it's kind of funny realizing what i do for a living. i cook. i feed people i don't know (mostly), sometimes with a smile, some politeness, and a little charm, the result of which is a slightly less anorexic bank account.
and it's so strange to me given my intentions upon starting at my place of employment. "it's just temporary, for the summer, until i can get back into school." and of course life isn't so nice and neat, and years go by and now here i am: a cook.
they call me "chef ray" but really, i'm just a good cook. i have no schooling, i learn from our cookbook of sanctioned recipes and a good deal of experience. i know what i am, but to some people, i really am a "chef," and treat me with some of sort of respect, which i find it both silly and humbling. cos you never know what people have gone through in their lives--what sort of hell they've dealt with--to the point that maybe the manhattan pasta salad you make all the time is gourmet to them, like a step up from wherever they were. or maybe they resent the overpriced fair at the whole foods across the street and see the stuff i make as somehow more down-to-earth.
there's a rather large demographic of older people at my store--the "cole sluts," i call them. it's a mark of distinction for those with the propensity to order cole slaw religiously. or pretty much anything else that requires little chewing. some are a loathsome lot, and others perhaps the sweetest, most appreciative people i've ever come across, and still others are just downright weird.
there's this guy karl that comes by daily, often multiple times. for a while he was addicted to manhattan salad, but now he's all about potato wedges. whatever it is, he's not there for the food really. he's there for the precious (to him) few minutes he has to talk to someone. and believe me, they are bizarre "just nod" conversations. in the span of two minutes, you can be "lucky" enough to endure his thoughts on shark week, immigrants, and ufo's. all half-mumbled with crazy, stinky wide-eyed conviction. but as much as we poke fun at what he is, he always comes back and we always listen. is it a service on our behalf? is it sympathy? is it an excuse to not work for a few minutes? probably all of the above.
but the real point is that, like it or not, our job is to connect with people in a very elemental way. we fulfill peoples' most basic, gnawing needs: we feed them.
kind of reminds me of that pizza shop owner in "do the right thing." you can say what you want about the food, but the simple fact is that we feed people, familes even. hell, maybe some dude who wants to "make" a nice dinner for his girlfriend before he proposes to her. yeah, it's a romantic view on a shitty job, but it's plausible, and definitely probable because you just never know.
maybe i'll cook for you some day.
ray.
and it's so strange to me given my intentions upon starting at my place of employment. "it's just temporary, for the summer, until i can get back into school." and of course life isn't so nice and neat, and years go by and now here i am: a cook.
they call me "chef ray" but really, i'm just a good cook. i have no schooling, i learn from our cookbook of sanctioned recipes and a good deal of experience. i know what i am, but to some people, i really am a "chef," and treat me with some of sort of respect, which i find it both silly and humbling. cos you never know what people have gone through in their lives--what sort of hell they've dealt with--to the point that maybe the manhattan pasta salad you make all the time is gourmet to them, like a step up from wherever they were. or maybe they resent the overpriced fair at the whole foods across the street and see the stuff i make as somehow more down-to-earth.
there's a rather large demographic of older people at my store--the "cole sluts," i call them. it's a mark of distinction for those with the propensity to order cole slaw religiously. or pretty much anything else that requires little chewing. some are a loathsome lot, and others perhaps the sweetest, most appreciative people i've ever come across, and still others are just downright weird.
there's this guy karl that comes by daily, often multiple times. for a while he was addicted to manhattan salad, but now he's all about potato wedges. whatever it is, he's not there for the food really. he's there for the precious (to him) few minutes he has to talk to someone. and believe me, they are bizarre "just nod" conversations. in the span of two minutes, you can be "lucky" enough to endure his thoughts on shark week, immigrants, and ufo's. all half-mumbled with crazy, stinky wide-eyed conviction. but as much as we poke fun at what he is, he always comes back and we always listen. is it a service on our behalf? is it sympathy? is it an excuse to not work for a few minutes? probably all of the above.
but the real point is that, like it or not, our job is to connect with people in a very elemental way. we fulfill peoples' most basic, gnawing needs: we feed them.
kind of reminds me of that pizza shop owner in "do the right thing." you can say what you want about the food, but the simple fact is that we feed people, familes even. hell, maybe some dude who wants to "make" a nice dinner for his girlfriend before he proposes to her. yeah, it's a romantic view on a shitty job, but it's plausible, and definitely probable because you just never know.
maybe i'll cook for you some day.
ray.