This Is Your Life Spinach (Potsink Diaries)

On February 2, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Here’s to you spinach you vibrant green member of the vegetable kingdom, winner of the peoples choice award for your leading role in Iron Man the Diet, voted outstanding roughage of the year from 2009-2013, four years in a row. A staple in the Gerber Baby line of vitamin rich pabulum sides, forever etched in our culture as the thing to eat for instant strength. I know many of us treated you badly in our early years sticking you in our pockets to avoid eating you when Mom attempted to force feed you to us. In the end though Mom was right because you really are “Good for us.” We’ve grown up and have learned to appreciate you not only as a side but as the base of spinach salads, the central ingredient in restaurant appetizer dips, and the heart of spinach casseroles. We’ve even forgiven you for that time you got stuck in our teeth embarrassing the hell out of us. We’ve come to love you so this tale is dedicated to you, Spinicia Oleracea, you green edible flowering plant we love to consume.

This Is Your Life Spinach

The worst thing about being a line cook on a slow night in a restaurant is the tedious chores a skillful chef can come up with. Whether its peeling a hundred pounds of shrimp we don‘t need today or the hundred and fifty pounds of potatoes the day shift now won’t have to peel tomorrow the chores always suck. Don’t believe me? Try rolling two thousand meatballs then laying them on out sheet trays. Yea the extra chores suck and everyone has one downtime task in particular they hate so much they would be willing to pay someone else to o for them. At the very least make an attempt to barter a fair trade for something less mundane. Being assigned many thankless “preps” I developed a trick that worked for me using my ability to zone out into a meditative daydream state to amuse myself while performing. I create stories or events built around the object of my benign task. One night for example, the chef came out from the walk in with two bushels of fresh spinach on a cart.
“Ah….JT… Ere ees some spinach needs to cleaning, get on top of it.” Spinach? I hate cleaning spinach! Most people buy spinach in those easy to use cello bags already picked through and washed but a bushel of fresh spinach in a restaurant comes complete with lumps of dirt, roots, and stems requiring tedious meticulous attention to get clean. Spinach is my personal bane, the one task I really hate because it seems the bushel is an abyss. I‘d rather do the shrimp or even the potatoes but what else can you do? “yes chef”
The first of two bushels was placed on the table so I jumped in and began picking while mentally preparing myself for my zone. Highly skilled at meditation I spent two minutes getting my breathing right and clearing my mind to make room for some internal entertainment. I picked the first few leaves placing them in a large bucket working up to a rhythm so I can go on autopilot:

The crowd is cheering building to a crescendo as Ralph Edwards walks on stage. A hush over the people as he begins, “ Born in what was then Persia, you moved to the Mediterranean around the age of 8. Knighted by Catherine De Medici you worked your way into our hearts and palates around the world. Green and leafy you come packed with iron and vitamins. Maybe kids don’t find you appealing but the health conscious world adores you and your attributes. In particular the vegan crowds hail you as the perfect vegetable. Stand up and take your place on the vegetable pedestal because tonight, Spinach……This Is Your Life.” The crowd roars it approval as spinach takes it place on the large Barcalounger chair smiling from root to root.
“Do you remember this voice Spinach? A raspy voice from backstage, “Hey pal how the Hell are you? Long time my leafy green buddy. Remember the old days in the supermarkets when no one picked me unless they thought I was you?” A short pause before the recognition, “Oh my God, Kale, how are you? I hear you’ve become quite popular yourself, I can’t believe you came here tonight.” Spinach and kale reunite on stage and share a few stories from the old days… “Wait spinach, there’s more. Does this ring a bell? “I bet people will buy more spinach if I can find a way to freeze it.” Spinach jumps up knocking kale to the floor, “Clarence? Clarence Birdseye? Holy shit Clarence you came from the deep freeze to honor me? I am verklempt. My sales increased tenfold since I met you.” The crowd is giving Clarence a standing O, Clarence embraces spinach lovingly. “We’ll be right back.”

“Ordering, one chicken, two veal and a shrimp!” The familiar sound of the chef ordering, we have some customers so I am free from the drudgery of spinach picking for the time being and back on the line cooking. Karen the cute waitress nudges me, “Back from outer space JT?” I shoot her my trademark mysterious stoner smile, “Theres room in outer space for two. Should I reserve you a spot?” As usual my chef is unimpressed, “JT get your ass back on the line. Stop too talk right now.” Chefs English was always good for a laugh so knowing he meant stop talking I went up to him and said, “That’s what I’m doing chef, I’m stopping to talk.” Karen giggled while I high tailed it to my station sensing the confusion in my chef as he’s trying to figure out what I meant. Anyway fun time over for now, time to get back to do what I do best, cook. Unfortunately the rain has put a damper on the evenings diners and the service is short lived. Thirty minutes later my chef sentences me back to picking spinach. Back to my zone:

Ralph returns center stage, “Tonight we honor Spinach who comes in three basic forms, Savoy, dark green curly leaf variety, semi Savoy, the hybrid which is slightly less crinkly and far more popular, and the flat which is the one being cleaned here tonight. You have added nutrition to so many dishes around the world, adding vitamins and iron as well as flavor, but none as popular as the dish created by this blast from your past. Recognize the accent? “If y’all really wanna know love its when I add epinards to something I done made fer John D. Rockefeller. When he done come downa mah place in Nawlins he be looking fer some special way to eats them there sex making bivalves so popular here in The Big Easy. Eye-sters. Mmm mmm, he show dew love him some eyesters that Rockefeller!” Spinach sat up in its chair, “Antoine? Oh my god chef Antoine! Wow, Man you lifted me to culinary royalty when you created Oysters Rockefeller, how can I ever thank you?” The crowd watches as Spinach tears up an hugs the hefty Cajun chef.
“Wait spinach, we aren’t done yet we have one last person here to say hi.” The crowd gets tense waiting for this last visitor as a voice booms across the room, “Well blow me down, ack, ack, ack. Well that’s all I kin stand and I cant stands no more.” The crowd goes wild as Popeye walks from behind the curtain to a thunderous applauses. Spinach lets the tears flow this time overjoyed to see the one person who has done more for it than anyone else ever. Together they break into song, “I’m strong to the finish cuz I eats my spinach, I’m Popeye The Sailor Man.” Olive Oyl, Wimpy, and Brutus join the duo as the screams of elation erupt. It’s a Popeye The Sailor/Spinach reunion for the ages!

As the celebration continues the very popular sailor pulls something out of his pocket replacing his pipe with a rolled cigarette. “Ahoy there Spinach, I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam. Would you like a hit of this jay?” Simultaneously Olive Oyl walks over with a serving tray with cup saucer and teapot. “Ohh my, would you like some tea?” Popeye insists, No have a jay” Olive counters again, “Tea!” it’s a battle now of who can be loudest. “Jay!” “Tea!”, “jay!” “tea!” Finally it dawns on me its neither Popeye nor Olive, neither a jay nor a cup of tea. Its the chef is yelling “JT! What is wrong with you, I said you have an order!” Bam! Snapped back to reality! “Sorry chef, I just spaced out a second, I’m on it.” I ran behind the line back to my station to cook my orders, “Space out? What iz these a-space out? I was calling you for five minutes, lets go!”
Everything was back to abnormal, the chef yelling, the wait staff scrambling, the cooks sweating it out as the dishwasher puts away the cleaned spinach. The pressure is on but it actually feels good because us crazed restaurant people thrive on pressure. I can’t help though to take one last look at my bucket of cleaned spinach smiling while thinking it wasn’t all that bad a task after all. While my five sauté pans sizzled out a rhythmic beat I thanked spinach for all it done. Thanks spinach, even I am green with envy…Peace

Another One Bites The Dust (The closing of Cumberland Restaurant)

