The Shit Fight


The war is over. Though many lay bloodied, scarred or on the edge of a pshycotic breakdown; the “christmas period” of the kitchen is at an end. Christmas parties, new years parties, functions, holidaying families, tourists, dates whatever flavour of consumer you are to our industry, you have come…you have decimated, yet you have not (completely) destroyed. The busy period, or the shit fight as we more commonly refer to it, It is the cooking equivalent of an endurance marathon. where after each service you look at yourself and your fellow comrades in a breath of relief, disbelief and utter exhaustion expressing a barely audible phrase, fought through groans and fatigue “thank fuck…that is over” (chefs don’t thank god…we all think we are god).

but what is it exactly you ask that is so stressful, so spirit breaking that we contemplate driving our heads into a concrete wall in an effort to beat the days hardships out of our still searing (chef pun intended) minds? instead of trying to explain to you the entire period; I’ve instead decided to elude you to “a day in the shit fight” start to finish.


My alarm clock is almost reminiscent of the docket printer…making me think I’ve woken up in service. After having received around 5 hours sleep, last nights six after work beers have left a very slight tinge on my usually perky rise, yet none the less the hangover: version lite 0.1 is far more acceptable and approachable than finishing yesterdays shit fight sober. Thoughts on my mind include – coffee, what mise en place do i need to do, did i put in the order last night? Seriously I need coffee, I should pee, wait…did i put the fucking order in?! after scrolling through my phone and confirming, yes the butcher will indeed be arriving this morning with my meat I’m gifted with the first (and possibly one of the last) wins for the day.

I am up, and stirring – showered and dressed (in casual clothes, only cowboys wear there uniform outside of work) all in the space of about 12 minutes. the other time missing was essentially contemplating whether getting out of bed was worth it. Enough procrastinating now…I really need coffee, local cafe pit stop and then on my way to work.

I arrive at work and check the bookings for the day…oh balls, we’ve picked up 14 more people a la carte, on top of the downstairs 23 cover degustation function tonight we are rapidly becoming an almost overflowing restaurant.. again… I quickly get changed and check mise en levels. fruit and veg is already here, second win. I can prep the garnish for the lamb dish, the function downstairs, the beef dish, the fish dish and all the sides: all before the meat even arrives because today after all is “meat day”. 10kg of lamb backstrap to remove all sinew, portion to specific weight, shape, roll and store for service. 6 pork belly’s are coming in, i need to confit 5 of them but only 4 will fit in the oven…shit. and that will take up the oven space for at least five hours. double shit. then I have to roll three “dicks” of beef… some call it eye fillet, though I’m pretty sure its phallic enough to be a dick. and where the fuck are my Poussin I rolled from last night? WHO TOUCHED MY MISE EN PLACE?!! after accusing everyone of stitching me up, I eventually remember I had sous vide them last night and put them in the cool room. as I work away prepping the garnishes and side dishes I receive a text saying “sorry bro, running late” which as most know: shits me, not because they are late but because as soon as you have wronged me I am no longer “bro” I am “chef”.

The kitchen is bustling, preps getting done. the mood is still somehow positive. jokes are told, music is sung, arses are slapped (hit the showers) this is the quiet before the storm.

Front of house arrives to a parade of chefs saying “COFFEE!!!” fiending for our fix, like a junkie cruising the streets of the Kings Cross at unseemly hours of the morning. we continue with the prep rapidly noticing that the clock is drawing ever so close to 12. and we have the majority of our customers arriving at the same time. talk and music fall to a hush the only sounds are the heel of blades on chopping boards, and the searing and clanking of pans.

