by Anya Regelin
“Would you hurry up in there?” a voice said from outside the bathroom door followed by a loud banging.
“Just a minute,” I said for the third time flushed the toilet with my black clog.
Crumpled toilet paper was on the floor, used paper towels spilled out of the trashcan, and a slippery mist of white powder covered everything. On the shelf over the sink sat three yellow, mutilated boxes of Argo cornstarch. On the front of each box, hovering over each cartoon Indian woman’s head, someone had scrawled with a black Sharpie: Bart’s Balls. Bill’s Balls. Devons’ Duds. It was hot on the line and the boys, well, they suffered.
Again, pounding.
“Okay!” I yelled, and turned on the sink while clutching a paper towel. It was early in the night; there was still soap.
In this sleekly designed three-star restaurant, every detail was carefully considered except when it came to the back of the house. There, the entire uniformed staff shared one washroom. Chefs, cooks, dishwashers, porters, captains, front-waiters, back-waiters, runners: we all had to stand on line.
I looked in the mirror and stared back at my pale face. Make-up was a no-no in the kitchen.
“Do it,” I said out loud, and cringed.
Do it was the buzz phrase running though the kitchen that week. It was initiated by Devon, the sous-chef, and was barked at overwhelmed cooks, complaining servers, and bored dish guys alike. It was a constant source of amusement to Mark, our Chef. When I said it, I felt awkward and plastic.
I swung open the door and glared at the blue shirted captain holding his toothbrush in his fist.
This wasn’t your typical cramped New York City restaurant kitchen. The space was wide open with sprawling stainless steel, white walls, ample low boys, and huge walk-in refrigerators. Across the kitchen and directly facing the washroom was the pastry area, where I worked. In the center of the kitchen, in front of two rows of face-to-face Viking ranges and four sweating cooks, was “the pass” where the Chef stood and orchestrated our night.
“Ordering: two Jon Dory, swiss chard, spring peas, followed by one baby lamb, butt-nut, fingerling,” called Mark. “Johnny, what the hell are you doing back there, I’m waiting on two guineas– you’re holding everyone up!”
“They’re resting Chef,” Johnny yelled back from his twelve-burner station, “two minutes.”
“You’re resting, Johnny, you are resting. Waiting on two guinea-hens!” he called again.
“DO IT!” Devon yelled from garde manger where he was demonstrating a perfectly plated foie torchone to Tony.
“Yes Chef!” Johnny said.
If Mark was in a good mood, we were in a good mood, but if he was in a bad mood we avoided all eye contact.
“DOWN!” yelled a runner, flying down the stairs from the dining room. He heaved the heavy tray on his shoulder and yelled “UP!” and ran out the door and up the stairs to expectant diners.
There were six of us pastry cooks, the only girls in the kitchen. Identical in our starched white jackets and pulled back hair, we had each developed a strong persona: the bitch, the martyr, the party-girl slut, the annoying little sister, and the “just-one-of-the-guys” best friend. It was my first two months and I kept my head down and I came off as aloof. Quickly, I became known as the stuck-up girl, though really, I was the uncomfortable girl. Before entering the elite restaurant world, I had visions of trips to the farmers market, heirloom blah-blah-blah, and hushed intellectual conversations of taste and texture. But this wasn’t art, it was the army, and I was having a hard time fitting into the club.
It was Sunday, and that night we were on a slow rolling wave. Lisa (the bitch) and I had our hands in a large, clear, plastic tub filled with cold water and a case of pomegranates. As we silently picked, seeds floated to the bottom, the pith to the top. In the morning, the day cooks would make sorbet from the juice. But for tonight, this was our Zen task, something to do while we waited for the next round of tickets to come flowing in.
Our machine came to life and spit out a single order.
“Guess what?” Lisa said, turning her head around to look at the order ticket without taking her hands out of the water.
“Ordering a donuts,” I said, sighing, and drying my hands on the blue towel that hung from my apron.
After a review earlier that month in The New York Times, we became known for our donuts. Cinnamon brioche and chocolate glazed; there were three of each on a plate lined up like little soldiers with donut hole caps on their heads. They were freshly made to order, smelled delicious, and were really, really cute. Almost every table ordered them, and they were quickly becoming the bane of my existence.