On January 23, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

From The Potsink Diaries

Cumberland Restaurant was more than just a job to me it was my Mecca, a culinary cathedral where I was transformed from just another punk kid to an integral cast member of a gastronomic theater. I was important there and having put in many hours of work in the kitchen from scrubbing floors to stuffing mushrooms to making and plating deserts I had become an equal. We were all the same in terms of importance, all pieces of a whole. I adore my time with the staff we even hung out sometimes after work. I had seniority over the weekend warriors, the kids from high school who were mere part timers. Hordes of classmates had come through those doors searching for restaurant enlightenment but few achieve it. To me Cumberland was the Taj Majal, my place of worship. I had earned my position of cooks assistant and head suds buster at Cumberland having dominion over all the kids that came to work were to be trained by the master, the holy soapsud king. It gave me a sense of purpose, the staff was my family without the blood relation drama. Alone we were circus sideshows, totally misunderstood, but when the Cumberland family was together we were a unit, a force to be reckoned with. I was looking forward to going to work on this warm spring evening if only to get away from the chaos that cluttered my daily life. Being a central figure in the restaurant absorbed my inner spirit projecting me to another world.
I had learned so much at Cumberland, not just about cooking but about life. Jimmy had taken me under his wing though he’d never admit it, and I alone was privy to his paternal side. He had become my sensei, my benefactor of chefdom. Even Andre had begun teaching me things although I suspected his motives were more about getting me to do his work for him. Either way I had become the kitchen protégé in line to one day have dominion of my very own kitchen. All the basics plus some tricks of the trade on soups and sauces. The more he taught the more I absorbed. I had became a gastronomic sponge soaking up everything they offered. Plus I was earning as I was learning.
The second I walked up to the back door of the kitchen finding it locked I sensed something amiss. I peered through the grease smeared window but it appeared all the lights were off. I double checked my watch then looked to the parking lot. Jimmy’s car was parked in front with a few other cars so I walked around. Fuck man I hope Jense isn’t gonna yell at me again for using the front door but what else could I do? I could just hear him in his condescending European accent, “Chay Dee! Vat do joo tink dis iss here? Zhew tink we air r-r-rrunning a pup-you larraty conest? Deese eess a r-r-r-r-r-eeeerrrrestarant!“ I opened the front door staring at the scene perplexed. Across the dining room at the bar sat Jimmy, Andre, Didier, and Rod the bus boy with John behind the bar. I walked up and noticed an almost deathly glumness on their collective faces. “Hey guys, what’s up? The back doors locked.”
Jimmy broke the ominous silence and said “Zeet down JD. We gots some bad news today. Johnny, give JD a beer.” My happiness was rapidly sneaking out the door allowing concern to take its place as John poured me a cold beer. It was Didier who spoke up next. “ Vucking Jense und Laura have run off with all zee restaurant money. Zey broke into zeee safe, took alla da cash.Tooka zee cash fromma registers und dezzappeared.” My face turned a whiter shade of pale. “WHAT?” If I told you I was stunned I would have been doing the emotion a terrible injustice. More accurately I was stunned, shocked, astounded, flabbergasted and blown away. My entire world and every world within a hundred light years had been rocked to Hell! I looked intensely from face to face hoping one of them would reveal the fact that they had played a fabulous joke on me but none offered a scintilla of a smile. “Jeeeeesus fucking shit! When did what, how did they, fuck man did anyone call the cops?” While Didier explained everything the news slowly seeped into my cerebellum aided by the cold beer. He came to work this morning and found the front door open and the alarm shut off. The cash register was open and empty, there was an empty bottle of Dom Perignon Champagne on the bar with two empty glasses. He ran to the office which was also wide open as was the safe door. He called the cops first, then Jense. Jenses wife said he left for work early and should be there by now. Didier started doing the arithmetic and called Laura whom he had expected of having an affair with Jense. The cops came and took away the champagne bottle and glasses but it was pretty obvious what has happened. “I put all zee numbers togezzer, und she come out four.”
Man this was a lot to digest. So many things raced through my mind. Classic restaurant scandal, Maitre d’ and head waitress give each other head then rip off the restaurant running off together. “Wait-What?! Laura and that fucking airhead asshole Jense did it? The bastards took all the money? They took ALL the money? Wait, what does that mean?” I turned to my mentor, “It means JD my boy that we ain’t got no more restaurant. No mas trabajo amigo.” I looked at Jimmy with an empty confused stare. So that was it man. No more job. No more Laura. No more money coming in. No more Cumberland. It was painful. Didier explained that the restaurant would have to withhold my paycheck until the investigation was over. The six of us sat at the bar and drank for hours until it was time for everyone to leave. We said good bye to each other, Jimmy and I talked at his car for another 30 minutes where he assured me when he found another job he would call me. A nice gesture but I knew this was the last time I would ever see of Jimmy again. Or any of the other people who had become such an integral part of my life. Now they would all just be in my rear view mirror, a speck of dust in my memory bank. Feeling sad and somewhat broken I walked home. Actually I sort of stumbled home having consumed more than my share of the free flowing beer. The summer was barely beginning and Cumberland days were over already! I stopped off on the way at Kens to score some ludes to ease the pain.
When I got to Kens room he was flying high and slurring even worse than me. “Hey bro, what’s the matter? You look like you been crying or something. Here man take these, they‘ll cure anything.” Ken had handed me two white tablets that looked like huge aspirins. “Jesus shit man, what the fuck are these monsters?” I trusted Ken to the end so I downed the tabs without waiting for a reply but still I was curious. “Morph tabs bro, gonna kick your ass six ways to Sunday. So what’s eating you bro?” I pulled a joint from my cigarette pack, “Oh man, fuckin’ Cumberland closed down man, like forever. That chick Laura ran away with the dickhead Maitre d’ and took all the fuckin’ money. They even downed a bottle of Dom Perignon before running off. Now I ain’t got no job. Sucks man!” Ken seemed shocked but was so stoned he had a hard time convincing his face to respond. Almost vacant. “Whoa! Holy Jesus fuck man! That does suck. Hey man, I hear Munson is hiring, you can mow lawns right?” Ken’s eyes were tiny slits and he was nodding. “Dude how many of them morphs did you take?” ken held up four fingers and accepted the joint from me which we puffed halfway down. In the middle of talking Ken fell out so I laid him comfortable in his bed. “Maybe you’re right Buddy, maybe I need a break from restaurants. Tomorrow I’ll go check out Munson’s Landscaping.”

The Tears Of An Onion

On January 20, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

No matter how you slice it the onion will never escape its association with crying. They are the butt of many a culinary joke being the runt of the produce litter bringing even the most well seasoned chef to tears. It’s simply a misunderstood edible member of the gastronomic universe with a bi-polar multiple personality disorder. It suffers from identity crisis whether yellow, red, or white, Spanish, jumbo, pearl, or cocktail, shallot, leek, or scallion. One minute its an essential flavor enhancer and the next a breath altering kiss killer. Is the onion is a taste bud joy bringer or is it a tear jerker? Both. This mood changing bulbous veggie staple is a well known in kitchens throughout the world being embraced by virtually every culture. People are often compared to these versatile ever popular alliums. “He is a complicated Person, with as many layers as an onion.” Indeed concentric in nature the royal onion is as complicated as a vegetable can be. “An onion a day keeps everyone away” That man was so ugly he could make an onion cry.” “ A cat has nine lives but an onion has seven skins.“ “An onion by any other name will never be a rose.” Okay, I made that last one up but you dig what I‘m saying.
Ranging in size from tiny pearls to giant softballs the onion can in fact be peeled one layer after another. A staple in nearly every culture despite having an essence so peculiarly strong and venomous it rivals the skunks ability to cause others to pinch their noses shut tight in an effort to avoid its foul odor. It can turn ones breath into a date breaking whiff “It’s not you baby, its your breath.” Point in fact in many an episode of The Little Rascals Alfalfa was turned away by Darla because he had recently indulged in extra curricular scallion chewing. But to infer that it is somehow evil is a disservice. The onion has a unique ability to coax salty droplets of liquid from our tear ducts which are normally saved for emotional outbursts. Only the slightest provocation of cutlery piercing its flesh brings teardrops scampering down our cheeks in a sometimes uncontrollable frenzy. This audacious vegetable permeates our olfactory senses across the entire kitchen in an all out assault that challenges the garlic’s long standing reign as king of tasty but offensive vegetables.
What’s the reason these bulbous alliums make tears come to our eyes? The official culprit is the result of a chemical reaction that is much too scientific to cover in brief format but suffice to say the onion contains amino acids in the sulfur family that get released into the air. These guilty gasses travel up into the air and rub their irritants into our eyeballs prompting the tear ducts to come to our aid and flush out the acrid acid with a tear or two. I have heard of many sure fire methods to work on these all important taste supplements without caving to the olfactory shock and awe campaign the acids wage. A gas mask will work but its rather uncomfortable and hard to find since the decline of the home bomb shelter. Besides it may frighten the children believing an alien to be cooking dinner. There are more prudent methods which involve keeping your mouth open while cutting into the alliums. In fact that will work for a while because you will inhale the noxious fumes into your lungs via your oral cavity increasing that kiss kill impulse much earlier, but eventually so much gas will enter the atmosphere you will still tear up regardless and have onion breath on top of it. Other methods such as running water, cutting near a flame or on the back burner of a stove produce even less successful results. Keeping something in your mouth is the same principle of an open mouth but for the less disciplined of us. The only real advice I have on this is to keep the onion as cold as possible or keep a small fan blowing away the fumes as you slice, dice, mince, or chop.
Once past the tear inducing cut up stage the onion performs its intended task, the enhancement of flavor to almost any dish. In Cajun cuisine they call the onion and its often present partners peppers and celery the Holy Trinity of cooking. It is the basis of nearly every soup an stew in the world, it adds umpf to pilaf, zing to zucchini and pop to popcorn shrimp. Its in sauces, dressings, dinner entrees, salads, appetizers, starches, sides, veggies and all type of combos. Fried in rings or just bloomin it makes solo appearances and it even has a starring role in cocktails. Yes the onion has a many faceted personality and it brings tremendous flavor enhancement to just about any dish. With a presence so pronounced in the culinary world you would think it deserves a huge birthday celebration, happy onion day, a day all its own. Only problem is, we have no idea exactly when the multi-faceted vegetable icon was born.
Along with its bi-polar identity crisis its origins are nearly impossible to trace, even with vegetable/ancestory.com confusion reigns. Some botanists say it was born in Iran and some say Pakistan. Still others argue it’s originally from Central America but the omnipotent onion seems to have been around forever. Many anthropologists believe it was used by our cave dwelling ancestors which could potentially have acted as a form birth control, or perhaps they used the huge onion as a weapon of ass destruction, but either way it makes determining the birthday impossible. There is evidence in ancient Egypt the onion with its potent aroma was use in an effort to revive the dead. At least until the first unfortunate soul tried shredding the much more aggressive horseradish which may very well have the ability to awaken the non living. The royal onion even found its way into Bible passages. The book of Numbers has the Israelite children lamenting of a diet filled with leeks and onions as they traveled the desert. The Romans, Greeks, and Indians all recognized the healing power of the vitamin rich veggie. The Olympians of ancient Greece fortified themselves with onions before their grueling events. Even the Middle Ages showered glory on these globes of culinary prominence. The three main foodstuffs of that era were cabbage, beans, and onions. The magnificent onion was believed to have incredible medicinal properties curing everything from mouth sores to insomnia. These ever popular kitchen necessities were even taken on board the Mayflower thereby sneaking into our history by adding their special flavor enhancement to the first Thanksgiving feast. It was one of the very first botanical treasures planted by the pilgrims on American soil. Yet still no birthday celebration even after all they’ve done for us. No wonder it seems sad.
Despite all its rich history and near mystical appearances still no mention of a birthday celebration for the used and abused reigning king of culinary staple foods. Perhaps that’s the reason noxious sulphuric vapors seep into our atmosphere. Maybe, just maybe the tears we shed are the tears of the onion itself, living in constant pain of the neglect it experiences because we never gave it a birthday to celebrate like we do. The least we can do for this loyal bulb is grant it one. No reason we can’t heap salutations on this fabulous culinary workhorse, this noxious yet tasty bulbous veggie, this fortune bringing, tear coaxing stench causing staple of the vegetable kingdom. So from this day forward, lets make today, April 4th the official birthday of Allium Cepa, the illustrious and attention deserving onion. Don’t cry for me Argentina, just slice me a few of those birthday onions to have with my champagne. Happy Birthday you many layered edible gem you……PEACE

