And because I’ve been cooking things I don’t normally do (see my previous post), I got to thinking about Kathy Pitts and the Lob again. The longer-time members of my Small but Faithful Readership may remember the Mother’s Day Lobster Tale. For the others, I’ll explain that Kathy used to work as a line cook at the Red Lobster in College Station, Texas, home of Texas A&M University, and used to entertain members of the Fidonet cooking newsgroup with her stories of “life at the Lob.”
New Year’s Eve at the Lob was predictable. Walked in about an hour early, just to get the lay of the land. (I dislike nasty surprises.)
Found Junior (the broil cook) and one of the grill guys sitting in the lobby, discussing the manufacture of various explosives. Since Junior’s favorite bedtime reading is The Anarchist’s Cookbook, the discussion rapidly got too technical for me. Told them both they were sick puppies, and headed for the back.
Went looking for the daily food count, just so I’d know what I was gonna be up against. Clipboard is missing. Hmmmm, check the break room, maybe?
Walked into the break room, to find Sean the Dishbanger juggling potatoes and carrying on a conversation with himself in two distinctly different voices. He does this a lot. Doesn’t seem to understand why the rest of us find this behavior slightly alarming. Didn’t want to interrupt THAT conversation, so I headed for the manager’s office.
General Manager was in the office, shuffling papers, cussing softly, obviously in a vile mood. Then I remembered, in addition to New Year’s Eve, it’s INVENTORY SUNDAY—the dreaded monthly counting/weighing of every piece of product in the house. GM is positively dangerous just before inventory, so I left THERE in a hurry.
Associate Manager was on the phone, apparently reading the entire menu to someone who wanted a take-out. Waited ’til she got done, and asked if she’d seen the clipboard. “I think the GM has it . . . but could you do me a favor and give this to Mike the Bartender for me?” Hands me a sheet with an incredibly detailed (and largely illegible) take-out order on it, along with an equally detailed (and equally incomprehensible) set of verbal instructions for same.
Mike’s usually an oasis of sanity in a crazy world, so I agreed, on the condition that SHE would go into the office and pry the clipboard out of the GM’s clutches. Handed the take-out to Mike who couldn’t make sense out of it either. Oh well. On my way out, passed Junior and the grill guy, whose conversation had now progressed to the attachment of incendiary devices to various portions of automobiles. Remind myself not to even mildly annoy Junior in the future.
Got a Coke. Discovered someone had fouled up the lines AGAIN, and the Coke nozzle was dispensing Diet Coke. Gagged. Found the Alley Coordinator and pointed out the problem. He didn’t look happy, but did agree to change it.
Finally got custody of the clipboard. In the spirit of the day, the prep cooks had gleefully decided to make what THEY thought we’d need, instead of what the prep sheet called for. Also discovered there was NO back-up salad chopped, no potatoes washed, the chowder was nicely curdled, and the back line looked like an explosion in a cracker factory. By this time, my mood was rivaling that of the GM.
But it gets better . . .
Finally clocked on. Got 150 lbs. of potatoes washing. Trashed the curdled chowder and made another batch. Started washing lettuce for salad. Made the 27 orders of seared shrimp and scallops the prep cooks overlooked. Cleaned up the prep tables and the sink.
GM strolls out of the office, evil grin on his face. Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to give you this.” Hands me a 2-page corporate memo on the new, revised technique for chopping salad. Read the memo, which was obviously written by some nimnal who has NEVER chopped more than 2 heads of lettuce at a time in his life.
The new, revised, improved technique involves chopping the unwashed heads of lettuce, throwing them in a sink rigged with a stand-pipe, and filled one-third full of ice, and allowing running water to go over the lettuce until the ice is melted. By some magical process, this is SUPPOSED to remove the sand, bugs, etc. from the lettuce.
Dunno what the lettuce you get looks like, but our leaf sometimes contains half the Sacramento delta. Point this out to the GM, as politely as possible under the circumstances. “I know, but we’ve got a QA audit coming up, and until we hear differently, we have to do it this way.”
Told the GM I’d do it, but I still intended to wash the heads of lettuce first. Twice as much work, but I don’t like gritty salad, and I suspect our guests don’t either.
By this time, we’re getting kinda busy. The current Kid wanders in, looking a little shell-shocked. He was working on his third day of doubles in a row. Got him to making bread, while I chopped the salad per the memo. Took forever. Didn’t look one iota fresher or tastier than the salad we’ve always served. Shared the memo with the Kid, who had already seen it that morning. When HE tried it, he forgot to let the water run long enough, and wound up with ice cubes in the salad . . . gee, this is gonna be all kinds of fun. Also explains why I had no back-up salad. :–)
Things ran pretty smoothly for most of the night. We ran kinda steady 130 guest hours for a while, then it dropped down to maybe 60s, 70s. Was about to cut the Kid, when I heard a commotion in the dishring.
Dishwasher 1 had splashed Dishwasher 2 with water. Dishwasher 2 retaliated by seizing a handful of glop from the emptied sauce cups, and throwing it at Dishwasher 1. Things were about to get nasty, so I sent the Kid to the dishring, with instructions to stand between them until they cooled down.
He stayed there, while the dishwashers banged dishes LOUDLY, muttered at each other, until about 9:45. Things weren’t getting any better, so I finally marched into the dishring, and told them that the Kid was going home, and they had BETTER kiss and make up before the Associate Manager called them into the office for one of her dreaded ”Be nice, don’t fight, have a piece of pie” lectures. These little counseling sessions go on until the warring parties are so fed up with all of the corporate niceness they will agree to ANYTHING just to get outa there.
“She’d really DO that?” asked Dishwasher 1. Kid and I assured ’em she’d do it in a heartbeat, and the session would likely last until well after 1996 had rolled in. Dishguys decided they were new best friends.
Kid left, I cleaned up, went home. Made it in the door at 11:41 p.m. First time I’ve been home by midnight in years, so all-in-all, it wasn’t a total disaster.
Oh yeah, made $10 in tips offa party platters, which I split with the Kid. If this keeps up, we can both retire sometime in the year 3000.
Kathy in
Bryan, TX
The paintbrush commands the Chinese submarine. Fnord.
