Portrait of a Line Cook, Franco Gonzalez

"My name is Fran." 

Franco didn't understand the male/female variation of his name translated into english. 

"Your name in english is Frank, Franco."

Head shaking no.

"No, my name is Fran."

Me shaking my head no.  This was a common discussion between the two of us while we worked together.  He was a helluva fish cook.  He also made a mean staff meal... always when staff meal had already been done with for hours.  Usually behind your back.  Sneaky, fast and proud, I always found Franco fun to work with (when we weren't tormenting the living beejeezus outta each other).

He was a native of Pueblo and his entire family worked at the factory in town, a factory which made parts for Volkswagen.  My old boss, James, sold him his old VW Golf, and even though Franco couldn't drive manual, happily stalled it to and fro, proud to be able to have a car his family may have well produced.  Almost every cook I've ever met from Pueblo has been a incredible cook.  They just get it.  They can wring flavor outta just about anything given a second to think about it.

 







Every once in a while Fran/Frank/Franco would show me some random kitchen catalogue and ask me if something was, "a good price".  He was piece-mealing his dream of opening a taquería back home, and small fryers, flat tops and butane stoves were his obsession at the time.  A good dream if you ask me, I still want my own place.  Heck, I wouldn't mind owning a taquería.  Mexican food kicks ass.

We had our differences at times and he was known for pulling the occasional prank.  I was butchering beef tenderloins for a party when he decided to drop a sixth pan of ice water down my back.

I hit him with a tenderloin.

Then I grabbed my own pan of water and chased him through the kitchen.  

He was too quick for the second part of my revenge.  Lucky for him.  I miss Fran.

Highwood Story, Kitchen Fight!!!

I used to work for a notorious restaurant in the North 'burbs, where the Chef/Owner's temper was nigh near legendary.  He worked for 4 Michelin 3 star kitchens back when it meant something. His kitchen was the most militaristic, intense place I've ever had the um... pleasure(?) of working.  Cameras were everywhere, 16 in the kitchen areas, plus one webcam that the public could watch.  Which was nice for my wife, as she could tell when I was done working by seeing us clean at the end of shift.  Bad for the cooks though, as Chef had a habit of watching (even on vacation) and would call back to chew out the staff if he caught something out of place. 

I have a feeling there will be more than one blog about this place, but I'll start with this story.  Kind of ease back into it, see if there's any response.

So one day right before service kicked in, one of my cooks has an issue with a busser.  The cook was Fernando, who I believe was lying about his age to work.  I think he was honestly turning 16 years old halfway though his employment.  Acne riddled his face; he was prone to hormone addled rage at anything and everything.  He was a quick learner though, and was one of two main cooks on the pasta station.  Angry at the world, chip one his shoulder, and hadn't had his ass kicked hard enough yet.

The busser was Ishmael.  Twenty one years old, Ish was a full 4 inches taller than Fernando and ripped.  Ish was training to be an amateur lightweight boxer.  He could also clear more plates than most men could carry, with one hand.  Sweet guy though.  Softspoken and very polite.  I wouldn't want to start anything with him though, I doubt I'd win a fair fight (emphasis on the word fair). 

So the two get into it verbally, I pretty sure Fern told Ish to go have sex with his mother in an uncomfortable place, and it wasn't the back of a Volkswagon.  More words were exchanged and a small shove or two commenced.  They agreed to take it outside and I started to follow.  Except they never made it outside.

Ish had gone first, and as he reached the stairwell before exiting the back door, he swang the service door into Fernando's face.  Hard.  His hand then shot out and pulled the cook by the neck into the small area at the top of the stairs.  By this time I'd ran past the dish station to follow while calling out for the General Manager at the top of my lungs.  I cleared the door and confronted the two workers, who were now fully punching each other in their respective faces.  With 13 stairs leading into the basement right at their feet.  Idiots.  Someone could've died there.  Not thinking any further, I grabbed both of them and pulled them apart, all while calling for the GM, who came in time to see me holding the two apart by their shirts.

The best part of the whole thing was that it had been entirely caught on camera.  I was able to watch and replay the part where I broke up the two a good half dozen times later that evening.  I also had no issues with the kitchen staff for a few weeks after the incident.  I guess they thought I was a little crazy or something.  I think they were right.  

I ran into Fernando earlier this last year.  He works at a Garden Fresh market, his acne cleared up, and his English is better than mine now.  I'm glad to see this was just a phase or something and that he turned out okay in the end. 

A pic from said restaurant. 

Arizona Stories, Sammy the Grill Cook

Sammy was awesome.  I first learned a busy grill station from him as an intern in Phoenix and he was quite the character.  He originally moved to Arizona from Texas after getting into some gang problems in Dallas.  He was shot a few times in the knee and ended up getting his right leg amputated.  You wouldn't know it except for his limp, and it wasn't the first thing he'd run up and tell you.  This led to some interesting stories... mainly because Sammy had a warped sense of humor.

He used to play box with the saute cook, Kenneth.  Kenny used to draw pictures of Sammy in permanent marker on the line, and repeatedly hit it with things while muttering, "Can you feel that?!  Can you feel that Sammy?"  I had to work the middle and set up plates for them during service when I first started, which honed my trash talk a lot better than my cooking skills for a brief period of time.

One day Sammy decided to play box with a newer cook, and the two of them were having a great time.  It was the beginning of our shift, and the newer cook hadn't buttoned his jacket up all the way yet.  Sammy grabbed a small Braun stick blender from a bain marie and started to "fence" with it.  It was still plugged in, and tore into the skin on the new cook's chest.  While it wasn't a deep cut, the new cook looked down with disbelief before he was rushed off to emergency care.  Neither were fired, but Chef J had an hour long reprimand waiting for them both about goofing off at work.

Now, in Phoenix, the bars close super early in comparison to Chicago, so it leads to more and more house parties & socialization after work.  At one party, Sammy had been drinking quite heavily, and was getting more and more angry at a rich girl that wouldn't stop talking about all of the skiing equipment she'd just bought and how great of a time she was going to have in Colorado when the snow fell.  She was sitting next to him on the couch, when he hopped up, threw off his leg, and stated drunkenly...

"I'll never hit the damned slopes again!"

He then proceeded to hop to the kitchen to pour another rum & coke.  His "friend" screamed and ran out of the party, proceeding to ditch her boyfriend taking the only car.  He was about to start a fight with Sammy until our friends broke them up, and some samaritan gave the unhappy man a ride home. 

I couldn't stop laughing.