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Guatamala   January 2009

2 months in Guatemala and I thanked them for the opportunity and booked the next possible flight out of here.
 
If they post another job on your site, you will have to let me know so I can warn the applicants.
 
I won´t tell them not to come down here, just what to expect.
 
The owner bought this property from his mother in law.  So you have owner, plus wife, plus mother in law.
 
No red flags going off there. And not explained to me in the interview process.
 
Mother in law is still quite active here. She is 70 something. Old school American from the deep south. ¨Jews, niggers, and these god damned Indians¨ (the Mayan population) I could put up with that, the location is great.
 
Owner gave me white paper and said to just go for it. Mother in law has different ideas. And that's OK. I can put up with that.
 
One day the pork down here is excellent and we she have at least 2 items on the menu with pork. The next day the pork is all contaminated, and we will have no pork on the menu.
 
One day I am told about this ¨secret sauce¨ that this chef they know uses for all his meats. He keeps it stored in jars in his cooler. And it is the base for all of his sauces. We think it involves roasting veal bones and then boiling them. LOL, yes demi is a well kept secret from the culinary world.
 
So one day we are using demi for our meat sauces. The next day, we read about the Dow dropping, and now we are only going to local fruits and vegetables and make purees or some shit. I am getting confused at this point.
 
Christmas dinner, 6 course. Written, done, decent.
 
We were charging 60$us for it. 1 week to go, and I need to meet with the owner and mother in law to go over the menu. 2.5 fricken hours later, and we are slicing cranberries out of a can to go with the boxed stuffing mix and this god awful canned pumpkin cheese cake shit nasty house wife recipe.
 
I found a great gourmet shop in the city that made really excellent sorbets. It was my 3rd or 4rth course. The day before Christmas, mother in law cancels the order because it was to expensive.  OK,
 
I was under 20 a plate cost after we changed to turkey anyway. But whatever. 60$for turkey dinner with some funky appetizers. Yeah, the people were pissed when they left.
 
And then they want me to go out and talk to people, like i am proud of the truck stop food i have just made.
 
I am done at that point, but I keep trying to convince my self the location is worth it.
 
The next night, mother in law come in the kitchen and pulls the soup of the day because it is awful, and disgusting. 7 p.m. full dining room.
 
The cook responsible for the soup had giving me some to try earlier in the day. Just a simple creamed potato. I actually said, ¨damn!¨ after the first bite, it was so good. So I the tantrum was not necessary.
 
There are many other stories, but those 2 were the highlight. I could write more.
 
 I am 36, I have been in a kitchen since I was 15.
 
I told them maybe they should hire a recent grad who is dying to prove themselves, cause I am to old for this shit, and I have done the multiple owner thing before, and it ended badly.
 
I guess they do this every few years of so. The one guy has been here for 14 years,  he was telling me 3 months is about the average for the chefs to come and go with the same reasons I was having.
 
When they were hiring me, the put me in touch with one guy that worked out for them about 5 years ago. He was only here for 6 months, And liked it.

Sorry for the book. Still pretty pissed. 2 months and quit is always good on a resume.
 
So I am stuck here waiting for a flight out. Nothing open till the 12th.
 
Looking forward to a nice firm bowel movement when I get back. lol. That another thing future candidates might want to consider.
 
And oh yeah, the reason I was writing in the first place. Do you know anyone who took the job in Stuttgart Germany for the catering company?
 
He was my second choice, and he is still looking. I haven't been a cook since around 96 or 97 I think. So it might be nice. I just don't want to get over there and have a pan throwing, moody drunken prima donna for a chef.
 
Thanks again for the site!
 
I am also talking to the pizza shop guy in China. Just a pizza shop, but it is in China. So who knows.
 
Thanks for your time,
 
Jason

 

 

New from Douglas Larsen - Down in Costa Rica   1.3.09

There’s an ocean turtle preserve on Costa Rica’s Pacific coast called Playa Grande. Located there some 150  meters distant from some of the best surf in the region is a place called the Rip Jack Inn, named after the California owners’ dogs. Their two story hexagonal facility contains 8 rooms on the ground floor and an open air restaurant/bar upstairs where I run the kitchen.

