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Behind the Scenes

A cook’s perspective on the chaos and the teamwork that takes place in a five-star hotel kitchen

By Alison Lapshinoff

Outside, large, wet flakes fell, covering the Sea to Sky Highway in a deadly, white blanket. On the long, winding road that hugs the rocky coastline from Vancouver to Squamish before turning inland for the mountainous climb to Whistler, traffic was at a standstill. For kilometre after kilometre, bright pairs of headlights punctured the inky blackness, their voyage thwarted by some unseen obstacle ahead. Somewhere near the back of this long line of traffic were two buses full of tourists, fresh off the plane from Britain, and they were going to be late for their banquet at one of the many luxury resorts in Whistler.

Oblivious to the troublesome weather, the cooks at the five star hotel buzzed around the kitchen with the single-minded purpose of being ready for a busy dinner service. The hood fans droned monotonously overhead as meaty smoke lazily wafted out of the convection oven where veal bones were roasting. In a large, stainless steel kettle, over 80 litres of chicken stock simmered quietly, waiting to be skimmed. The executive sous-chef worked cheerfully, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that he, alone, was responsible for putting out an elaborate banquet for nearly 100 hungry British tourists. His manner was relaxed as he meticulously lined roasted root vegetables diagonally in a long hotel pan, and proceeded to crust his mustard-smeared lamb racks with a mixture of crushed pinenuts, bread crumbs and fresh herbs. All was going smoothly in the banquet kitchen.

On the hot line, where the food is prepared for the restaurant and lounge, the lunch cook was wearily removing his mise en place and returning it to the walk in cooler in preparation to finish his shift. As he tiredly departed, the dinner cooks swiftly moved in. Pans of steaks, chicken breasts and fish fillets were whisked out of the walk-in and set in the small fridges on line while trays of blanched vegetables, fingerling potatoes, wild mushrooms, vegetable purées and chopped garlic and shallots were set on ice, all within arms reach for dinner service.

Distracted for a moment, I glanced up briefly from my chiffonade of parsley. My station was at the centre of the hot line, my back to the stove. To my left, Christine stood next to the grill, her job being the daunting one of grilling all the steaks ordered to the correct temperature as well as preparing all the accompanying vegetables and starch. She strained to lift a heavy tray of scalloped potatoes out of the oven before opening the rotisserie where a large, juicy rib-eye lazily rotated, waiting to be released from its bonds. Drawn by the aroma of roasted meat, one of the servers approached to express his appreciation and drool unabashedly. Christine smiled modestly and rolled her eyes in my direction before running off at the sound of a timer to pull the Yorkshire pudding out of the convection oven.

As I turned to ladle more stock into my quietly simmering risotto, the printer came to life, followed by a string of curses to my right. Clayton, his mind no doubt on a cigarette and last night’s poker game, was quietly peeling asparagus, but at the sound of the printer he reluctantly sprang into action. He and the affectionately named Rocket Man were responsible for preparing all the food for the lounge as well as the hot appetizers and pasta dishes for the restaurant. As the printer spat out order after order for après ski service, the two performed an awkward dance around each other, trying in their limited space to co-ordinate burgers with baskets of calamari, tempura prawn rolls with steamed mussels and French fries and pizza. Between the two of them they had six burners, many of which emitted a highly inadequate flame.

There was a nervous tension in the air as the reservations climbed. Presently, Isabelle, the outspoken French server-assistant breezed in, kissing all the boys on either cheek before joining the group of service staff polishing glassware and cutlery, the volume of their conversation quickly escalating. The conditions on the mountain and the outcome of last night’s poker were the main topics of discussion, and their loud laughter quickly caught the disapproval of the lanky European sous-chef. Martin was still becoming accustomed to the ways of the North American kitchen where hard work was praised and mistakes not necessarily punished with a violent verbal assault and angrily hurled cookware. Inevitably he stalked over in my direction to explain how to sear the black bass for the dinner special and how he wanted it served. I would do my best but the man was relentless. He could not be pleased.

As I poured brandy in a hot pan to prepare the peppercorn sauce needed for the night’s service, flame dramatically leapt into the air. The executive chef leaned languidly on the pass sipping a latte, flirting with the waitresses and discussing last weekend’s round of golf in Victoria with the guys. An eerie quiet had descended over the kitchen; the calm before the storm. Everyone was ready and all that was left to do was to wait….

Cutting off his present conversation, the phone that lived at his right hip buzzed expectantly and suddenly he was all business.

“Chef speaking. Yes. Yes. Uh huh. Thanks.”

Once off the phone, he let loose a string of curses expressing his frustrations with living in a town that experiences challenges one wouldn’t face at a conventional city property.

There are two types of people in Whistler: those who come to work and those who come to play. Many aspiring chefs come here to take advantage of ample employment opportunities and potential to move quickly up the ranks in the kitchen hierarchy. A high staff turnover makes this possible, unlike in a big city, where employees tend to stick around for the better part of their lives. These are the folks who curse the long, winding highway that is thrown into chaos every time a bit of snow falls. Buses slip into ditches and inadequately prepared vehicles become hopelessly stuck, blocking their only access to the city where they can shop and contemplate the endless dining opportunities.

Those who come for the mountains tend to be hopeless adrenalin junkies, frequently injuring themselves by hurling their bodies off snow-clad cliffs or tearing down rock strewn slopes on their mountain bikes. Needless to say, this can become a troublesome problem for those who just want to get some work done!

