we are gods and devils. extremists and minimalists. the kings and queens. I love you, world. Fuck you.
fuck the world, don't ask me for shit. and everything you get, you gotta work hard for it
just when I thought I was out,
they pulled me back in...
whoever reactivated me, thanks. I guess you like reading long winded pointless blog posts. or you want to fuck. hmm.
they pulled me back in...
whoever reactivated me, thanks. I guess you like reading long winded pointless blog posts. or you want to fuck. hmm.
Against the more righteous side of my rationale I've decided to go ahead and indulge this co-worker of mine in her affair fantasy. We spent some time making out and groping on the bus, which was fun and though frustated at how it was cut short, I've got a freak to look forward to spending some quality time with. The tension at work is gonna be distracting, but the release that I've been needing will make up for it. Problem is, she's been cross training on my station and it's making me uneasy. Outside of the work place we're all over each other, but I don't trust her. I'm that bitter and fucked up that I would consider her warming up to me as a plot to get my defenses down until she's trained on my station, so she can get me fired; that the whole kitchen is conspiring just to get my psycho ass out of the place.
It might not matter either way. I keep trying to convince myself that I'm happy at this restaurant, happy cooking period, but I don't fucking know anymore. I believe in my chefs and what they're doing; their vision, their managment style; I love the food we're cooking, the integrity of our ingredients, the flavor combinations, the technique behind the dishes. I'm willing to endure the stress, the shitty pay, the hours, inflexible scheduling and the expectations because I know that dues need to be paid to take this craft where I want it to go. I'm aware of my own talents and the skill I've accumulated, and conversely the bad habits I've developed and weaknesses that come forth when under duress. I know that there is little I'd like to do with my working life other than producing beautiful, delicious food with the best ingredients, utilizing the most conscientious of techniques. But how much more work needs to be put in before I get something, anything, an affirmation to renew my faith and passion?
It's wearing me out. I'm barely making my expenses every month, the meager amounts of cash I have for myself almost always running slim. I'm tired of shopping at fucking Marshall's and eating ramen noodles, never getting out to see anybody because of my shitty schedule or the lack of extra doe to play with. I don't want to get mixed up in slanging or gambling again, it's just not me. I ain't feeling secure in my work anymore- we're staffed up to where the boss could can two cooks and be alright, and the crosshairs have definitely landed on me more than once.
The past few weeks have been rough. The exec's been out of town and the cdc is under a lot of stress. Minor complications in the way of menu changes, cross- training, and inconsistent reservations have added up to make my normally somewhat complacent, steady week rocky and painful. I should be happy, should see that this is my chance to step up and start doing more, starting moving up to a managerial level, set my eyes on the sous chef gig. But instead I feel frustrated, lost, and threatened about my work. I'm paranoid, confrontational, and last night I was pushed to the edge.
There's been a major thorn in my side, my partner Nate. He's as much a boon as he is a burden- he's got some sort of passion, and he cares about executing food correctly, but his head is stuck up his ass. He makes me painfully self aware of my short comings, for which I ought to be grateful- if it weren't for the fact that I'm killing myself picking up his slack. He drags ass all day, acting like he's doing the restaurant a favor by being there. Always fucking late, he's stoned more than half of the time and just doesn't carry his own fucking weight- not to mention he's got this bullshit sourpuss attitude the whole time he's there. I don't need to be trapped under this pitiful sense of martyrdom, this situation is as much mine to sieze as it is a detriment to my progress as a chef. But to put it rather childishly it's just not fair!
During prep I work at about a 4:1 ratio of production as him. During service, he's constantly dragging the picks and not helping to get the food out. And worst of all, he runs his fucking ugly, opinionated mind all day and night, that low grumble of shit talk that recently has escalated to full out war. Last night he started throwing personal shots at me because I tried to speed up a component of a dish that HE FORGOT to cook, when were already dragging behind the plates coming off of other stations- I know my tendencies to make compromises in the heat of battle, but the food can't fucking sit around while he takes his sweet motherfucking time searing meats to his skewed idea of "correct," which is usually neither technically precise, visually appealing, nor timely.
The worst part is that he's more in favor with the bosses and will seemingly be spared any executive action out of sheer pathetic sympathy. From his high horse he thinks everything he does is right, that I push too hard and am hasty, that I compromise too much. But he's a fucking hack. He doesn't grasp that you can move fast and efficiently enough to do your fucking work on time, correctly, and consistently. The restaurant would be much smoother without the fucking prick but I'm not in the position to do anything about it.
So there's a junction in my work path. I've tried to directly address the issues between Nate and I and he backs down every time, is a passive aggressive little pussy and will not lay his cards on the table. I can grit my teeth and redouble my efforts to get along with him, to try and help him improve and in doing so become a stronger cook and chef. I can take the plunge and approach my chefs about officially becoming a sous chef, a position from which I can either really whip him into shape or break him until he quits.