My second is a 26 year old Nicaraguan hottie named Joselee who wears mini-minis like the rest of the female population from 16 to 30. It’s de riguer to have the outfit and the frame to fit it on. She’s decent in the kitchen. Don’t know her outside of that, except she has 2 kids ages 6 and 2, mother dead, no husband, shacks up with an ex-pat Floridian who’s invested in local real estate. Nice guy, actually.

    Then there’s Ishmael, he of the biblical name, six feet of true hulking Tico. Always cracking jokes and complaining. Says things like “ It’s always donde esta around here. Every time you say donde esta you lose your focus. It’s all about concentration man.” This in Spanish of course and spoken in response to my going around asking where’s this, where’s that. Ishmael the smart ass, but true in that particular perception.

     Miguel the dishwasher is also 26 years old, has two kids, is quiet, polite and soft spoken. Told me over beers one night that he came to the Rip Jack under the assumption that he was going to be a cook, not a dishwasher. His wife makes the money to keep the boat afloat. Sales lady for her mother’s retail business. Miguel proceeded to complain about Joselee just tossing dirty hardware in the sink without lifting a finger to even wash the knife she just used. No respect. No help. He claims skill and knowledge the others don’t possess. I tell him I have eyes. I see what’s going on. He’s headed for a near promotion.

    The four of us run around like monkeys with their tails on fire when it’s busy. The floor crew, well, they are who they are. All guys, except for Cassiana, the hottie Argentinian night manager. Two of the waiters are middle aged, the other one, Erik, who happens to be Joselee’s brother is in his mid-twenties. The bartender, Minor is 20. They do what they have to do and no more.

   One night, one of the waiters—a 54 year old gay guy named Jonny who’s been a waiter for 30 years-- was complaining to me as he does from time to time. A recurrent theme is the cheapness of the American tourists who don’t tip. “You know why,” he told me. “It’s because they think we live like monkeys in the trees, on bananas and $2 a day. I have to pay for rent and air conditioning. Cheap bastards.”

   Then there’s the all female day crew, with the exception of Tono—Ishmael’s little brother who works in the kitchen with 30 something big butt Betty and bantam 50 something Sonia. Nice people when not in a sour mood. Saucy 22 year old Nubia is the day manager and doesn’t tire of tossing shit my way in her near perfect English. Most of the communication with the 20 employees, including the maids, night guards, and groundskeeper proceeds in Spanish. It surrounds me like the sounds of salsa, reggae and Tom Petty blasting from the speakers next to the open air kitchen where I spend much of my time. Today happens to be my day off or dia libre as they say around here. Yeah, it’s a six day work week, and I could earn more in two days in the States. But that’s another story.

    It so happens that I’m writing as my kitchen crew preps and the floor crew sets up. In fact I had to lift the computer so Erik could place a tablecloth on the table where I look up from time to time to watch the kitchen.  I took a break and went downstairs to take a couple of hits off the little pocket cartridge pipe that Cassiana passed my way upon request. OK, I’m gonna pass that back and bike the beach. More later.

 

 

 

#2   10.10.08

The Walk In

By Douglas Larsen

Ana pulled into the restaurant parking lot and climbed out of her Honda Prelude. Hit cold air and the smell of fried food. As she picked her way over ice-patched gravel, a gust of wind knifed through her mini skirt and pierced her thong.

She pushed open the back door into kitchen heat and the sound of the Talking Heads cranked up. Jimmy.

And there the skinny monkey was, doing some kind of weird shuffle, waving his arms with a spatula in one hand and a whisk in the other. "Hey, darling, look at me I’m the dancing chef."

Ana took in his stained apron, ratty moustache, and the shit eating grin revealing bad teeth. Flashed him a perfect smile. Creep.

