Cooking and the cost of art

It's early Monday morning, birds are chirping, and the fog is in the air as I make my way to the restaurant to start my first shift in a commercial kitchen. I wait in the car park nervously before entering fresh out of high school; the idea of working is an intimidating experience. I walk into the pub. The smell of beer lingers in the air as if it is a permanent part of the air. I walk to the kitchen and introduce myself to the chefs, hoping that they won't be too scary or mean.

We go through the introductions and walk around the kitchen, taking in everything.

Trying to memorize who is who and where everything is located, already putting the pressure on myself to not fuck this up; going back to school was not an option in my mind, little did I know you never really leave.

This is a common thought most young adults have when they enter the workplace for the first time, desperate to leave the school's confines and restrictive nature.

Thinking I was ready for the real world is something we all go through

how wrong I was.

Upon meeting the chefs, I realized this was no joke and that this job was and is their entire existence. They lived and breathed food and were willing to make the sacrifices involved to perform at a high level. Everything from the way they dressed to the use of french mixed with Aussie slang, they are proud, passionate, and living their craft in every way possible, sometimes to a fault.

After starting my first few prep jobs for the day, I was exhausted watching the clock, craving the time I was smoking cigarettes on the school oval with no responsibility except making it home in time for dinner. I barely survive the first hit of prepwork, having cut my finger badly and feeling like a dickhead while trying my best to hold it together and not run out the front door.

The clock hits 12 pm, and it's time to experience my first service; while I am directed to go wash dishes and pay attention, I feel a sense of relief until I put that cut straight into the hot water thinking shit why am I doing this again.

I start scrubbing, trying my best to keep up with the heavy stream of dirty plates and cutlery while listening out for direction from the chefs; although I may as well not existed, this was their time to shine; it was my job to watch and be quiet. The dishes start to stack up, and the adrenalin hits with a mixture of anxiety and worry; I hustle as fast as possible, barely keeping up but receiving assistance from the boss and front of house staff. I get into a flow and finally get the word that I'm about to get really busy; it's time to shutdown. I fill with dread thinking about how there could be more, only to realize, it's now time to sweet scrub, re-organize and ensure all the mise en place is ready for the night's service.

I scrub away until the job was done, looking around, hoping I would be finished soon. I got the head chef's go ahead; we walk outside to have a cigarette while waiting for my lift to arrive.

We talk about expectations they have and engage in small talk feeling each other out before I jump in the car for my 2-hour break, exhausted and worried I couldn't make it through the next shift.

As I'm on the way home away from my new environment, I have a sudden rush of energy and realized this is me. I want to be like the other chefs. I want to be them; this was the beginning of my adrenalin addiction and my passion for great food.

Never could I have imagined more or a rush and feeling of accomplishment as I sat in the back seat dripping wet, a dirty bandaid falling off my finger and anxiety through the roof. I couldn't explain why, but I knew at that moment that that was me. I had to go back for more.

I get home and collapse into my bed, thinking, I have to do this again tonight; how do these chefs cope.

I fall asleep and wake up a time later to my alarm. I rush into the shower, get dressed in a fresh uniform, and drink as much caffeine as possible before I entered those doors again.

This was the moment I knew I was addicted. I loved the rush, the challenge, and most importantly, this was where my love for food could become an art that also pays the bills, but I wasn't going to come easy; there was no fast track, only blood, sweat, and tears could get me there.

This is a common experience amongst budding chefs.

Many of us spend months cleaning dishes and being yelled at for our idiocracy daily; if you expect any different, well, you won't become a chef. It's really that simple. I've seen many enter and exit faster than I can remember their names.

It is for the resilient, those willing to sacrifice, and is not for the faint of heart.

The questions that should be at every job interview are: Can you handle stress if you cut yourself will cover that with ducktape and keep on moving, and take the heat?

If you say yes to any of those questions and still have a passion for this craft, then no amount of schooling or certificates matters; in the end, you have the guts needed to survive in this industry. Although these are not my personal views on how the industry should be it is the current reality.