A table of six has come early. “WHAT…IS… WRONG WITH YOU!!” is your life that unimportant you cant last till 12 to eat, can you not see the sign that says we open at 12, or that that’s the time you booked. The front of house will seat you regardless, because they are doing their jobs… you wankers. Now you’ve made me harbor rage toward my team. Great. You stitch up bastards. now i have to stop all the prep (which is now all unfinished) clean down the counter top, sweep the floor set up the pass, my pass cloths to polish plates with, every container of salt, every portion of butter to finish dishes, all oils, all bottles, fresh chopping boards, any prep that can come out, the breads for service, the specialty equipment, my spoons for tasting and plating need to be in canisters of hot water, and there needs to be separate canisters of hot water for my dirty spoons, napkins for easy access, wet salt made, ovens and equipment calibrated I want to taste and check all the mise en place before people arrive to ensure quality. I am in a foul mood and am now behind on what needs to be done, all of which has occurred because you have no concept of the value of time. you sir, and your cohort…are cocks.

As normal people start to arrive we are already firing the entree’s for the early table. My rage starts to increase further as a waitress queries me things i do not want to hear “excuse me chef”..”yes” i reply sternly.
“there’s a woman on table 5..” she replies
“yes?” i ask
“and she wants a vegetarian meal” I pause as if not to come across stupid
“yeah… no worries..there’s the foraged pine mushroom gnocchi or the Heirloom Vegetable garden” she pauses “yeah she doesn’t want those…what else can we do?” “…what else can we do? WHAT’S WRONG WITH THESE WEASELS!!…how about a big bowl of piss off elsewhere if you don’t want the fucking food, tell her that’s what she can have”. The waitress leaves for a few minutes and returns “so she can have the fish…but she wants the lamb garnish” i stare incredulously at the young waitress “what the fuck is wrong with everyone…what kind of a vegetarian eats fish and then decides which garnishes she can have with it.. you know what… no. she can have the fish with the fish garnish..its not subway you cant design your own meal”. My rage increasing as we start to heave. the kitchen turns into a blur, bodies moving, pans clattering, garnishes and plates building. the only verse spoken are timings – “2 minutes till pass” and a chorus of “OUI CHEF!!”

“Chef?” a Solemn faced waiter stares at me “I’m really sorry”
“what?” i reply
“the hag on 42 didn’t realise her duck was perfectly cooked and blushing pink and wants a tough, rubbery piece of shit instead. Can you cook it all the way through for her?”
most expect me to blow my top but in actual fact the pleasant manner i was just told this
was actually quite mood enhancing for me. “Oui dat. Re-fire on duck, well fucked and as rubbery as possible please”. the rest of lunch service carries out in similar fashion. the continuous struggle and battle continues. though We will not fail, it is not an option. we will be victorious. as the last tables desserts are sent out we stare up at the clock again whilst cleaning down the chaos of the busy lunch service. shit its 3 already. and we have 5 hours worth of prep to do before 6. I’m no mathematician… but i think we’re up shit creek.

Re-prioritising Mise en place after the lunch rush is our first port of call. we can do without the second belly, didn’t sell any pork, we’ll do it tomorrow. Poussins ok? yep. what about venison? yeah we’re on the edge…but we’ll run the gauntlet. she’ll be right… After redrawing the new systematic prep list we start tackling the prep. we move swiftly concentrating on multiple jobs at the same time. the chauffante is blanching vegetables for three different garnishes, the oven is low temperature cooking and dehydrating our olives at the same time. meats are being portioned, trimmed, and someone get me some more butter. butter on everything, you can never have too much butter.

One of the chefs has knicked his finger on the mandolin slicing radishes. its not too bad, but enough for him to slow in prep. also no one has staff meals sorted (which need to be on the pass at 5) alright
someone make it asap…”you had tomato scraps from the tomato dice bro?”
“yip” the reply fires
“garlic chili en place?”
“oui chef”
“alright someone grab the lardons from the freezer down stairs get the pasta on the crackle.
How many for staff dinner mate?” i yell across the restaurant
“Four” he yells back.
“Seven staffies all up oui dat, oui dat.”