She pushed through the swinging doors separating kitchen from waitress station where busty blond Mitzi sat doing silverware rollups while chewing gum. Bovine girl with the big tits going south just like her butt looked up. "Hey girlfriend. You’re late."

"Got stuck in traffic."

"Funny." Mitzi bent back to her task.

Ana donned an apron and launched into her side work, swept the dining room, cranked up the espresso machine, filled water pitchers and creamers, set tables with a familiar litany running through her head.

Everything was way too familiar. Old man Bixby—the tightwad owner with his cigars and scotch—so cheap he made the waitresses clean the floors for $2.50 an hour rather than pay the dishwasher six dollars to come in an hour early; his demented son Jimmy the dancing chef; the same old fucking clientele—mostly a bunch of aging hippies and New Agers hiding out here in the back of nowhere.

She was sick of their faces and sick of their ways. She’d be so glad when she didn’t have to serve another dirty old man winking at her and delivering lines like, "Hey babe, can I get some of those buns?"

She chewed the inside of her lip while filling saltshakers. Couldn’t wait until graduation. Go to France or something, she didn’t know—somewhere else, for sure.

At least Jimmy had turned down his bullshit music. Ana pushed into the kitchen with a bus tub filled with dirty lunch dishes, just as the night time dishwasher shambled into the room. Mop head stoner Jack with hunched shoulders and bangs in his eyes.

She gave him a hello and he said hi back, avoiding eye contact. One year behind her in school, he was OK, even if he was a crappy dishwasher who had a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Always doing stupid shit. Like when he got pulled over for a broken tail light with a bong and a bag right out in plain sight on the passenger’s seat. He was lucky that time. The sheriff confiscated his shit and let him go with a traffic ticket.

She shook her head and was about to ask what was for staff dinner when Jimmy went off.

"Look what I found in the walk-in you shit head." He thrust a soufflÈ cup in Jack’s face. It was partially full of mocha custard, and it looked like the missing portion had been scooped out by hand.

"Wasn’t me."

Dlarsen, Walk-In

" Who was it then?"

"I dunno."

Jimmy flung the ceramic container at a stainless steel sideboard where it bounced off the edge and shattered on the floor.

" Fuck head."

He reached for his drink, a pint glass supposedly filled with cranberry juice, but that was just for color. It was a miracle the guy could make it through a shift without hitting the floor, though rumor had it that he was standing at the stove one night when he did a face plant on the grill. He was quick to claim the angry scar on his forehead a birthmark.

One thing you could say for him was he could cook drunk or stoned or both, and he was usually both.

"So what’s for staff dinner?" Ana wasn’t letting that one go.

" Burgers."

"Again?"

"Whaddya want? You’re lucky to get anything the way the old man’s ragging on me about food costs."

Mitzi stood in the waitress station stuffing her face with bread.

"Wait a few minutes you can have yourself a burger."

"Again?"

" Flash some tit and you might get filet mignon."

D. Larsen, The Walk-In

"Funny. Think we’ll get any business tonight?"

"Flip a coin, see who goes home first?"

"I went last time."

"Whatever. You been dipping your fingers in the custard?"

"My what? What are you talking about?"

"Forget it."

"Girl, you’re too weird." Mitzi licked a crumb off her lip.

You’re never prepared for a shit storm when it hits, but they did their best. Seemed like every urban refugee and construction worker came in at the same time, despite, or perhaps because of, blizzard conditions. Even Ana’s uncle Manuel showed up with a couple of manos from the ranch.

They ordered buffalo burgers and Coronas like almost everyone else. A few steaks, seafood and other high end items went out the door, but it was mostly the usual cheap and demanding crowd.

"Girl, shoulda brought my roller skates", complained Mitzi in the waitress station, smelling like her period and Right Guard. She slapped the coffee grinder. "Goddamn, why doesn’t this thing ever work?" Ana reached over and jiggled the toggle switch, bringing it to life.

