Food Service, LOL

Inspired by the latest feature in The Stranger while sipping an iced mocha this morning, I couldn't help but wander off in thought about my one and only job in a kitchen; an upscale retirement comm...oh excuse me, "assisted living facility" back in ye olde New Hampshire. It's from a time in my life I don't generally look back too fondly on, during my days as a lazy stoner later on in high school; my athletic days already long gone thanks to countless injuries and the crushing realization that I'm simply too fucking small to play damn near anything competitively.

After hopping around between a few different part-time, after-school jobs in the area, this particular establishment, with a geographic location basically straddling the line of division between the two main school districts in the area seemed to have a complete overhaul in part-time staff between kids mostly from "that other district" to the ones in ours, so the recruitment process in the halls during school came hard and fast seemingly overnight. Since the facility only really served one true "course" (dinner), the needed hours for staffing to carry this out was perfect for local teenage dipshits to fill. Supposedly the best job was to be a server, and being the dumbass I am, I waited WAYYYY too long to pick up an application and was greeted with only two choices; prep cook, or dishwasher. Even though a prep cook would make more money, they also had to work longer hours, and I already had a cushy gig putting in a couple hours a day as an office "assistant" ("bitch" is more like it) at my sister's office, somehow earning $10/hr just waiting around to do menial tasks. So, dishwasher it was.

As you would imagine, it sucked, but the hours were incredibly flexible, and because literally everyone around me was a classmate, the time flew by. An already simple three-hour shift felt less than an hour, as in between every scrubbed pan were several moments of general teenage tomfoolery. I honestly could've stretched this dishwasher gig out for several months; it was easy, it certainly wasn't a career path, and at least it helped keep me busy during the school week.

Only a month into it though, one of the prep cooks quit, and the chef, a somehat goofy looking, 40-something year old who just had the essence of a man who goes home and gets berated by his wife for several hours before bedtime asked if I could take the now open position. I didn't want the gig, but I was so flattered that he bypassed the entire service staff and asked ME, one of the guys breaking more plates in the washroom than actually cleaning them, for it. Without thinking, I just blinked and said "yes". Shit.

I had to quit my easy office bitch job because my new shift started literally ten minutes after last period at school, and I was immediately thrown into the fire of: chopping. Endless, tedious, soul-sucking chopping of vegetables and whatever else was laid out. What made it worse was that the other prep cook was a college dropout from bumfuck nowhere with the personality of a doorknob, and my fellow classmates in the service staff and elsewhere in the kitchen wouldn't arrive nightly for another few hours. So, just me, and the college dropout doorknob in the back of the kitchen, going Jeffrey Dahmer (minus the eating) on various foodstuffs. During the actual dinner service we'd emerge with the other line cooks and at least be at the front of the line to serve plates and chat, but then towards the end it was back to the chopping; this time prepping for tomorrow's breakfast or whatever.

I found out quickly that the college dropout doorknob was also relatively new, so our sentence of endless chopping was mostly a training period to see if we could...chop things, I guess. It was only a week of this hell before the chef then also tasked us with making soups, some desserts, and other dishes. We still had to chop the living fuck out of everything though, so the first couple hours of every shift went from mindless vegetable slicing to "SUPERFAST FUCK CHOPCHOPCHOP" then actual cooking. This was essentially my after-school life for about a full year. And, while I had to make every soup known to man at least ten times over, I can't remember a single fucking recipe to pass along for the life of me.

But, as I'm sure anyone who has worked in a kitchen/restaurant can attest to, the actual environment is what you remember the most. If you haven't worked in one, let me break it down to you: it's an endless cycle of slow, FAST, slow, HOLY SHIT HURRY, quick, MOTHER OF FUCKING GOD SERVICE NOW, quick, SPEED OF LIGHT JESUS CHRIST, aaaand crash. Every night.

Oh, and there's lots of drugs, sex, and curse words. Every night.

Our chef was fairly normal, albeit a little "off" (again, I'm convinced his wife is the spawn of Satan so work is actually a refuge for him), but everyone else in that kitchen was a tinderbox of unreliability and questionable, often illegal, habits. One of our line cooks, named Greg, was arguably one of the biggest dealers on our side of the state, so he spent more time on the loading dock UNloading hash, pot, LSD, and other "goodies" to the underage service staff than actually at the front of the line. Another line cook (name I can't remember) was something of a loser in real life but was 21 and admittedly handsome, so aside from buying booze for anyone who would ask, I'm pretty sure his DNA is now a permanent fixture all over the walk-in where we normally kept salads because almost every 16-year old tart had at least one encounter with him in there. The other, other line cook, the oldest, named Frank, was a real nice guy. And a little hyper, but for good reason; I'm pretty sure the tallest point in SW New Hampshire was the mound of coke he snorted before every shift. It was also no wonder why he always "forgot something" in his truck every 30 minutes.