Or I can leave this place, give up on the one restaurant I truly believe in in this city; the only place I feel I can continue to learn, the one in which I really would like to be working right now, and find some bullshit gig that will give me more pay and easier hours- the sell out option. As much as I want both he and I to succeed in the work place, I simultaneously hate his fucking guts and want to see him fail. And I still feel my training isn't complete enough to make a permanent move up the ladder, so ideally I would go for the former option.
And that's only if my deepest fears aren't true, and I actually get to keep my job.
Buenos pinche tiempos. Living the dream.
It might not matter either way. I keep trying to convince myself that I'm happy at this restaurant, happy cooking period, but I don't fucking know anymore. I believe in my chefs and what they're doing; their vision, their managment style; I love the food we're cooking, the integrity of our ingredients, the flavor combinations, the technique behind the dishes. I'm willing to endure the stress, the shitty pay, the hours, inflexible scheduling and the expectations because I know that dues need to be paid to take this craft where I want it to go. I'm aware of my own talents and the skill I've accumulated, and conversely the bad habits I've developed and weaknesses that come forth when under duress. I know that there is little I'd like to do with my working life other than producing beautiful, delicious food with the best ingredients, utilizing the most conscientious of techniques. But how much more work needs to be put in before I get something, anything, an affirmation to renew my faith and passion?
It's wearing me out. I'm barely making my expenses every month, the meager amounts of cash I have for myself almost always running slim. I'm tired of shopping at fucking Marshall's and eating ramen noodles, never getting out to see anybody because of my shitty schedule or the lack of extra doe to play with. I don't want to get mixed up in slanging or gambling again, it's just not me. I ain't feeling secure in my work anymore- we're staffed up to where the boss could can two cooks and be alright, and the crosshairs have definitely landed on me more than once.
The past few weeks have been rough. The exec's been out of town and the cdc is under a lot of stress. Minor complications in the way of menu changes, cross- training, and inconsistent reservations have added up to make my normally somewhat complacent, steady week rocky and painful. I should be happy, should see that this is my chance to step up and start doing more, starting moving up to a managerial level, set my eyes on the sous chef gig. But instead I feel frustrated, lost, and threatened about my work. I'm paranoid, confrontational, and last night I was pushed to the edge.
There's been a major thorn in my side, my partner Nate. He's as much a boon as he is a burden- he's got some sort of passion, and he cares about executing food correctly, but his head is stuck up his ass. He makes me painfully self aware of my short comings, for which I ought to be grateful- if it weren't for the fact that I'm killing myself picking up his slack. He drags ass all day, acting like he's doing the restaurant a favor by being there. Always fucking late, he's stoned more than half of the time and just doesn't carry his own fucking weight- not to mention he's got this bullshit sourpuss attitude the whole time he's there. I don't need to be trapped under this pitiful sense of martyrdom, this situation is as much mine to sieze as it is a detriment to my progress as a chef. But to put it rather childishly it's just not fair!
During prep I work at about a 4:1 ratio of production as him. During service, he's constantly dragging the picks and not helping to get the food out. And worst of all, he runs his fucking ugly, opinionated mind all day and night, that low grumble of shit talk that recently has escalated to full out war. Last night he started throwing personal shots at me because I tried to speed up a component of a dish that HE FORGOT to cook, when were already dragging behind the plates coming off of other stations- I know my tendencies to make compromises in the heat of battle, but the food can't fucking sit around while he takes his sweet motherfucking time searing meats to his skewed idea of "correct," which is usually neither technically precise, visually appealing, nor timely.
The worst part is that he's more in favor with the bosses and will seemingly be spared any executive action out of sheer pathetic sympathy. From his high horse he thinks everything he does is right, that I push too hard and am hasty, that I compromise too much. But he's a fucking hack. He doesn't grasp that you can move fast and efficiently enough to do your fucking work on time, correctly, and consistently. The restaurant would be much smoother without the fucking prick but I'm not in the position to do anything about it.
So there's a junction in my work path. I've tried to directly address the issues between Nate and I and he backs down every time, is a passive aggressive little pussy and will not lay his cards on the table. I can grit my teeth and redouble my efforts to get along with him, to try and help him improve and in doing so become a stronger cook and chef. I can take the plunge and approach my chefs about officially becoming a sous chef, a position from which I can either really whip him into shape or break him until he quits.
Or I can leave this place, give up on the one restaurant I truly believe in in this city; the only place I feel I can continue to learn, the one in which I really would like to be working right now, and find some bullshit gig that will give me more pay and easier hours- the sell out option. As much as I want both he and I to succeed in the work place, I simultaneously hate his fucking guts and want to see him fail. And I still feel my training isn't complete enough to make a permanent move up the ladder, so ideally I would go for the former option.