"Order up," yelled Jimmy.

d. Larsen, the Walk-in

Couldn’t say he rocked, but Jimmy did all right. Of course you don’t have to be sober to flip a burger and drop shoestrings into the fryer. Put a bun, some lettuce, onions pickles and tomato on a plate. Still, he cranked it out, although the kitchen could’ve qualified for disaster relief funds. Trampled fries and crumpled portion control papers underfoot, food spills and scraps everywhere.

Jack was way behind. Ana had to bus her own tables and bring the dirty d’s back to the kitchen. "Hey stoner. We need more cups." She dropped an overflowing bus tub on the side board, breaking a glass.

Jimmy yelped. "Goddamn it! That’s coming out of your paycheck. Mitzi, order up!" He refreshed his drink from the speed rack and took a snort.

Jack slouched out the back door for a quick hit, Jimmy close behind with glass in hand.

The storm had blown over leaving a blanket of snow and a cold calm. They stood there in shirtsleeves, without noticing.

Jack lit the pipe, sucked one down, and passed it. Jimmy took a deep hit and coughed. "Damn that’s some good shit." He took another hit, passed the pipe. "Can you score me some?"

Jack shrugged, re-lit the pipe. "Maybe."

"Shit man, c’mon."

It sucked having to ask a high school kid to score your dope, but he couldn’t seem to connect any other way. They even cut him off at the liquor store, had to get someone to score that for him, too. The old man had the restaurant stash sewed up tighter than a virgin. Marked each bottle when it came through the door and kept track of every drop poured. He’d be so glad when he got his license back and could blow this place.

Jimmy sighed. "Look, man. Sorry I jumped on your case. It’s just the old man’s all over me these days, and when I saw that custard in there I went postal."

"Wasn’t me."

"All right, man. I hear you." He shook out a Marlboro. "Want one?"

"I got a halfer." Jack pulled a partially smoked butt from a pack of Spirits.

They lit up and stood in silence exhaling white plumes through an apron of yellow security light. Weren’t half finished when Ana came out to announce a new order.

"Damn." Jimmy butted his smoke in a sand filled coffee can full of butts and slammed through the rear door.

Ana extended an arm. "Gimme." Jack passed his cigarette. She took a puff and returned it. "Don’t you have dishes to do?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"You guess?"

"Ana?"

"What?"

"Why are you so mean to me?"

"You think I am?"

"Sometimes, yeah."

"Suck it up and get back to work. I’m tired of picking up your slack." With that she wheeled around and took her tight ass through the door.

"You’re not my boss," Jack told the frigid air.

 

Dlarsen Walk-In

Jimmy broke down his station, piling pots pans and utensils into the already cluttered dishwashing area. Crap, he knew he was gonna have to take care of his own shit and half the kid’s too, but maybe he’d get some pot out of the deal. Then he could go home and keep the buzz rolling. But he was feeling pretty strange, and damn it was hot. Had to keep moving, though. Play some tunes, that’d help.

Mitzi counted tickets, while Ana divvied tips.

"Sixty one covers. That’s gotta be some kind of record for a Tuesday in the middle of winter." Mitzi slapped the tickets on the table. "Gawd, my feet are killing me." She slipped off her sneakers, spread her legs and massaged her calves. "I’d love to get out of this place, but it’s my little sister".

Ana glanced up from her counting, "Haven’t I heard this before?" And like, please, close your legs.

" I would’ve left a long time ago if it wasn’t for her. It’s my mom’s crack head boyfriend."

"What about him?"

"If he laid a hand on Melanie I’d kill him. I swear."

"And your mom doesn’t count, she gets slapped upside the head?’

"It’s my sister, you know?"

"Yeah, so I heard. Here’s forty eight for you and forty eight for me, with a buck left over. That’ll be Jack’s tip."

"Ana?"

"What?"

"Why don’t you like me?"

"I never said I didn’t."

"Yeah, but the way you act."

"You’re all right. Suck it up and let’s go."

Ana pushed back from the table just as old man Bixby came in to close out the register. Shit.