The real eye-opener though was how this trickled down onto the rest of the staff so quickly. Most of the service staff were females in my school, generally of the "preppy, I-wouldn't-have-thought-they-put-out" variety. Perhaps that's exactly what they were before they were hired, but holy hell, did they come out the other side smelling of cheap booze and regret. Aside from wild humps in the supply closet with Mr. 21 year old line cook, Greg was also certain that they became somewhat regular customers of his. When our eyes locked in the hallways at school, the unmistakable "please, do NOT tell anyone" written on their face was in bold, neon letters. I could only smirk and nod, as I could only imagine the horror if their fathers found out what their Abercrombie wearing, church-going daughter was doing while at fucking work. Let that sink in; this wasn't weekend shenanigans at so-and-so's house when the parents are away, pouding a few warm beers and maybe a hit or two...this was a Tuesday night, sex in one walk-in, snort a line in another, bang out a dinner service, steal a bottle of wine (our chef had allowed the 21 year old future sex offender to keep tabs on most of the inventory...bad idea), and then drive home for school the next day. Wash, rinse and repeat probably two days later.

When I quit, I quit hard. The long hours of prep cooking and watching promising young girls completely defile themselves, courtesy of Creepy Old Men With Drugs just...grossed me the fuck out. I only worked another three shifts into my two week notice, then just stopped showing up. My last day was actually a Friday night, and I ended up going home knowing I wouldn't go back and slept clear into Saturday evening. I remember then taking one of the longest showers of my life, and then a sobering realization hit me:

Wait, all I had to do was dangle some weed in front of those preppy, rich girls all this time? FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

3+ Years and Counting...

If you're anything like me (and if you are, you should seriously consider changing everything about yourself), occasionally you find yourself on a weekend night too tired to spend time with peers drinking and fucking the night away, but instead of being smart and deciding to go to bed, or read a damn book, you reflect on the inane minutiae around you. I managed to ignore a few text messages because I was too caught up pondering the essence of my desk lamp, but then it dawned on me; holy hell, I've somehow lived in this city for over three years. It feels like, one, at the most, but...damn.

I'm coping like most displaced east-coasters do out here; constantly telling yourself "hey, at least it's not snowing" while crying into your coffee as you look out the window to the see the umpteenth day of drizzle in a row. I bitch like most displaced east-coasters at the passive-aggressiveness of a native populace in Seattle that boldly claim to hold "liberal" values while harboring a surprising level of ignorance towards most minorities and failing miserably to enable enough light rail routes to steer us away from our evil, carbon-emitting automobiles. But, like most displaced east-coasters, I take solace in the abundance of Asian food, goofy shit sold in Capitol Hill boutiques, and the undeniable fact that, when the weather IS good, it is entirely impossible NOT to find something to do.

Have I learned anything? Found undeniable truths? Possibly; but I'm also coming to a larger understanding (which is hard to admit) that most likely, I came out here for the wrong reasons. I didn't run from anything, but I sure as shit never looked back as I sped westward, on some undefined journey under the misguided flag of "self-discovery". Sure, it's not fun to tread on the same ground, with the same friends at the same hangouts where the relationship with the love of your life sped off the freeway at 100mph and crashed into the ravine. But it wasn't her fault, and it wasn't mine, simply a case of "life happens".

Damn, really? There's no way I packed my shit and high-tailed it to the Pacific Northwest for that, right? Well, the fact is I can't think of any other specific reason. And, while I'm not literally beating myself up over this, I can't help but facepalm at the fact I've put significant distance and strain between family and friends for a reason I can't pinpoint. I'm okay here, but not nearly in love with the area enough to be fully satisfied and to make an honest effort to really make this place home. It's an odd state to find oneself where you feel that something is lacking, yet you're not nearly restless enough to light a fire under your ass and do something about it.

On the plus side, I have a better grasp of my own morals, my own beliefs, and my own existence because, let's face it; for 2/3 of the year here, you have to duck into a coffee shop to save yourself from a drenching, and do a lot of thinking. I'm very good at thinking...could improve on the follow-through of said thoughts and ideas, but goddamn I can drum up a thought bubble that could kick your thought bubble's ass. And, surprisingly, said thought bubbles are not just about sex and "shit, did I leave the gas light on?" I'm talking like...thoughts...here. Deep ones. Thoughts that can move mountains and dismantle Iran's nuclear program.

So, here's to you, Seattle, for being an "alright" city that makes me think a lot. You're a real pal.