I carefully lowered the fry basket of raw donut dough into the hot oil and turned back to the jeweled seeds.
The line was in full force and Mark roared over the clamor.
“Are you guys still drunk out there? Order, fire, pick-up: tuna, frisse, add truffles, one more jew-chokes. two all day.”
Jew-chokes? I thought, turning the phrase over and over in my head. Jerusalem Artichokes. I looked up and smiled when I got it, and accidentally caught his eye. I blushed, he smirked, and I quickly looked down and kept picking.
“DO IT!” Devon yelled from inside one of the walk-ins.
Choruses of “Yes Chefs” gurgled from the line.
“Your donuts,” Lisa reminded me.
I pulled the basket out of the hot oil.
Burnt.
I showed the fryer basket to Lisa and she rolled her eyes. The delicate chocolate donuts had not only overcooked, but had also burst open, floating in the oil like a bunch of cracked, brown turds. I dropped in a new order, and was about to throw the ruined ones out when inspiration hit. I took two of the chocolate donuts, wrapped them in a paper towel, put them in my apron. No one was on line for the washroom. The savory side of the kitchen was fully slammed with everyone hovering over their stations cranking out food.
“Can you finish this these donuts?” I asked Lisa.
I ducked into the washroom and lay one of the donuts on the edge of the toilet seat. I put the other on the floor right beside the toilet, and kicked a piece of crumpled toilet paper next to it. I stood back to survey the scene: subtle, authentic, and completely gross. Quickly, I walked back to our station.
“Did you just …” Lisa started to ask, fighting back giggles.
“I did! Don’t laugh!”
Our ticket machine started buzzing. Lisa called out orders and we got busy. Tony walked off his station and went into the washroom. Not even five seconds later, he walked out, wide eyed.
A minute later, we heard “DOWN,” and a blue-shirted front waiter clomped down the stairwell, across the kitchen, and straight into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Our ticket machine was going crazy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bart, the vegetable guy walk off his station, untie his apron, and get on line for the bathroom. One of the porters emerged from the dish room and stood behind Bart. The waiter was still in there.
One order was rolling in after another, and I was trying to follow the action at the other end of the kitchen without losing it completely.
The door flew open.
“It wasn’t me,” she announced, emerging with a fresh coat of lipstick on. “UP!” she yelled, running upstairs.
Bart walked in, and then walked right out.
“It wasn’t her?” he said, loudly.
“Na, man, I saw it there too,” Tony yelled from his station.
“Chef!” Bart said, and walked over to talk to Mark in close conference.
“What the fuck, fucking animals,” Mark said, “Devon! Where’s my fucking sous-chef? I need a sous-chef here!”
Devon was pulled off the meat line where he was berating Johnny, comparing him to a weak little boy, wondering how he can get a woman in bed if he can’t sear a little piece of thymus gland right.
Lisa and I were trying hard to keep it together.
Mark and Devon had disappeared while the guys from the line were taking turns walking in and out of the bathroom, dramatically tying their dishrags around their mouths and accusing each other of the offense. When Mark and Devon reappeared, they were in full dishwasher cowboy regalia with elbow length rubber gloves, long plastic aprons, and blue rags tied over their faces. Devon was armed with a spray bottle and a hose, Mark with a broomstick.
“Animals!” Mark yelled, bending over, trying to nudge the turd off the side of the bowl with his broomstick.
“Do it Cheffie,” Devon yelled back, “DO IT!”
All of a sudden, the action stopped and they looked over at us, faces red, no sign of amusement.
“You?” Mark said to Lisa.
“No,” she said, saucing a plate, wiping tears from her eyes, and jutting her chin out at me. “Her.”
I was in the middle of about fourteen things, but I could feel myself freezing up.
Mark walked toward me, his arm outstretched, holding the donuts, which didn’t look much like turds anymore. I started to panic, wondering what in the world had possessed me. Was I so desperate to be one of the guys that I had stooped to potty humor?
“Well,” he said, “I guess you gotta shit with the crew to be part of the club.”
From that point on I was known as the Donut Girl, which I embraced, because hey, it could have been worse.
Anya Regelin has cooked professionally for the past 13 years. She currently chefs for private clients while working on her MFA in Creative Non-Fiction at The New School.
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