" Hey girls." He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. "Colder than a witch’s tit out there. Any business tonight?"

"We got slammed." Mitzi crossed her legs.

"That’s good." He pulled up a chair, bringing the smell of smoke and a whiff of alcohol to the table. "Hey, you guys know what a walk- in is?"

" Like a big ass refrigerator", volunteered Mitzi.

"Yeah that’s one thing". Bald headed Bixby pulled a cigar from an inside pocket and examined it.

" I was just watching this special about the paranormal, and they got this guy on there talking about extraterrestrials or some such shit. So, anyway"—he fished around for a lighter and lit the cigar—"so anyway, this guy’s going on about how there are these beings out there from other dimensions or something that come down here and go around disguised like humans. They’re called walk-ins." He shook his head.

"You ever heard of such a thing? I’m thinking, maybe that describes my Jimmy. What do you think? Jimmy an extraterrestrial, a walk-in or something?"

"He’s something," said Mitzi.

No shit, thought Ana.

"Where is that boy, anyway?"

They both shrugged.

Stoner Jack passed by with a bus tub.

"Hey, boy. You seen my good for nothing? Huh?"

Jack ducked his head. "No sir."

Ana shot a look at Mitzi studying the ceiling.

"Girls, excuse me. Gotta take a pee and do the books. Not both at the same time, of course" He pushed back his chair and stood. "Heh. So, where’s that good for nothing anyway?"

He was in the walk-in hunched over on an upturned milk crate, sweating, with queasy stomach and bowels.

Had to clear his head. Stand up. Shit ain’t right. He grabbed at a shelf to pull his self up and looked puzzled at a half empty soufflÈ cup. What the fuck? He lurched for it.

Mitzi took a visit to the walk-in after Ana left. Old man was still in the office. Stoner boy lost in space. Jimmy could be anywhere. Who cared? Nobody was going to miss her. But she couldn’t miss the stink and Jimmy sprawled face down in a pool of vomit.

She screamed, louder than David Byrne burning down the house.

D Larsen, the Walk In

Ana

Yeah, the guy creeped me out, but he didn’t deserve that. I saw the pictures the investigators took. It was really gross. Dying in the walk-in like that. Mitzi, you know, that really rattled the peanuts in her brain cage. She’s still freaked, but it doesn’t take much with her.

Me? I’m just waiting for the end of school, and I’m outta here. Selling my car and heading to Europe. Screw college. I mean maybe later, but not now. It kinda sucks not having a regular job since old man Bixby closed the restaurant. Put me out of a job, but fuck it. I’m gone anyway.

Mitzi

Oh, gawd, it was just like, oh man, I don’t know. I just thought he was passed out, you know? But then like when the emergency people got there, they said he was dead. In the fucking walk-in of all places. And it was me that had to find him. I’ve never seen a dead person before. They were asking me all these questions, and then I don’t know. They gave me something. I don’t remember.

The good thing is? My mom kicked her boyfriend out and he went to like Kansas or some such shit. Now it’s like I’m moving to Vail where I got some friends renting a condo and they said I could get a job easy, like in a restaurant or cleaning rooms or something. Vail’s supposed to be way cool with lots of rich dudes and stuff. I can hardly wait. My little sister’s gonna be all right. I can always come back and visit. I’ll be so glad to get out of here. I don’t know if I can ever forget what happened, but my mom’s been sharing her pills, and that helps.

Jack

Jimmy was a loser, that’s all I can say. I mean, I’m sorry he had to bite it like that, but it was going to happen one way or the other. Sucked that I lost my job, but it wasn’t my thing anyway.

After all that shit went down, I laid off the smoke. Not that big a deal to quit. Now I’m into yoga and focused on my studies. I’m gonna ace my classes and go for a scholarship.

The standards around here are pretty low. All these farm kids. It’s pathetic. One more year, and I’ll be gone far, far away. Then watch out. I’m gonna shine. Bling bling.

Bixby

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but that kid rolled right out of the orchard. Yeah, I loved him and all, but there’s a limit.