Born To Cook (Culinary Nirvana Begins At The Pot Sink)

On January 17, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

“I got a job!” I was so excited, no more paper routes, no more Deli boy, now I have a real job, one that pays decent money. Mom was excited too, “A job where?” Beaming with a sense of pride I uttered, “At Cumberland’s Restaurant on 25A.” Mom looked a bit disappointed, “ A restaurant? So We’re going to have a chef in the family? I was really hoping you would be our doctor JT.” I wasn’t letting her deflate my enthusiasm, “Mom, I’ve told you, I’m not smart enough to be a doctor, and besides its just a job, not a life. I’m only sixteen I have no idea what I wanna to be yet.” That was true, all I wanted was to make some money so I could party and buy stuff for my girlfriend. I had no plans of staying in a kitchen for the rest of my life, its just a job. Fates plans however differed from mine which was clear on my first day.
“Hey chef! Da new boy is here, you want I should show him around?” The chef came walking over holding a huge knife in his hand an a scowl on his face, “So youda new kid eh?” He lifted the knife up so I could see the shine of the blade, “Jus don pissa me off boy and you be okay. Grab a apron and shirt and get washing. Take himma downstair Ernie.” Ernie was an old dude, real skinny and wrinkly. He made me nervous at first, the stereotype image of a pedophile or serial killer with a slight emotional handicap. “Foller me son, whatsa you name?” He had a slight limp as he led me down the steps to the basement. I followed hoping this wasn’t where they stored the dead bodies or something, “I’m Justin, my friends call me JT.” We stopped at the bottom and Ernie pointed to the left, “That’s a walk in over there, dry food there, and this is the lockers. The shirts and aprons are over there JD, take any locker you want.” I walked in grabbed a shirt and apron and changed while Ernie stood and watched. A tad creepy. “It’s JT, not JD.” Ernie looked confused, “Wha? JC? Likea Jesus Christ?” He laughed, I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not, “No, it’s JT, not JC or JD.” We went back an forth a few times before I just said, JD is fine.” I didn’t care man, I had a j-o-b, I was a pot washer.
Despite all the bad karma that seeped out of the sink drain I knew instantly that nothing would drag me away from this. Maybe one day I’ll be the Chef, I’ll be the raving lunatic who screams at anyone unfortunate enough to be within range of my booming voice. The insane culinary Guru who proudly sports a tall white hat like my chef Jimmy. Like him I’ll probably have a huge vein popping out from my forehead that can intimidate people all on its own. Mentally deranged king of the kitchen who is permitted by law to carve up carcasses with an array of razor sharp knives of all sizes. I can’t help thinking how proud that would make Mom and Dad. Oh the hell with being a surgeon Mom, I wanna slice up dead animal carcasses and cut the muscles into edible portions of food. I want to carry big ass knives around and scare the shit out of the dishwashers. My gastronomic voyage would be completed once I became the all powerful illustrious kitchen Buddha, The Chef.
I was born for this industry, lured by some mystical force. I wanted to be one of the “restaurant people!” A cosmic group of mix-matched misfits. I was spellbound by this diverse group of dedicated individuals, who work together in a form of impromptu performance art centering around biodegradable remnants of the tastiest and most orgasmic morsels of nutrition I had ever indulged in. Each one plays an integral role in this daily drama. Like an experienced stage hand I would set up the props over and over, so the chef could turn organic ingredients into edible works of art, perfectly arranged on the plates I keep clean. Our lead waitress, Laura would put these recently cleaned now presently food adorned plates on a large oval tray (also cleaned by yours truly) and with swanlike grace effortlessly carry it off to be placed in front of some alcohol saturated patrons. The patrons would then eat the wonderful dish of blissful organic delight, inadvertently leaving something on the plate that would eventually become my responsibility. The waitress would entertain them with a variety of skits, ranging from cute and flirtatious to downright suggestive. The performance continues. Meanwhile, backstage, the chef, Jimmy ( his given name was too hard to pronounce) is performing voice exercises and using my deer in headlight eyes as his focal point. Rapidly building to a spit filled ear shattering crescendo. I listen intently to the chefs advice, disregarding the part where he assures me I should leave this God forsaken establishment or die. He further suggested I engage in a sexual act with myself I felt to be physically impossible. (Not that I wouldn’t try) That too I chose to disregard. Once sufficiently emasculated, red-faced, and disenchanted, I returned to my post, my pot sink, in a highly evolved state. Taking a “the show must go on” attitude, I needed to ready myself for the onslaught of table remnants that our patrons found objectionable. In walked the lovely leading lady, flashing me that piercing knee buckling waitress smile. I began to daydream, or maybe fantasize until Laura began emulating the chefs thunderous performance. Thankfully, it was not directed at me, but rather on the only person here that was as lowly as me, Rod the busboy. Now I got an opportunity to view my peer’s reaction to a brutal lexiconic work over so I might gain some insight on how to deal with it or hone my anti-beration skills for the next portioning of verbal abuse. No doubt it wouldn’t take long before I resort to my improvisational skills of defense. The burning narrowed eyes of the seductive angry waitress met mine and for just two seconds held me in a frozen state. Her face made a remarkable quick change while flashing her signature come hither smile her eyes softened and in that songbird voice, asked, “JT, sweetie will you set up my next tray?” With a wink, she was gone, the busboy was fighting back tears, the chef was deciding my fate, and I of course, was setting up Laura’s tray, like it had never been set before all the time thinking, “she called me sweetie.” As the chef pondered the proper English translation of various swear words and insults to more effectively crush my spirit, I arranged Laura’s tray oblivious to my surroundings. The chef began to explain to me who I was working for, but fortunately for me his lung pounding performance was interrupted by the appearance of an enigmatic presence. The next character to enter, stage left, was a tall, tuxedoed, and very suave Frenchman, bearing the title restaurant manager, Didier. Didier’s job, as I understood it, was to make the entire cast miserable, so we would reach deep down to our inner selves to come up with the performance of a lifetime. I wanted to reach deep down and pull out a Smith and Wesson.
I did however find myself motivated by the threat of that French penguin. That, and a paycheck, and another opportunity to allow Laura to know what an awesome dude I really was. Didier began to roar at all of us, and yet then again, to no-one in particular. It was delivered in a language foreign to me that sounded oddly complementary. Rod the busboy assured me that those seemingly sweet words that came thundering out towards the entire cast were in fact foul French slang that could make the50 pound sack of onions break down and cry. Didier loudly explained to us how important it was that we comprehend the significance of his tirade as a team while we all just looked down at the floor. Even Jimmy looked worried when Didier was in the kitchen. Oddly, the only one that was not intimidated was Laura, the vivacious waitress, who seemed to render our fearful leader speechless using only her eyes. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, Didier disappeared in a puff of smoke. Or maybe Jimmy was burning something, I really don’t remember. But he was gone, Laura’s tray was set to absolute perfection, Rod the busboy had regained his composure, and Jimmy was ready with the next round of tantalizing treats arranged in artwork on my clean plates. All had performed admirably in Act 1.
Anyway, you get the picture; This performance goes on all night, every night over and over. Some of the actors change, but the results remain the same. I can’t explain why but the seething emotional combat combined with the intense pressure of service time was intoxicating. Curiously at dinner time Jimmy took on more an air of compassion that made me think of my own father on some of his better days. He would speak ever so softly and hold out a bowl of beef stew which because it had some wine in it, was referred to as Beef Bourgogne. But delicious it was. No Dinty Moore for this restaurant worker. As quickly as everything had gone to hell in a mixing bowl, the calm and serene peace of family meal changed the entire setting. I sat at a small table with Ernie, the old man who was in charge of maintenance. Funny, because he could barely maintain himself, and as I later found out, he was the 65 year old uncle of the manager. I cleverly positioned myself so I could catch a glimpse of Laura each time she entered the kitchen. It was these Zen saturated moments that made us all forget how loud and harsh the decibel level could get at service time.
My gastronomic voyage had officially begun. I dove in with a work ethic beyond reproach. I have arrived,
an almost spiritual transcendence, having a job and being part of something that lifted me to a higher plane. I was fortunate enough to find myself in the employ of Cumberlands’s restaurant, in the socially envious position of pot washer. Four nights after school, and Saturday nights, I was the lead pot washer. But, being the envy of my high school buddies was short lived when I discovered that the “lead pot washer” wasn’t really in charge of anything other than some sudsy water, and that it involved way more than merely washing pots. I was also permitted, implored even, to use my hands to scrape and clean the organic food remnants, and other indefinable residues left on the plates by our satisfied customers as well as floors, utensils, machines, and anything that neeed cleaning including the managers and the chefs cars. So it was that this head pot washer was cleaning everything in sight, in the restaurant or the employee parking lot. Poised at the suds busting helm I decided that I was going to be the best washer they ever had until that day I rise up the culinary ladder to take off to enlightenment.
On one particular night I felt compelled to let everyone in the kitchen know my lofty intentions of becoming a black belt in the art of pot and pan scrubbery. When I told the chef, the absolute ruler of the kitchen of my plan I was certain he would beam with pride. I really looked up to the chef even though he was so old. Man that dude must have been in his 60’s. I believe he always worked hard and the years had been kind to him, although not without consequence. Deep furrows stretched into spaghetti lines across his face, and he always seemed to be deep in thought. Quite fit for an older guy, and he was deceptively strong. Crazy coot could throw 50 pound bags of potatoes halfway across the kitchen with ease. He always wore a dirty and tattered black bandana under his chef hat which concealed the badly receding hairline and his eyebrows sported the thickest hair he had. Like caterpillars on steroids those eerie brows housed some very dark and serious eyes. Eyes that narrowed instantly at the first sign of anger. Like holy shit man it wasn’t only the eyes, but that bulging vein that stood out and threatened you personally. I prayed it wasn’t the angry face that was building up inside his maniacal mind. Not siree it was not the anger I was about to get a full emasculating dose of. He looked me directly in the eyes, and with his most compassionate paternal demeanor, his eyes teared up, and he laughed uncontrollably. A laugh that came all the way from the balls of his feet. In between his deafening guffaws the chef attempted to tell his sous chef Andre what my intentions were, and that was met with a roar of laughter that could cause a soufflé to fall. Regardless of their snickering daggers of contemptuous chuckling I maintained a stiff upper lip, and decided I would take charge of my own soapy destiny.
As empowering as it may seem, it wasn’t the joy of busting suds for a living that kept me coming back. It wasn’t the dream of one day being admired, no revered as the Chef, the absolute ruler of the kitchen. It wasn’t that soul warming food, it wasn’t even the lure of the attractive and flirtatious waitresses that continually tempted my teenage libido with a false sense of possibilities beyond imagination. No, there was something else about this experience that tugged at my inner Cheshire cat causing me to smile from ear to ear. They paid me.