the majority of prep is done, with only small jobs to be done. pasta Matriciana sits steaming on the pass we sit down and relax and shovel food into our mouths for fifteen minutes. for the chefs this will be the only time we sit down for the day and for some their only meal. This occasion, though seemingly rushed, is savored

we get back into the kitchen and continue to complete the final bits of preperation “lets not get fucked by early tables boys, clean down at 5:35?”
“oui dat chef!!” the chorus sings the ballet begins, burly, sweaty men pirouhette around each other the eb and flow of them needing little to no communication, aside from the occasional “behind” signifying ones position in the kitchen. The symphony of pans and oven doors being closed with feet, and the scene is set for a good service.

doors open. game on bitches.

instantly the 23 cover downstairs function starts to arrive I’m elated they’re on time. “Get the canapes and amuse ready boys, lets bang out this big table before we get raped” we start pre empting for the large functions food. small tables of 2 dribble in through the doors as we dictate the rhythm, and it feels good. it feels damn good.

I am chef, hear me roar.

slowly, gradually we have accumulated a full docket rail. we are now serving over 50 customers out of a small kitchen. timing is imperative. with many more courses to come. 50 people in a fine dining setting can have as many as 350 separate plates, dependent on how they choose to dine.

the restaurant is full.

as the downstairs function is served its mains. desserts for the 6 o’clock tables are moving out the door. the night is about to get very hairy. firing pans on a relatively small stove, with a relatively small team can prove difficult at times. luckily the restaurant seems to be wanker free tonight – no well done, no ridiculous requests. just happy diners a gentle raping…the best kind of rape. a waiter walks into the kitchen with a steak cut open my heart drops…how the fuck was that supposed to be cooked…was that the medium rare?
“excuse me chef, this woman asked for her steak medium rare..but she wants it with no blood” the waitress asks
“you mean medium?” i retort
“No, like medium rare..but no blood” i just stare at the waitress as another chef steps in
“thats called meidum love”
“oh, she just said someone cooked her a medium rare steak with no blood”
“THAT’S FUCKING MEDIUM” we repeat in chorus. we don’t have time for these conversations put the steak back in the oven. lets go lets go lets go. table 50, 31 and 32 we can group together then we’ll start on pre desserts for downstairs “oui dat”

the 13 year old dishy that started at 5pm tells me his legs are sore. fuck off.

The last of the meals start dripping out of the kitchen. as we start cleaning down we create prep lists for the day tomorrow. pork can go in overnight at 80 degrees
“what needs ordering?” someone calls
“Dry goods” but they dont come on saturdays…
“no worries someone do a shop run in the morning for almond meal”. As we pack down the kitchen, clean out the fridges, the benches and the floors the front of house polishes the cutlery and resets the tables for tomorrow the diary looks quite similar tomorrow, going to be another big day.

We phone and email through the orders to our suppliers and finish writing the mise en place lists for tomorrow. We get changed into our casual clothes. someone cracks a beer and we cheers in unison the joyous bubbly beverage invigorating our souls and reminding us that life is worth living. Someone suggests a pit stop at the pub, though tempting, is quickly declined. In my earlier years i would have been the last man standing at the boozer, but we have to be back at 8:30 to get started again for tomorrow.

I’m home, showered and on my third beer. I’m Ready to fall asleep though my mind wont switch off what needs to be done tomorrow? Did i forget anything? perhaps some light entertainment or pornography would help. ahh fuck it to tired to even try. ill just fall asleep with beer in hand as per usual.


finish my beer and slowly drift all the meanwhile the inane chatter in my head, planning, solving my day tomorrow.


Enemies of the state

“You odious shit stain of a human being” I think whilst falsely nodding in agreement and smiling.

“You incredulous wanker, do you even…fucking… life” I mull over hateful thoughts internally as I try to drown out the incessant, inane string of words dribbling out of the owners wife’s mouth. I am trying to show grace rather than lose control, shoving her face into a deep fryer and going completely postal before being arrested….or even worse losing my job. Yet another prime example of a kitchens worst nightmare appears as if on cue. Telling me how i “should” do my job, or about how the hospitality degree she received from the Broad beach TAFE in 1988, for hotel management, is somehow relevant to my job, and of course what I can do better – to meet their expert standard. I mean after all you’re very qualified; you don’t work here – you have no restaurant experience, you’re the wife of the owner (whom also doesn’t work here) so I trust you know exactly what you’re talking about when it comes to this venue.