Incidentally, there was an accident blocking the highway, the snowstorm was worsening and the Brits were at least two hours out of Whistler. The executive sous-chef came briskly over looking worried. It was six o’clock and all the food was already in the hot box. Salmon Wellingtons, trays of steamed shellfish in fennel saffron broth, seared scallops on lemon scented risotto, herb crusted lamb rack and roasted venison loin, all ready to be eaten now!

Presently, the printer came to life again and the dilemma in the banquet kitchen was temporarily forgotten. Chef assumed his position on the pass where he would call out the bills and direct the food runners to the correct tables.

“Ordering for the restaurant, six covers, first course…..”

His booming voice resonated throughout the kitchen as he hollered out the order. I glanced up at Roger in the garde manger kitchen, where all the cold food is prepared. Chuck, with his delicate, Chinese features and flamboyantly gay disposition was still in the lobby setting up an elaborate seafood display, leaving Roger alone temporarily to man the fort. As I met his eyes, I read his thoughts: “This is ridiculous. No time for dinner tonight,” as he furiously tossed Caesar salads, shucked oysters and built seafood platters while trying simultaneously to slice smoked salmon and shell eggs still needed for dinner service. Clayton’s voice rang out across the kitchen. “Only one prawn roll left!” Now there was sushi to be rolled, too and everything was top priority. The garde manger kitchen tended to stay in a state of perpetual chaos!

As service kicked into high gear, my stomach rumbled impatiently. Dinner tended to be an unsatisfying combination of whatever I could get my hands on and quickly. Beads of sweat rolled down my back as Chef hollered out main courses and I hurriedly pulled out portions of cod, venison and sea bream from the fridge and slapped them in my seasoning tray. I had to focus. Pulling a lamb sirloin off the stove to rest I hastily threw on a handful of fingerling potatoes to roast, seared off the venison and threw the bream in the oven. More bills came in and Chuck casually sauntered in from setting up the display. Roger immediately shoved an oyster shucker in his hand and Chuck laughed at the ensuing chaos, never one to get riled up over a busy dinner service.

Meanwhile Christine glanced in my direction with a meaningful look that could only be interpreted as a feeling of impending doom. The printer was going full tilt now and tired lines of stress were starting to show on Chef’s face. A steak came back, undercooked, and one of the new food runners had taken a plate to the wrong table. Minor setbacks like this can throw a major wrench in the whole operation. I listened closely to the bills being called. The boys working the fryer wore looks of intense concentration as they struggled to make sense of the long line of bills in front of them. Beads of sweat stood out on their foreheads. It was hot. How hot? Hard to tell. Thirty degrees…. 40? Mercifully some kind soul distributed cold bottles of water amongst the cooks. And all the while the executive sous-chef paced nervously as his food died slowly in the hot box. Where were the Brits?!

The line was full now. Bills of varying length hung on the pass, partially blocking our view of the flurry of activity among the servers. Very little room was left on the grill for more steaks and Christine and I were constantly battling for a place to put our pans. We could hear the strain in Chef’s voice as he patiently directed the servers to the right table and hollered for food that was not on the pass in the exact instant it was needed.

“C’mon guys, let’s GO ….We’ve gotta get this food out. How long on a linguine? Take this to table 32. Are appies gone for 17? WHERE’S MY LINGUINE?”

“Thirty seconds, Chef,” came the harassed reply from the boys to my right.

“I NEED IT YESTERDAY!”

Meaningful glances were exchanged on line. Was he going to snap? Please don’t let him snap. He has only been here since five this morning and will not leave until dinner is over. He has only done this for the last week straight and will do it again tomorrow and the next day. Please don’t let him snap! It was somewhat disturbing how the success of a dinner service depended so much on the chef’s mood!

Things slowly started to die down and the phone on Chef’s hip buzzed to life again. The highway was open and the Brits were arriving, hungry, tired and pissed off!

In a flurry of activity, the two chefs hurried to the banquet kitchen with a handful of servers, leaving the rest of us to finish the last tables on our own. Mopping the sweat from my forehead I wearily stepped inside the large walk-in fridge for no other reason than to feel the fan blow its cool air on my face.

Why do we do it? Well, it depends. For some it’s nothing more than a steady job that pays the bills. For others, it’s a demanding career that allows them to travel and live in exotic places that they would otherwise not be able. Then there are those for whom it is a passion, a life consuming addiction that allows little time for anything else. These people dedicate countless hours of their own time to their career, spend long nights practising for culinary competitions after harrowing dinner services, sleep only when there is time and usually exist on a meagre diet of muffins, coffee and beer. Where do I fit in, I pondered quietly, enjoying the coolness of the fan on my face and thinking about a bowl of cereal.

Some small, sadistic part of most chefs must thrive on the chaos, the nervous tension in the air before a busy service, the utter stupidity of always trying to do 10 things at once, the challenge of having everything ready within a ridiculously small timeframe. It is this part that enjoys the perpetual state of panic that sometimes grips the kitchen. Otherwise, why would they do it? Not for the money! And when you are running like a madman, wild glint in your eye, starched, white uniform covered in meat juices and tomato sauce, you realize that it’s not quite as glamorous as the TV makes it out to be, either. There must be something that keeps us here, beads of sweat running down our backs, surrounded by food and no time to eat. Maybe, just maybe, I think while pouring more cold water down my throat and luxuriating in the fridge’s cool air, it’s because it feels so good when it’s over.



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