Chef Jekyll and Mr. Run And Hide

On December 18, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

Pot Sink Diaries
J.T. Hilltop

Working for a manic depressive chef can actually make life in the restaurant more interesting. I say manic but I mean maniacal. Granted if you were the target of his demonic wrath it was not interesting, but frightening, but overall it added to the experience. Chef Jimmy could be unbelievably paternal one minute, handing me a bowl of beef bourguignon and offering sage advice (not the herb), and showering me with spit as he screamed directly at my face loud enough to insure everyone in the restaurant heard my total dehumanization the next. Could never figure out why he felt he needed to get nose to nose to communicate his displeasure, I was well within earshot and fully capable of understanding what a dumb godamn Ben Dayho I was. When he got pissed his evil twin Chef Jekyll came out and everyone else ran to hide. When someone angered the Chef he morphed into something non human. His face got all weird and contorted, taking on a smoky red hue. The wrinkles in his face turned into evil scales, his teeth rattled, veins popped out from all over his forehead and neck, and while this part was probably my imagination little horns protruded under his chef hat. His words found their target escorted by a military formation of saliva to make soggy strikes with surgical precision. All I could do was cower in fear like an abused puppy hoping that my trembling wouldn’t piss him off even further. From the corner of my eye I can see everyone else in the kitchen moving slowly and deliberately away trying to get as far as possible from ground zero. When the painful barrage of rapid fire insults dispensed at uzi speed subsided, the chef walked away mumbling as my comrades came to comfort me. By laughing! “Whew, you really pissed him off this time JT, chef giving you big ole cigar today.” “Ew we baby, cigars coming like grapes today boy, you getting them in bunches.” Wasn’t bad enough I just got eviscerated by the chef, now my co workers come over to gloat that it wasn’t them. When ever a chef or manager bitches you out in the industry we say we’re getting a cigar. It goes back to an old saying about someone being so mad they had a baby, but to be more cryptic restaurant people call it getting a cigar, which the angry person passes out after the birth of their tirade.
The best defense from receiving cigars is keeping the chef mentally balanced. I was skilled at creating such a delicate balance by virtue of subtle ass kissing coupled with schmoozing the hell out of him with my witty youthful charm. Holding up a mixing bowl of seasoned ground beef, putting on a sly smile saying “Want me to roll you balls chef?” Or “Chef, here’s the filet mignons. By the way, I heard they call you Mr. tenderloin.” To which he would give an approving chuckle and begin bragging. Little things like that kept the chef feeling good and when the chef feels good I don’t have to worry about flying knives or being stuffed in the meat grinder. I never witnessed any of that but the rumors abounded.
But fuck ups were like little ghosts all over the kitchen hanging out waiting for their chance to be called out for a haunting, and try as I did all too often I was possessed by the spirit of screw up. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere, during an otherwise uneventful shift. Jimmy had a thick Spanish accent an called me Gay Dee, having problems with J’s. Even his own name was pronounced Himmie, short for Jimenez, but he went with the traditional English pronunciation of Jimmy. He used a drawn out Ahhhhh so he could think about the right enlish word to use….Ahhhhhh, Gay Tee? You feel ahhhhh, hungry?” Sometimes took him over a minute to ask a simple question. On One particular shift started out as a quiet night and Chef was prepping something when I got the call. “Ahhhhhh, Gay Dee…Make me one favor por favor.” I immediately abandoned my post of suds busting by my sinks and ran over, “Yes chef, what do you need?” Ahhhh, Gay Dee, go a downstair anda getta me ahhhhh one case ofa gripeece.” Okay, chef needed something and I was the one he called on. Time to build some kitchen creds. It was considered an honor to do the chef a favor, get on his good side. “Yes chef, right away.” I ran down the stairs two at a time.
When I got to the bottom I began to think, “What the fuck is gripeece?” I looked around first in the storeroom, then the walk in, nothing even remotely close to gripeece. Shit! Now what? I ran upstairs as fast as I could an ran up to Jimmy, “Um chef, I couldn’t find the gripeece.” Believing I showed enough disappointment for the both of us I gave him my “what so you want me to do now” sad eye stare. “Gay Dee, please, ahhhh no fool around. Please go a downstair anna get me ahhhh one case of gripeece from frisser.” A light went on in my head, “Oh, the freezer, okay, be right back.” Back down the stairs I ran and directly to the walk in freezer. I scoured the shelves, all kinds of frozen things, ice cream, veggies, puff dough, pasta’s, meat product, but nothing even close to a gripeece. I double checked. Nothing. Triple checked. Still nothing. That light in my head dimmed as nervousness began to settle in. Now I have to go tell Jimmy we are out of gripeece and I don’t even know what a gripeece is.
I trudged up the steps in a state of severe gloom with a side order of fear. I walked up to the chef to give him the bad news, that we have run out of gripeece. “Um, I-I don’t think we have anymore gripeece chef, I checked everywhere.” Then it happened, almost in slow motion, the face contorted, the veins began popping, the scales showed up on his face and his chef hat moved slightly to allow room for the evil horns. “God a dammit Gay Tee I’m a tella you one more time.” Not good. No drawn out ahhh, the octaves rose as the decibel increased dramatically. Smoke rose off of Chef Jekyll’s neck and I could sense the hidden smiles on the rest of the guys as they anticipated evil Chef unleashing a pit bull of fury at me. “You go a down stair, go a to the frisser, and ona da tird chelf you get a me one case of a gripeece okay? Grie…..Peece.” The light went back on as I trembled under his wrath.. GREEN PEA’S!! “Sorry chef, right away chef” A ran to the basement in record time, flew into the walk in freezer and there on the third shelf, big as life sat a case of green pea’s. I tore back upstairs, brought him the pea’s then just stood there like a dog waiting to be rewarded for giving its paw. “What da hella you want Gay Tee? Huh? Getta you culo back to work you Ben Dayho.”
Knowing I dodged a round of bullets I returned back to my familiar soapy space, took the helm over my three compartment sink where I was more comfortable and commenced to scrubbing away, eagerly awaiting the next opportunity to kiss ass and maybe atone for the stupidity of not understanding my mentor. The chef was mumbling all kinds of shit, mostly about me I’m sure so I decided it was not the time to ask him why he called me and the other guys Ben Dayho. I just assumed it must be the name of the biggest asshole pot washer in restaurant history until one of the guys explained it to me. As soon as he told me what chef meant all I could say was, “God damn, I am such a vendejo!”