And that's only if my deepest fears aren't true, and I actually get to keep my job.
Buenos pinche tiempos. Living the dream.
"I'm just a survivor of the woolly mammoth population bottleneck effect, sorta born deaf"
wow. i think of weird shit when i've been drinking.
Last night I was propositioned by a lady co-worker of mine to have an affair. While I felt somewhat strong feelings toward turning her down I'm not entirely sure what to think. We have rather intense chemistry but I don't find her all that attractive...not to mention the fact that though i haven't met her SO I don't want to hurt this kid. Not that I'm really the type to care.
Last night I was propositioned by a lady co-worker of mine to have an affair. While I felt somewhat strong feelings toward turning her down I'm not entirely sure what to think. We have rather intense chemistry but I don't find her all that attractive...not to mention the fact that though i haven't met her SO I don't want to hurt this kid. Not that I'm really the type to care.
flapjack cob stench the merrygo-round poppycock fairytale of a rogue in varying degrees of boldness.
The past several weeks spent in the workplace have yielded a terribly ambiguous state of being in regards to my job security. On one hand I feel as though I am being put to the test, my bosses wondering if I'm in the right place to take a promotion as a sous chef; previous experiences with former associates, who are in the same circle of professional contacts as my current employers, have resulted in poor decisions and actions on my part and contributed to a certain degree toward my current ill repute. Still, at the best times I feel encouraged, supported, and driven by my chefs and co- workers. There is more responsibility, better pay, and the opportunity to be a part of a robustly thriving company in the fine dining arena should the possibility of my promotion be realized.
On the other hand I often get the sensation that I am genuinely hated by most of the staff, and on occasion by the very superiors who seek to bring me up, tolerated out of necessity, kept at arms reach so I can be terminated upon the hiring of a suitable replacement. My arrested-ly developed, fickle 23 year old mind feels as though it is constantly walking a very thin line between a bright future as a fine dining chef, a life of working my fingers to the bone for a taste of glory; or failure, a relapse into darkness, drugs, foul deeds, drama and inevitably, doom.
I've hit my usual three month slump. The duration of my having worked at Aziza I've been on a split schedule- my days off are Tuesdays, the day the restaurant is closed, and Thursdays. It's been easy enough, just banging it out Wednesdays to make it through, but it is tiring. Most other members of the kitchen are getting two consecutive days to live their lives, enjoy some time to themselves and return refreshed for a solid work week. So next week I've requested an extra day and have planned to take a short trip to LA. I'll be collecting material possessions and catching up with some old friends. I'm definitely looking forward to some time away from the hustle.
So time will tell. Perhaps my characteristically cruel and mischievous chefs are merely toying with me and I am exactly in the place I currently reside, work wise. Hopefully, I am being considered for financial compensation based on my performance and I will in turn get the hint to step up for a promotion. Or perhaps I'm about to be fucking shitcanned. Hell, that might even turn out to be a boon- for as neat as the food is that I'm preparing, it certainly ain't making my personal life any easier. I've been seriously considering picking up a scale and a ounce and making some real cash, trife style... But let's just hope it doesn't come to that.
On the other hand I often get the sensation that I am genuinely hated by most of the staff, and on occasion by the very superiors who seek to bring me up, tolerated out of necessity, kept at arms reach so I can be terminated upon the hiring of a suitable replacement. My arrested-ly developed, fickle 23 year old mind feels as though it is constantly walking a very thin line between a bright future as a fine dining chef, a life of working my fingers to the bone for a taste of glory; or failure, a relapse into darkness, drugs, foul deeds, drama and inevitably, doom.
I've hit my usual three month slump. The duration of my having worked at Aziza I've been on a split schedule- my days off are Tuesdays, the day the restaurant is closed, and Thursdays. It's been easy enough, just banging it out Wednesdays to make it through, but it is tiring. Most other members of the kitchen are getting two consecutive days to live their lives, enjoy some time to themselves and return refreshed for a solid work week. So next week I've requested an extra day and have planned to take a short trip to LA. I'll be collecting material possessions and catching up with some old friends. I'm definitely looking forward to some time away from the hustle.
So time will tell. Perhaps my characteristically cruel and mischievous chefs are merely toying with me and I am exactly in the place I currently reside, work wise. Hopefully, I am being considered for financial compensation based on my performance and I will in turn get the hint to step up for a promotion. Or perhaps I'm about to be fucking shitcanned. Hell, that might even turn out to be a boon- for as neat as the food is that I'm preparing, it certainly ain't making my personal life any easier. I've been seriously considering picking up a scale and a ounce and making some real cash, trife style... But let's just hope it doesn't come to that.
