripping pace, using my bare
hands, which quickly became wet and frozen.
Back then, latex gloves weren’t worn, and no
fancy gadget in my new case would make my
task any easier.
After a couple of hours, one of the other
cooks came by to see how I was doing. “Just
great!” I smiled through clenched teeth. At
noon the sous chef reappeared. I had
now been standing for over four
hours, increasingly covered with
shrimp detritus that turned my
pristine white jacket and apron
into reeking, purplish-stained
rags. The sous chef wordlessly
pulled up a stool for me to
sit on and walked away again.
By then my wet fingers were
covered in slippery bandages
from peeling back the sharp shells.
I no longer thought of cookbooks
and restaurant openings but just
kept smiling and shelling, smiling
and shelling in my little shrimp hell corner.
I finally finished the last shrimp at 5:30.
Filthy and soaking wet, I watched as the trays
of prepared shrimp were whisked away by the
garde manger staff. The cook who’d checked
up on me earlier sidled over. “You passed,”
he said. “They always give the newbies the
worst job on day one, to see if they whine and
complain. You did well.” Suddenly I felt a glow
of triumph which sustained me all the way
home on the bus (as fellow passengers dove
for the windows).
The next day, I humbly put on my old
school uniform and presented myself wearing
a plain white cap. The Sous chef led me into
the kitchen again and pointed at an empty
space on a bench beside another cook. “Today,
you mince parsley,” he said. The cook beside
me smiled. “Welcome to the Hilton.”
RENEE BORG is a newbie freelance writer based in
London who enjoys travel and food adventures but avoids
shrimp at all costs.