I Think There’s A Rat In This Bitchin’ Kitchen

On December 15, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Pot Sink Diaries
I stood proudly over my pot sink ready to clean anything and everything the chef could throw at me. Literally throw. My gastronomic voyage had officially begun and I dove in to the trip with a work ethic beyond reproach. I scrubbed and cleaned pots and pans until my fingers acquired the same status Mother Nature naturally assigns to prunes and raisins. I happily scrubbed and mopped the floors, scoured the ovens, and enthusiastically awaited orders from ….well just about everyone else in the restaurant. No worries I was willing to perform any thankless task sent my way. This night I learned about one of the mysterious qualities found in any great chef. A great Chef has the keen acumen of understanding the dynamics of the driving desire of a young pot washer’s eagerness to please. Jimmy picked up on this rather quickly informing me of a special “time” in restaurants, a time when things were “quiet.” He called it “downtime”. Downtime sounded harmless when I first heard it escape from Jimmy’s lips, and I thought it might be cool. JT my boy” came the words from my illustrious leader, “Ees a little slow tonight. Looksa like a we have some downtime.”
Well I could barely contain myself. An opportunity had arisen for me to show everyone how gracefully I would be able to handle this newfound downtime. It never occurred to me that the word itself could enlighten me as to what may be in store. The Chef planned to put me “down” and keep me “down”, by assigning me an assortment of unmemorable chores that will get me down in the dumps. As for the “time” portion of my endeavor, it actually meant time consuming. Flagrantly left out of the phrase was tedious. It should be called tedious downtime. This inspirational portion of the evening I get to perform seemingly insignificant time consuming tasks. There are various levels of joy associated with downtime tasks. It could range from the somewhat mindless variety peeling 50 – 100 pounds of potatoes, to the absolute joy depleting role of shrimp peeler. Peeling shrimp is somewhat misleading as well, because chef hands you a ginourous pan of shrimp which you are require to clean. Remove the outer shell, put a lice sown the back of the tine morsel of future deliciousness and remove the incredibly objectionable digestive track that looks like small black sludge. Then rinse it and ass it to the other couple hundred shrimps. How many shrimp can people eat anyway. Don’t they know you are what you eat? Inclusive of all these food related tasks, are a mysterious set of non food thankless jobs given the official name of maintenance. I say mysterious, because I could never figure out how washing the Chef’s car in any way contributed to the dining experience. But wash it I did, along with every piece of kitchen equipment, and every floor within a 5 mile radius. On this particular evening, I was mopping the downstairs. A serene and peaceful place where all foods and food products reside to meditate. They remain at the Storage Inn, a kind of bread and breakfast for the grocery set, until they are summoned upstairs to become part of something monumental. In a back room, seldom used, was where I was sent. Upon arrival, my keen observation noted two non-moving members of the family rodentia lying on the floor. Damn they looked gross. Summoning all my energy to keep my dinner where it belonged, I walked into the next room and informed Edwin, the Chefs nephew or “senior potwasher” whose true job and intellect were yet to be determined. He was however, my supervisor and assisting me. His having been here so long gave him a queer aura of authority. “Hey Edwin man, there are two dead rats in the extra room.” Edwin’s English was worse even than Jimmies, and he just repeated what what what and stared at me puzzled. So of course I motioned with my hands as I said very slowly, for some reason believing that would help him understand, “Next ..room….dead ..rats, two of them!” This is too fucking tedious, and I needed a cigarette so I lit up and walked into another room to chill. Seconds later I heard a blood curdling scream followed by a pounding of wood to wood. I ran to Edwin fearing the worst and there he was still screaming and beating those two already dead rats as if they were zombies. Hard as I tried, the sight of Edwin clutching a broom and beating the shit out of two dead rats took over every rational bone in my body and I broke out in a laugh so fricken hard if Jimmy and Didier had seen me upstairs they would have felt like rank amateurs. Tears forced their way across my cheeks like rivulets of saline. I had to hold my stomach and fall to the floor in an epileptic fit of uncontrollable laughter. To date this may have been the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life and I wasn‘t even high. This is restaurant life. Now my mood was great. Hope it lasts.
Just when I thought Ed couldn’t make me laugh any harder he moved into action. At first I was repulsed and grossed out to the max. With his bare fucking hands he grabbed one dead rat in each, looked at me with a dopey smile that had me wondering if he smoked my hash as he said, “Come witta me JT. We godda bigga sue-prize forra da cheff.” With the rats dangling at his sides he climbed up the stairs like happy from the seven dwarfs. When he reached the top he made room for me to stand next to him and he held these two dead god damn rodents as high as his arm would allow and yelled loud enough so the entire kitchen could hear. “Hey Cheff…..Lookit a what we gotta for you soup!” As the chef and company began laughing wildly I looked on in horror. “Jesus shit Ed, you can’t bring thee disease ridden mother fuckers in a kitchen!” Mortified I looked around and everyone was laughing except Laura. Oh Jesus I thought, she’s the only other one grossed out besides me. Jimmy yelled back, “getta Jense inna here, we gotta special entrée tonight.” The laughter continued and Edwin took the rats back downstairs’ and no sooner did he get to the bottom when he tripped and fell letting the rats fly in the wind. I ran down to see if he was okay and he was frozen on the ground looking up in horror. Across the room was our illustrious asshole manager with a face so red I thought the beets were embarrassed. Over one shoulder a dead rat, the other at his feet. His eyes were exploding volcanoes and if had found the dignity to speak it would have flowed a molten lava of pissed off. I had to leave because my head was about to pop from not laughing at the sight and air was forcing its way through my nostrils. I knew if I let my tears of joy flow I would have lost my job, and I was thinking Edwin may already have lost his. I will never forget the look on Didier’s dead rat slapped face.
Damn that was a rough night I thought as I stopped at the corner of my block that had once served as my bus top. I reached to the bottom of my front pocket and pulled out the tiny piece of aluminum foil Ken had left me, then pulled my trusty hash pipe from my other pocket and unraveled the leftover piece of black hash. “One or two more hits before heading home.” As I lit the hash I thought about how funny it was that I was talking to no one, yet it felt like it needed to be said. I held the smoke from this sweet relief in my lungs and smiled at my ritualistic behavior. As I exhaled I let out a chuckle, remembering the dead rat and Ernie beating the shit out of it with that broom. Can’t wait to tell Ken all about it tomorrow. “But for now, one last hit before going inside.”
Feeling like my legs were on their own path and my brain in a downward dog trance I glanced up and saw the lights still on. Fuck, I thought, the old boy is still awake. Man I was hoping to go to my room, put on my headphones and dig on “Aqualung” the new Jethro Tull album I just bought. I took an extra two minutes to get my head together, a few squirts of Visine to “get the red out”, and repeated my little mantra chant that helped me appear not stoned. “Om Mani Pardre not too high, Om not too high” My good mood would not last long.

The Sick Bastards Network presents : The Buck Bone Naked Chef

On December 10, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

The hottest new kitchen competition in town
Rated WSC (Warped Sexual Content) Parental discretion advised, in fact, everyone’s discretion

Its hotter than Hells kitchen, bigger and harder than any of the Top Chefs, more dangerous than having it Chopped. Its here and its sure to make the Doughboy rise and pinch Melba‘s peaches. The Buck Bone Naked Chef lets it all hang out in this bare bones competition that leaves no sharpening stone unturned. Watch as three culinary contestants ply their culinary trade in the buff. That’s right, three naked chefs competing for the coveted title of The Buck Bone Naked Chef.
Tonight We’ll see if Jack has what it takes to whip up your soufflé or fall short. Will Destiny get the dough to rise or end up going down? Will Stan fluff his meringue into stiff peaks or take it on the chin. Join our three judges Ben Dover, Hal Apeno, and Helen Back as they choose who’s naked body raises their bar and who goes home fully dressed and unsatisfied…
I’m your host, Hugh Jass so come join me now. First let me introduce our contestants. From Pullet Pennssyvania, Master Chef of “The Back Door”, Jack Mioff. “I’m Jack Mioff and I work 16 hour days so I won’t stop until I’ve given every ounce I have.” …He sure looks like he can go the distance, next here from Deepcavern Nevada , chef Destiny Dancer who heads up the culinary staff at “Swinging On The Maypole” in downtown Twin Peaks, “Me and my girls are coming for you boys, you better be up for it.” ….Hoho, threatening words from a pretty lady. I’m even feeling it,haha. And finally, Stan Duprite, the very popular New York City chef at “The G spot”,.. “ When I pull out my secret weapon it will bring them to their knees.”…. Oh boy, sounds like he’s got more than just a few tricks under his apron, we’re gonna have some very stiff competition tonight. So Let’s get right to it contestants. In the first round we’ll be looking to see what these naked culinary competitors can come up with using the secret ingredients, Zucchini and Oysters. Chef’s, take off your clothes and get to work, you have 20 minutes to pull it off.

