Culinary Diaries - Behind the Curtain

Smoke gushing out from every crevice imaginable.

Cuts, scrapes, and burns tattooed across all the line cooks, almost like battle scars. Some fresh, while others live as imprints alongside the skin, constant reminders. And yet, even with the pain that resurfaces every time, ripping hot oil leaves its mark, they carry on, constantly producing the next entrée or appetizer being called out.

Roars of “Yes, Chef!” and “Thirty seconds, Chef!” ring through the kitchen, and almost as fast as lightning, dishes are passed from line cook to the expo chef, who finalizes each plate before it makes its way to the table, meeting your eyes just before you dig in.

Culinary school could have never prepared me for what truly lay ahead. I always knew immigrants were the backbone of the jobs no one really wants. What I didn’t know was that I would be surrounded by them.

In a time and place where immigrants feel constantly targeted over a measly piece of paper they just don’t have, I couldn’t help but feel for them. In the kitchen, I was one of them. No amount of documentation proving my citizenship could change the fact that for those eight hours, we were all the same.

The only difference is that after those eight hours, when I walked out of the restaurant, I was one of the lucky ones. Through my parents’ sacrifices, I had the dumb luck of being born here. That was it. It wasn’t something I planned, I was in the womb. And it’s something I take for granted sometimes.

I don’t thank my parents enough. They deserve to hear it more: I’m grateful for your sacrifices. You gave me a chance to live the life of my dreams.

Behind every new New York City hotspot with delicious food you couldn’t even imagine, there’s an insane amount of prep that goes into every single component of the menu. Yeah, the entrée is the star when you sit down to eat, but there’s so much more than that.

The restaurant I work at, which will forever remain nameless, feels like a clock. Millions of gears (people) working nonstop, preparing every element used to marinate, flavor, garnish, complement, you name it, the final dish. Everyone dining sees the waitstaff, but what you don’t see are the twenty-something line cooks, smushed into maybe a 500-square-foot space, each one specialized in a different part of the menu.

And that’s not even everyone. There are another twenty to fifty people working downstairs in the basement, making sure the line cooks have everything they need to build your dish to the highest standard.

It’s not easy, and it’s not something I want pity for. After all, I knew what I signed up for, at least to a certain extent. I just want to shine a light on it, because it shocked me.

Now, when I occasionally dine at places with these kinds of standards, I have an even higher appreciation for the meal. Because now I know the blood, sweat, and tears that go into creating what ends up in front of you, a dish that might last minutes on the table, but took hours, days, and a whole team to bring to life.