All of the characters in this story are over the age of 18.
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Heat, stress, burns, and cuts. Does that sound like a good or bad night to you? To me, it sounds perfect. Working as sous chef means that you're second in command, just under the head chef. I watch over the line cooks and make sure that they are cooking as well as I know they can. In order to understand how I got into this position, we need to go back to what brought me here in the first place...
Boston, Massachusetts. 2012.
As a kid, Paris always intrigued me. It seemed like a place so full of culture and luxury that it instantly appealed to me. I am a romantic at heart maybe that is why I got into cooking from a young age. Turn on some music, nobody but me in the kitchen, free to season and cook what I want. Cooking is a selfish and selfless art. I know that sounds contradicting but allow me to explain; it is selfish because when you are cooking, you are seasoning and cooking things how you like to cook them. But it is selfless because all of the work you put into that dish puts big smiles on those who eat them. I love to cook for anybody who will eat it; notable people to cook for are lovers. You wouldn't believe how seductive a good bottle of wine and a sweet dessert can be!
My parents were practically non-existent in my childhood and I never really got along with them, one night my father and I got into a very heated argument. My father, Frank, is an extremely headstrong douchebag, he is also a 'my way or the highway' type of person. You see, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps and run the business his father and father before him had ran. I didn't want to pursue that route, my passions and desires were different. But Frank was persisting on having it his way.
"I want you to run this business Danny! Don't break this tradition; you would be disrespecting all of the men through our generations! Do you want to do that?" My father roared.
"How dare you! You claim I need to believe in dogmatic principles that have been passed down for generations? Can't I make decisions on my own? Jesus Christ! I am going to live my life the way I want, not the way you or anybody else wants!" I replied bitterly.
"NO, you're 18-fucking years old Danny, I'm your father and you live under my roof. If you want to live here then you will allow me to groom you as my successor! If you don't want to do that, then you can leave."
By the end of that night I had a bag packed and a one way ticket to Paris, just me and my knifes. My father let me go and convinced my mother to not say anything because he believed that I would come back that night. That didn't happen.
After that night everything changed, I soon learned the cruel world I was entering in to. The first night in Paris was purely fear. The first week was all self-doubt. The first month was chalk full language barriers. However, in hindsight the first year was the greatest and most free years of my life. The fact that I didn't know where I was going and had the constant stress to preform was like a drug, that hunger that comes from deep down, that kick of adrenaline, the fight or flight instinct, when you realize that if you fuck this dish up then you will be on the street and begging for work again. This is a kind of hunger that very few will ever experience. In the beginning I didn't speak French; I conned my way into a kitchen and started building my way up the chain. As the years passed the confidence grew, more and more. The cooks beside me became my best friends, they taught me French, helped improve my cooking, and hooked me up with some very sexy women. After all I was the 'American', who would have thought that the French go batshit over American accents? I certainly found out quickly.
Paris, France. 2016.
"Jordan, how are we on the Risotto?" I barked.
"5 minutes, Chef!" He replied distracted with the perfection in his saucepan.
"Make sure you don't put too much salt, yeah?"
"Yes, Chef!" He chanted.
"Michelle! Don't burn that fucking salmon again, understood?" I shouted.
"Yes, Chef!" Michelle barked.
I love that phrase "Yes, Chef." It shows respect that can only be gained by hard work and experience in the industry. When you're a line cook you don't have any respect from the Executive Chef or the Sous Chef. It's a great accomplishment to be called chef by people in your kitchen. Normal people address anyone who works in a kitchen as a chef, but in the industry it is taken more seriously. After bumming around at a few different restaurants, I was taken under the wing of a world renowned French chef, Aldrich Yates. Aldrich was a mentor to me over the years; I learned a vast amount of wisdom from him. It was never easy; I worked 16 hours a day. Aldrich started me washing dishes, I cooked on the line and prepped for years, while Aldrich and I cooked for hours afterward, and working on new and innovative dishes and recipes, jovial and boyish laughter constantly erupted throughout our time together. Soon he became a great friend, I was his best man and soon after he promoted me to Sous Chef, to work as his right hand. Work was great every night, I trained new cooks, I plated Aldrich's food, and helped him formulate the menu. One day Aldrich approached me and I instantly knew something was off.
"You okay?" I asked concerned.
"Danny, I have some bad news." Aldrich said one day.
"Are you okay?" I asked concerned.
"Yes, I'm not sick or anything if that's what you mean," he replied "No. Danny, I'm not getting any younger, 65 and still in the kitchen... I just can't do it!"
"Ok, would you like my help to find a replacement chef?" I asked.
"I would like you to replace me Danny." Aldrich said. The panic starts to set in. Could I even be an executive chef? An executive chef needs to make a menu, buy the material for aforementioned menu, interact with the Maitre'd, talk and budget with the owner. Could I handle all of that?