Jack has turned on the Hobart 10 gallon mixer ..Oh my god look at him go, he has the mixer on low and he’s rolling his hips in time to the machine. Lets listen in on the judges, “ Hal, it looks to me like he’s hanging A bit too low and….Ohh snap, that had to hurt!”.. “I’ll bet it did Helen, not sure how he’ll get that out of the whisk. I would have used a paddle myself whada you think Ben?” “I don’t know Helen I think the paddle would’ve pulled it just as hard.” “You might be right Ben, but either way he’s gonna have to get that thing out of the mixer.” …. Lets go on over and see what Destiny has working up. Well look at this folks Destiny is giving you viewers quite a treat as she rolls out her dough. That’s some serious bouncing right there, haha. .. Back to the judges, “Holy crap Helen what ees she doing with dat zucchini?” “I can tell you this Hal, the way she is washing that thing the zucchini may come squeaky clean but I can’t wait to see how it makes Stan Duprite deal with the sight, he hasn’t taken his eyes off her.” No kidding Helen, Hal you seem to be staring yourself. I hope they can get back to work..”….. They aren’t kidding folks, Stan hasn’t moved a muscle. Well hasn’t moved a muscle aside from the obvious hanging chad muscle, haha…. Tell you the truth I’m not sure she’s washing the zucchini it looks to me its more like she’ greasing it for something. Lets go see if Chef Duprite has his head back in the game. I see he’s not standing still, he’s just having trouble getting his oysters off. Seems the shell is clamming up him, hahaha. But it looks like all three are making headway. Whoa, hear that bell, 2 minute warning constants, time to wrap things up and start plating for the judges.
While our contestants plate their appetizers lets meet our judges for tonight’s competition. From Mexico, the man who puts then heat in the meat of Mexican food everywhere, Hal Apeno. “Tank a you, tank a you, I am berry pleased to be here.”…Okay Hal. A man of few word, haha, and now the lady who has gone from being a homeless crack addict to restaurant whore, I mean restaurateur, Helen Back. “Hellooo everybody. So nice to be here on Naked Chef Bone. Can’t wait to see all the booty. Heheh, I mean bounty Hugh, not booty, hehehehehe. I‘m just happy to be near you Hugh Jass, teehee”… And I‘m certainly happy to be near you Helen. I can see you have your big cleavage…Oops, hahaha, I mean your big cleaver tonight Helen. Better watch out for my meat, hoho. How much did that monster set you back. Four dollars and ninety cents I think, I gave the guy a five dollar bill and he gave me back two nipples. Oops, heheheheh, I mean I don’t know how much Hugh.” ….No worries Helen, we speak blond here on Sick Bastard Network so we know just what you mean honey. And now our final judge, the man who puts the coarse in intercourse, Ben Dover. “Oh piss off Hugh, when your tip reaches your butt you can just fuck yourself.” … haha, eat shit and live Ben. I see Ben is in rare form tonight so contestants, bring out the dishes. What have you got there Jack?
“Well I got off to a rough start putting too much of myself in the bowl there, but I made autoerotic oysters, Oysters tied around this slice of zucchini bread with smothered onions.“ Mmmm, looks good Jack, lets see what the judges think, Hal? “No very spicy but still she’s a hot, not bad there Jack Mioff, not bad at all.”…All right. Confidence from Hal, not bad at all, Helen? “It feels good going down my throat but its much too big. I like to start off with small mouthfulls.” Okay Helen, well said, how bout my angry friend Ben, what say you? “Piss off Hugh, this looks and tastes like shit.”…Oh no, not much praise from Ben Dover. Next we have the well endowed Destiny. What do you bring to the table Destiny? “I made a dill cake with greased zucchini and raw oyster because they make me horny.”…. Hahaha, I think I’m horny too Destiny, but what about our judges, Hal? “Spicy and hot. I want her.”… Ho ho, I hope you mean it not her, Helen? “I just can’t get that image of her greasing the zucchini out of my head, so slow, up and down, and up and down. I vote for her to do it again. How on earth did you get the bread so tasty Destiny?” “Oh, hehehe, I used fresh dill because fresh dill makes a tasty dill dough.” …. Okay lets not go there, too deep for me, haha, lets move on. Ben? “piss off Hugh, I just want to screw her. I’d like her to Ben Dover, haha.” ….Good enough Ben, good enough, believe it or not that’s big props from Ben Dover. Finally what did you make Stan Duprite? “Well not Ben that for sure Hugh, haha, I made a zucchini pancake with oysters absolut. Vodka glazed oysters with some bacon and Vidalia onion chutney on top.” …Mmmmm sounds delish to me, whadaya think there Hal? “Actually this shit looks good and tastes amazing. Maybe just nees a little hot sauce.” …Another nice compliment from Hal, lets hear what Helen has to say… “My God Stan is hung like a horse. What I’d really like is for Destiny to grease his zucchini, hehe. But I really like the way this whole thing feels in my mouth.” …My that’s a ringing endorsement from the slutty, oops sorry, I mean sultry Helen Back. Now our final judge, Ben?…. Get your head out of your huge ass Hugh, you know this food rocked it. But does he have to keep swinging that humongous sausage around?” ….Well Helen seems to lick it, I mean like it. Contestants, one of you will be eliminated this round lets see who has to get dressed.
Well the judges have spoken. Jack, your zucchini bread was pretty flat but your sticking it in the mixer was entertaining, Destiny, greasing that zucchini was so intense all three judges voted for you to have immunity this round, and Stan, I gotta say, you better not get too hard or there’s gonna be an accident for sure. So the first one to put their clothes back on… Jack Mioff. Sorry jack, get dressed an go back home. “Fuck you guys, this game sucks. I want to slap you Hugh.” …Whoa!! Ha ha, I’m ready for it, go ahead Jack Mioff. There goes one sore loser, but then if I had my beef jammed in the mixer I’d be black and have the blues too. Lets go to the final round. Contestants your ingredients for tonight’s entrée is banana, figs, and pork tenderloin. Destiny, Stan…..get to it, you have thirty two minutes.

Stan is off to a fast start, he has his tenderloin up on the counter and it looks like he’s… massaging it? Oh wait, I see what he’s doing, look at Destiny fixated on Stan’s tender loin. Lets listen in on our judges… “Conyo man, dat some huge tender dere Helen, si?” “Oh yea I see that thing Hal, Destiny seems to be staring too she better snap out of it and…oh wait, oh my God, I never knew anyone could peel a banana like that!” “Holy cheet Helen, Stan just dropped his meat pounder.” ..“Will you two idiots quit babbling, of course he dropped it for chrissake, look at the way that broad is eating the banana!” Wow!! Damn she’s not eating it, she’s sucking that thing and I want to take notes, if I could do a banana like that I’ll have both of you guys licking my fingers and eating me out.” ….Hoho, I think Helen meant eating out of her hand but either way everyone has stopped everything and…..Wait, what’s this?? Oh oh, this could be bad news for Stan, he may get disqualified. He has piled up all the ingredients in a tower. That’s quite an erection he’ got there, no pun intended, hope he can recover. Destiny is back by the stove and is she ever giving our viewers a view. Ten minutes to go contestants, Stan, better calm that thing down before it gets disqualified. We want you to stick it out, but not that far out, haha, and Destiny I sure hope you have something to lay on your plate. We’ll be back after these messages from our sponsors, Trojan Condoms, with their new stealth rubber, she’ll never see you coming, and our favorite fast food chain, Mc Do-me’s, they give you the meat but hold the pickle.

Welcome back folks, the final bell has rung and its time to find out who gets dressed and who gets their own reality show. Judges, lets see what Destiny and Stan have for you. Destiny, what is your entrée? “I have roast tenderloin with rolled up balls of figs. As a side I placed the tip of the banana into a sliced fig.” Oh my, that’s an interesting presentation, it looks almost phallic, Hal? …“Phallic schmallic Hugh, I jus wanna see her eat another banana.” …Sorry Hal, that trigger has already been tripped, Helen? ..”Destiny, meet me after the show!” ….Helen I’m not sure, “Piss off Hugh, let them meet Helen said I can watch! Just give her the prize and get rid of the dude.” ..Um, oh, I..I.. It doesn’t work like that Ben, we need to judge. Lets go quick, And I mean quick to see what Stan cooked up for us, Stan? …”Not that I think its even gonna matter, but I made scaloppini of pork tenderloin wrapped in grilled banana, with a cognac fig reduction and a purée of savory banana over cinnamon infused Jasmine rice.” …That sounds mighty tempting Stan, what do you thin Hal?…”Taste good, but not as good as dee chick.” Yikes, Helen? Helen? Stan, you can’t do that, get away from Helen…”Shut up Hugh, don’t stop Stan, if you keep going until I come you get my vo….oh shit, that was pre mature!!” Helen, please, this is…”Piss off Hugh. We all voted and the dude is out. Clean yourself off and get dressed Duprite! Bring those melons over here sweetheart, you’re the winner.” …. Ben you can’t say that kind of….oh, damn…We’ll be right back…CUT!!! Go to commercial now!!”
Shsshshshshshsshshshshshshshshshshshhsshhsh……….
Hello folks, welcome back I’m Hugh Jass here at The Buck Bone Naked Chef on The Sick Bastard TV Network, along with our celebrity judges, Hal Apeno, Helen Back, and Ben Dover. Well we had an unconventional show tonight to say the least but with this cast its about what we’d expect around here. We have to say good bye to a fierce competitor, but quite frankly Destiny made it hard for him from the start. In fact she made it hard for just about all of us. Stan plunged in and gave it his all but in the end he got beat by his competitor. Destiny made it so long and hard for him he just had to down, and not just on Helen, haha. His cream wasn’t rising to the top no matter how hard he was…I mean tried. Stan, put your clothes on and hit the road dude, Destiny will remain naked. “Can I just say I had a great time here. I won’t be able to beat it for a while but I am glad I came. Helen, thank you for your number I’ll give you a call. Destiny, if I had to go down I’m glad it was on you, I will never forget seeing your milk pillows bounce as you rolled out your dough. I think my only mistake was with the thickness of my pork, I didn’t pound my meat enough, but Destiny’s knockers knocked it out of the park anyway.” …Indeed they did Stan, glad to see your not a sore loser. Personally I can’t wait to watch Destiny beat her next opponents on Buck Bone Naked Chef Champions. In the meantime I’m gonna Ben Dover my Hugh Jass to Helen Back until Hal Apeno makes it Stan Duprite so Destiny Dancer can Jack Mioff. Thanks for joining us, I’m a Hugh Jass and we’ll see you next time on, The Buck Bone Naked Chef.

