It was with marked trepidation that I pedaled off to work three weeks ago. I put on my feeble costume of white shirt/black pants/black shoes, set out my new razor-sharp knife, and promptly cut myself using the potato peeler. My boss and two other cooks were pleasant, if reserved, and moved with the alacrity of NBA players.
In fancier kitchens, no attention to detail is great enough, no precision is left unarticulated or unanalyzed. I stretched my powers of observation, absorbed beyond saturation complicated and lengthy discursions in French on such topics as the most "beautiful" quantity of salt crystals with which to adorn a pat of butter and how much more delectable breadcrumbs are when placed off-center atop a cold soup, and employed the submissive "oui" that means "Sir, yes sir!" There's nothing wrong with this world, but my place is not in it. Well over a decade ago, I promised myself I'd never again work a job necessitating tweezers to place tiny garnishes and flowers on food, nor multiple varieties of micro-herbs to convince customers to pay five bucks extra for a fistful of cold fish.
The entire economy of our island is based on summer tourism. The population booms tenfold in July and August; every business hustles to squeeze the most from the season. There aren't enough permanent residents to staff everything, and housing for seasonal workers is limited and pricey. My boss just converted an art gallery into a brand new restaurant, and waited for me to get back from Alaska to start work, so I felt extra shitty about quitting.
Indeed, my boss was disappointed, nay incredulous when I gave notice. He maintained a bizarre amnesia/denial until my last day, when he thanked me and hoped I'd be back sometime as a guest.
Thankfully I had one guiding light: François, a talented and lighthearted cook not unlike the Weasley twins, who constantly joked, was subtly clever, sang little songs, congratulated me on realizing what I didn't want my life to be, and encouraged our eating of dessert "mistakes."
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