What’s that love? You had soft shell tacos for dinner two nights ago, and they did it for 3 dollars so that’s how much It should be when we do it? I agree they’d fit in perfectly with our french slanted bar snacks and classic bistro food. Oh joy you learnt how to use Facebook, someone get this woman a media and events management shirt stat!!. Wow!!…you made tea towels with our restaurant logo and some funny sayings on them? Brava!! I may as well throw in the towel and let you take the reigns. “Boys, stand back, she’s got this one covered!!”

This particular scenario from yesteryear was in the form of an owners time rich wife, who can’t control her own children from running amuck and breaking everything in site, or her husbands drinking, masturbating and cocaine addictions – let alone a professional kitchen. It seems all too familiar, these vacuous creatures lurking within every corner of the hospitality industry; sucking the life forces out of chefs and front of house staff like a succubus on heat. They come in various shapes and sizes, but all are equally as painful as the last.

I present this guide of unfathomably hated anti-kitchen archetypes, that isn’t confined solely to the internal walls of our workplaces, in hope that if you’re driving and see one crossing the road, you’ll better the world by mowing them down.

the bored housewife

Possibly the most common of all. Bored house wives whom have no experience, little knowledge and misguided opinions on how things should be operating. Unfortunately as man and wife are an extension of each other, telling her to “fuck off with your shit ideas” is not just insulting to her but to her husband also (weird right). And who in their right minds would try and insult their employer. Fuelled purely on head strong, oestrogen pumping, blatant disregard to all others opinions, bored house wives will fight against all grains to implement their horrid ideas, usually at the cost of core staff members. Ranging from decor – to menu ideas – to website design and staffing. No stone is left unturned by a house wife who knows all.

The Masterchef customer


Ahhh the masterchef phenomenon. Making people think they can cook since 2009. Don’t get me wrong the notion that people are more concerned with the cooking of, and eating of food will always be a good thing. But like cocaine, babies and firearms; in the wrong hands it’s detrimental. Never have people been so rude or falsely misguided into a sense of know it all-isms “Umm I don’t know if you know…but paella has chorizo in it – THATS HOW GEORGE DOES IT!!!”.
Two things: George Calombaris is a fat annoying Greek. More importantly paella is a Spanish dish, traditionally cooked by men on Sundays for the entire family. The dish varies from region to region and can include, but is not exclusive to: rabbit, chicken, chorizo, prawn, clams, razor clams, mussels, calamari, peas, saffron and so on. We spend countless years gathering knowledge to better our cuisine. So generally speaking – we know what we are doing.

The idea that watching a television show makes you an expert at something is the same as me going down to the latest crime scene and using my investigative powers, because I’ve watched the entire series of the wire (possibly one of the best series ever)

The well done beef-er

As if transported from a parallel universe from the masterchef cohort. Presented to us is The well done beef-er: who’s soul purpose for eating is sustenance rather than substance. Where any food-stuffs in any other language is a taboo not to be trifled with. “pomme what? Don’t you have like..chips?”. “Do you have any tomato sauce for my steak?” As a waiter sighs, and we place the perfectly portioned piece of sirloin into a pan, knowing the end result will be a dry, rubbery, shrunken hunk of arsehole – our hearts drop a little. Because we do take such a high level of pride in our produce. My main qualm with the well done beef-er is why waste your money in a casual fine diner/fine diner? The end result will taste the same and you might as well have just gone to a fucking hogs breath cafe where tomato sauce is already conveniently placed on the table for you (I assume)

All this talk of kitchen enemies has got me flustered. I’m going to go and consume beer.