Cuz I only Have Pies, For You

On December 6, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Is the dough out tonight?
I don’t know if I rolled it out right
But I ONLY HAVE PIES
Foooooor You

Ah yes, holidays are here and its time to get pie baking. Apple pies, mincemeat pies (which is what my Mom once threatened to make out of me), cream pie, chicken pot pie. Wait, what? Is that a three course meal, chicken…pot…and pie? Or is there a reason they call them pot pies? It begs the question, is it possible to use the same rolling technique I learned as a teen to roll out my pie dough? Perhaps. I remember the first time I learned to roll my own back in the day, so maybe it’s like riding a bike and one never forgets. In fact I believe if I had some rolling papers and something to roll in them this second I would till be able to create the perfect fatty. (Do I mean hypothetically? Perhaps)The real question is this, can I use that same long ago learned skill to make my pies for the holidays? Well The Existential Baker has never been one to give up without giving it the old culinary college try, so lets investigate. Nothing to lose anyway, if it doesn’t work I will just fall back to the old school daze of rolling when I was on the honor roll of joint rolling and set myself up with a good old fashioned doob. (definitely not hypothetic)
First I want to investigate the commonalities of smoking herb and baking. Here we go. Cakes are like the baggies of herb in weed world. A half ounce is like a six inch cake, a lid (very old term for between a half and an ounce) is an eight inch cake, and the five finger ounce is a huge ten inch cake. Quarter pound is a half sheet, and well you get the picture. The higher the quality the higher the cost. You can get a cheap store bought pre made cake for the price of Mexican green weed, a home-style bakery fresh cake for the price of Acapulco gold pot, or a custom made baked to order cake in the shape of just about anything which is like a purchase of killer Thai Stick. All of them taste great and make you feel good but the Thai Stick is by far the most enjoyable and impressive of highs. I specialize in cupcakes, which is more like smoking from a bowl of a multiple hose hookah pipe.
Picture this, a giant mushroom, a tie dye colored humongous caterpillar sitting on top of it smoking from a hookah pipe. He offers you a hit and you smile like a Cheshire cat. Either you’re referencing Alice in Wonderland or your doing hallucinogens not weed. Ease up on your THC levels. But back to the hookah. The multiple hose hookah he offers you is a pipe designed to offer a smooth smoke for multiple users, more than likely a must have in the good old opium dens where Eastern Mystics went to light up and chillax. That’s kinda what happens with the cupcakes, you sit around a table and everyone is empowered to enjoy whatever flavor they chose, unlike the basic chocolate layer cake which needs to be cut and portioned. And everyone get the same buzz. (From chocolate) With cupcakes the user, or eater, just picks whichever one they want and its all ready for them, in a nice neat self contained package. I also make bite size mini’s, which is like a set of one-hitters. Anyway, around the table you sit with the cupcake of your choice and you can use a fork or just stuff the dynamic flavored treat directly into your mouth. By using the best and freshest ingredients we bake our little treats then offer them up for consumption. Cupcakes may also be used for medicinal purposes, having properties which help combat depression and other mood related afflictions. No prescription is needed, just an okay from Web-MD or a simple self-diagnosis will do. But please use in moderation, cupcake withdrawal can be a bitch. That’s how a warped mind like The EB views his cupcake creations, like high grade pleasure inducing treats made individually for each one to indulge as they choose. We create preamo organic mind teasers and palate pleasers for your recreational or medicinal enjoyment. (for private parties I have been known to enhance them with ……. Lets just say more organics). But I’m off on a tangent which happens often when the mind is distracted by weed, I mean cupcakes, so back to rolling.
Back in the day the rolling papers were too small to make a proper fatty. We had to get resourceful sticking two papers together. The same concept applies with pies. Two separate discs of rolled dough for a fatty of a pie. Its important to get the dough to the proper thickness and size for the desired result. Once rolled its time to put the product inside. Lets say its some high quality sliced Washington State G-Mama Smith apples cut with some sugar and spices. Too much filling will rip the paper, so proportion is important but you want that mother stuffed to the max with a nice mountain of sweet surrender. Oh to live on, Sugar Mountain! Now we need to stick the two shells together. I’m not going to lick the pie dough because….well gross, so in place of my saliva I will use some whipped eggs and brush the edges gently just as I would have licked the glue. Using a rolling pin replaces the art of holding your product between index fingers and thumbs to roll it up. You won’t need that to roll out the dough but remember that skill because it will come in handy when you need to pick it up and place it on top of the apple mountain. Roll the dough in a circle a tad bigger than what you need then fold it in half. (use plenty of the white powdery stuff to prevent sticking) Then using thumbs and index fingers pick it up and place it on top of the apples with the crease across the middle. Use the aforementioned pinch method and flip it over the apple creating a pleasuredome. Gently press along the edges to seal, cut off the excess dough and crimp for a perfect fatty of an apple pie. Now its time to bake. Matter of fact, let’s put it in the oven and we’ll all get baked!
This may be a bit of a stretch, but when you get down to it many of the skills I acquired back in the days have come in handy working in kitchens. Cutting and portioning with a spatula or knife instead of a credit card, sifting flour at an angle just like cleaning weed on an album cover, or rolling dough the way we rolled joints. So when you get down to it, my youth was clearly not misspent, and I received a valuable education at school outside of the classrooms……PEACE

Like us on Facebook at Jarets Stuffed Cupcakes, or visit our website….http://www.stuffedcupcakes.com/

Last Day At Windows On The World

On October 13, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Smell ya later

Working at Windows on the World was the most awesome experience I ever had in the restaurant industry. Fast paced and crazy during service but the waitresses were gorgeous. In fact the waiters were gorgeous too, most of waitstaff were Bohemians. The war between the front and back of the house was non existent because the expeditor was a buffer between the two factions and took shit from all sides. The pace of service was so intense we never really had time to build up animosity anyway. But nothing in my career has ever compared to the camaraderie in the kitchen.
Eight cooks on the hot line, four in the pantry, an a dozen or so prepping, and about sixty workers in the kitchen at any given moment. In the kitchen we spent what little quiet time laughing and getting to know each other better. It was like a damn fraternity. For four hours of service we were all we had to rely on, we all had each others backs. We snuck extra chef coats to each other, beers, joints, whatever. We got high after service and met for drinks before heading out to our homes or wherever we went. We became extremely tight nit.
The thing that I remember most was my last day there. They have this cute little ritual they perform for the people that leave that they love. And I was well loved, the hippie cook who played the harmonica into the expediters microphone, made everyone recognize the moment of silence for John Lennon during the global memorial at his death, and the teller of numerous jokes and puns that kept them chuckling for hours. So I was destined for their ritual which to be honest made me happy despite what the ritual consisted of.
In the back of the kitchen were three huge cauldron kettles for soups and the like. Considering we served over a thousand people a night the kettles had to be big. For the last day of any coworker they loved they reserve the largest kettle on the end filling it with an array of obnoxious liquids. Outdated fish stock, outdated eggs, vinegars, wines, anything they could find to make a disgusting smelly bath to dip the departing warrior in on his last day. My last day!
When the shift ended I knew it was coming because I had seen it before. Some fight like hell and end up getting bruised up, some try to sneak away before anyone grabs them, and some, like me, take it as a sign of love and a sort of torch passing. I passed by that kettle two or three times and I gotta say they really went all out for me. Stunk like rotted skunk anal glands, ripe with overripe vegetables, fish guts, and many things I decided were better not to try and identify. This was going to be one gnarly shit bath and I am going to be stinking for days.

My time came, and my coworkers grabbed me and dunked me like four times, worse than Ollie Dee from March of The Wooden Soldiers. I kicked a little and made a big scene out of it but in truth I went in it willingly rather than fighting a losing battle with ten ornery line cooks. Besides I wanted them to have as great a memory of my last day as I would. A lasting memory, although mine would have an added lasting effect of carrying around an odiferous array of decayed and rotted stenches for the next day or three. I came out dripping with gross puddles of digestive waste. Needless to say I gave them all hippie hugs which they tried in vain to escape always happy to share. I always shared my weed and beers with them so I felt it only proper to share my nefarious lingering funkfest of stink.