Kid was a fuck up since he turned 13. I brought him out here from Palm Beach two years ago after he got busted on a drug charge, then got off with probation.

Figured the country life might put him straight—at least keep him out of trouble. He promised he was staying clean, but you know how that goes. He found his ways. At least he wasn’t tweaking—at least as far as I could tell.

Didn’t have any friends of either sex that I could tell, but he got his shit somewhere. I always wondered if he was gay.

Good thing is, his mom wasn’t around for this. She never could set boundaries. It wasn’t my fault. I tried to give him discipline and keep him on track, but Jimmy was wired wrong. I’m not sure he was really mine.

So now I can’t find a cook and have to close down the business. Nobody wants to buy. Whole thing makes me wanna puke.

Insurance is the true good thing. I got fire, flood—everything but acts of God, and He doesn’t figure into this story.

I hear the Virgin Islands are a good place to be. Maybe I’ll check it out when shit settles down around here.

 

 

#1   9/19/08

Here's a riff on my summer experience. Read it at your will or whim.

So, I checked out the Mercenarychefs Web site from December 07 and beyond. Applied to Alaska jobs from Denali to Jeneau, had contact with numerous HR folks along with owner/operators. In all cases phone contact occurred. What I discovered is, Alaska is one place I wouldn't want to go to. (I've visited most of the 50 contiguous states, but the other 2, i.e., Alaska and Hawaii are out. Dealing with a fucked up crowd.)

Ultimately, I ended up with a job in Montana at a non-profit outdoor youth education project funded by the Orfalea Foundation. These are the folks who founded Kinko's. The founder's wife, Natalie is a woman with a mission. She hopes to provide kids and the world's future inhabitants with a good life. She sees food as fundamental toward that end. I agree. You are what you eat, right?

All right. I got the gig. Put my life and household in order and drove north to a foreign country. (Yes, Montana is a foreign country.) Packed the essential hardware and my  beloved labradoodle into my 99 Subaru Forester and took off. It wasn't easy.

Arrived in southern Montana—36 miles south of Livingston, 60 miles SE of Bozeman and 18 miles north of Yellowstone Park) in pouring rain, which didn't let up for 3 weeks. Local growers were freaked, as they couldn't plant their produce in the muddy ground, nor nurture their crops under sunless skies. Nonetheless we all prevailed. (Well, maybe I didn't prevail, but at least I got local produce and fed staff and students with fresh stuff.)

Had a rough beginning, middle and end with triumphs intermingled. The triumphs included setting up systems, establishing relationships with purveyors (Sysco and UNFI, anyone?), which included local growers and ranchers. Further triumphs included executing breakfast, lunch and dinner for a diverse crowd—which, as you all know means cooking vegetarian and catering to food preferences and allergies while pleasing the conventional food tastes.

Shit, man. I cooked a lot of comfort food. Lasagna and mashed potatoes are not my signature dishes, but I'll dumb down for the money. Furthermore, I executed all this working 10 hours a day on my feet with 3 days off over the course of 3 months.

So, now here's further background.  [Person's name omitted] who thinks—and maybe she is—queen bee. Not in my book, and that was a source of contention from the get go. I was willing to work with her, but she wanted respect that I wasn't able to provide. You can't stand on position whether cook or boss. You've got to earn your chops and respect. Doesn't happen automatically, as so many assume.

I walked away from this gig with some bucks—no wait, I didn't walk away. I busted down the kitchen, cleaned every surface including baseboards, stored all dry and cold storage goods in good order, then packed my personal belongings and hit the road.

Would I do it again? No way. Would they ask me back? No way, even though I left that Montana work-in-progress situation richer and cleaner than I found it. So, think twice about who you choose to sleep with. It may seem tantalizing, but who knows? Do your research, which is advice I'm trying to follow in my next venture. And I don't even know what that is, although I've got an offer in Costa Rica. Could be Aspen, though. Who knows?

All the best to fellow chefs,

Douglas Larsen