What I hadn’t considered was my trek home. Even after washing and changing into my street clothes the elevator ride down 106 floors had people congregating as far away from me as possible, and at least two women gagged at the fetid aroma. I was like a walking silent but deadly rank fart after an evening of beer and eggs. I had visions of a visible stench trailing behind me like a stink shadow. Everything in my wake gasped for air. Everywhere I went people turned to look at me shooting me snarly looks. I had no dog to blame and it was clear I was the epicenter of the situate of smell. I stopped in The Market Bar on the ground floor for my last drink with the crew and the bartender asked me to leave. From there I got on the E train to take the subway up to midtown. I felt like Pigpen from Peanuts as people moved to the other end of the car. Finally I decided to ride the subway in between cars hoping the wind would remove some of the foul smelling carousel around me.

But the aroma offended any in its path, even me. Its not like when you let one slip out and wonder why everyone holds there nose because being the owner of the fart, the one who dealt it, the smell never quite seems as bad. But this odiferous cloud of decayed matter clung to me as if it would never let go even offending me. My olfactory senses were forming an official protest threatening to impeach me if I didn’t shower and scrub with entire bar of Irish Spring and then douse every inch of my body in cologne. If I hadn’t gagged six times already from the stink stream I would have been offended but I knew I was about to take the advice willingly.

When I walked through the door I was greeted as I was every night, with the most enthusiastically happy hound on earth, my Afghan Hound, Stella Blue. No matter what kind of day she had she was always overwhelmingly happy to see me and shower me with canine affection. Unfortunately not one second after jumping up on me her ultra sensitive nose began twitching and I know dogs are not supposed to register emotion but there was serious disappointment in her eyes as she stared at me, shook her ears back an forth and ran the other way. Into the shower I went before any further embarrassment. I decided I needed to burn the clothes and I showered four times in a row. I then marinate myself in so much cologne I could have driven a taxi. It took me three days to completely eliminate that dark cloud of revolting essence of BO emanating from my body, and while the “O” finally skulked away the memories of Windows On The World has never faded. Stella finally got her groove back and forgave me, and the ten dozen or so flies that followed me home that night have since relocated. All in all being dunked in a kettle of decomposed shit water was like a dis-initiation imparting not just the squalid stink but a memory of a lifetime to always take with me for surviving that intensely hot and brutally fast paced kitchen, and if my memory serves me correct I loved every stinking second of it……PEACE

Experienced Waitress wanted (hopefully and up and comer!)

On May 8, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

“Is That A Rolling Pin Under Your Apron or are You Just Happy To See Me?”

My very first restaurant experience was enlightening in many ways. I was hired to ensure the sanitation of the entire establishment be maintained throughout the dining experience. I proudly bore an exalted title than made me the envy of my school. “Potwasher,” a title that’s far more demeaning than the inoccent name would imply. But fuck it man, I didn’t care. Other friends had jobs in deli’s, gas stations, or retail stores and shit. They had easier jobs, but I had something they didn’t. Easily accessible alcohol, fun loving dudes to joke around with, and HOT waitresses.
So there I was, at the suds busting helm of a sink full of soapy water smiling away at all the hotties. My raging sixteen year old hormones were smiling too. Even the older waitresses were HOT. I quickly learned of the extra advantage of apron wearing which could conceal my budding enthusiasm. Cuz the waitresses were HOT! I used the traditional three compartment sink method, wash, rinse, and cold water to cool my jets in. It wasn’t just that though, I was accepted.
Most people who are “Quirky” out on the fringe of society at age 16 get made fun of a lot. That or run off to the circus or carnival to blend in with other “freaks” But not this young lad, I headed straight for the restaurant life. Working at a restaurant was a religious experience for me. I was like holy shit man, there’s people here even weirder than me. A good restaurant is filled with artists. Struggling actors, singers, comediennes, and writers. That was mostly in the front of the house but I was back of the house. Apparently they don’t get along in many establishments. I can understand the old fuckers in the back of the house but the young chefs? Don’t they see how HOT the wait staff is? Some of the staff were gay, but if guy on guy sex was up my alley I would have bent over backwards for those hunky servers. Dressed just as revealingly as the female counterparts the gay waiters were HOT too. Some so hot I may have considered switching sides from time to time, but the sea of sizzling sexy waitresses was way too plentiful. And HOT.
I loved the way the older waitresses flirted with me and I think I looked good in crimson red when they made me blush and laughed about it. The unflattering white cook shirt really complimented my reddened face. I didn’t care because I was in a kitchen and I could handle the heat and my perseverance paid off one particular evening. It was a tediously slow Monday night and the manager decided to let Kat, the thirty something head waitress close the restaurant. Kat was a divorced women with long blond hair in a shag cut that made her look younger. Deep blue eyes were highlighted by thick mascara and her eye shadow bore an even deeper shade of blue. I used to wonder if she was a model when she was younger, but I was a pup myself and somewhat naïve. She had the perfect face for a young boy to fantasize about, wearing more make up than she needed and pouting oversized lips painted gleaming hot red. Fantastic legs with bulging muscles even in her ankles. I spent many a break following those legs around the kitchen dreaming while trying not to get caught looking.
The chef and cooks broke down and left even before then, so it was just me and Kat in the restaurant. Kat was one of the women who loved to flirt with me to get me mumbling and flustered and goddamn was she good at it!. This Monday night she walked into the kitchen with her skirt higher than usual and asked me if I wanted a drink. I replied indeed I would and she told me to come on out to the bar and She’ll “give it to me.” I watched as she left the kitchen not able to take my eyes off her legs. Had to check the apron to make sure it didn’t reveal my own tightened muscle that had formed below. All clear so out to the bar.
Kat was behind the bar with her back to me. She turned around and caught me staring at her ass and smiled, “See something you like Hon?” I smiled weakly and thought to myself “Oh yea, I see something I really like.” As if she read my mind she grabbed two rocks glasses and walked over to me. “How bout this Hon?” She handed me one of the glasses. I drank half of it straight down in one fast gulp. “Easy Hon, you don’t want to go too fast.“ There was a throaty tease to her voice, but more obvious was the tease as she gently rubbed that muscle I was talking about. The blood shot up to my face so hard and so fast I thought someone hit me. With her other hand she reached up and unbuttoned three of the buttons of her blouse revealing three quarters of her smooth breasts barely covered with a thin flower print bra. She had my undivided attention. My apron muscle stood at attention as well. I pulled the apron string and let it drop to the floor. I launched a near attack on her breasts but she grabbed my hands, “Easy Tiger, no need to rush.” She skillfully undid my shirt and pulled it off an began sucking on my nipples, “This is how you do it Honey, nice and easy.”
The adrenalin that shot through my body was electric shock therapy. I never even thought women sucked on guys nipples but I was a fast learner. I returned the sensual gesture and paid total attention to her breasts, lovingly applying my tongue on her nipples. I could tell she liked it because she was making soft moaning noises of approval. I was so focused I barely even noticed that she had undone my pants. I pounded down whatever was left in the rocks glass for a little bravado. It went down easy yet burned all the way. I struggled out of my pants an underpants and Kat led me to the lounge and laid me on a cushioned bench. She remove her stockings and panties but not her dress. She just hiked it up an straddled me. Her skilled hand directed my heat seeking misle inside her and pumped away furiously. It felt so unbelievably good my inner self was ablaze and transcending rapidly. My entire circulatory system sang, danced, then gathered in my penis and threatened to make it explode violently. Kat slowed her pace as she moved up and down with artful slow rhythm and now it was me making sounds. I moaned and groaned and claimed my allegiance to god over and over as Kat just kept moaning simply “Yes, yes, Yes, oh yea.” Suddenly she got very loud and screamed “Oh god, here it is, I‘m coming, I‘m coming!” and then a AHHHhhhhh, that began really loud and got softer and slower by the second. Hearing her orgasm brought me to the breaking point. I exclaimed loudly “I think I’m gonna come,” but the warning was too late as I exploded my hormonal syrup, every last drop of it deep into her. The two of us lay there panting and moaning and panting some more. Like needles and pins blood pumped through my face and I fell in love for the very first time that very second!
Of course it wasn’t real love, Kat had zero interest in love especially with me, but I could feel it. I knew I was in love. We had sex a few more times after that night, mostly in her apartment. Kat never once made it feel awkward at work, I never bragged to anyone so no one knew what we did. One day something came up and she had to go back home to Kansas. I would never see her again, but neither would I ever forget her.
Kat schooled me in so many things, but nothing so expertly as pleasure, both how to please and how to be pleased. To this day looking at a waitress makes me horny and reminds me of my carnal adventures with Kat. I know she never loved me, that I merely served a purpose for her for a while but that’s okay. I would fall in and out love a hundred times more and have plenty of sexual adventures. Kat did way more for me than I ever could for her and she may be the true reason I fell in love with restaurants to begin with. I’ve had a great career as a chef and have my share of excurions so intense they would make Kitchen Confidential seem lame. I’ve been loved and been in love. But nothing will ever compare to the love I got from Kat the waitress. Thanks Kat, wherever you are!

Terrapin – The Journey

Tag: kitchen