Warning Mom: Bad language follows. (It’s germaine to the story, I swear it)
Many years ago, as our executive chef was coming up, as sous chef, he was overseeing a function. It was time for dessert, and there were not enough for all the guests. Two short? Three? I don’t remember specifically, but that’s the gist.
When word got back to the head chef and owner–then, and still, a giant in the Boston dining scene, he said to Rob;
“How did you come up short?”
Rob replied honestly: “The pastry chef was told how many desserts we needed Chef”
The succssful executive chef inquired further: “And you didn’t count them yourself?”
Rob, more honesty: “No Chef, I did not”
The boss, maximum honesty: “Well then, you’re a fucking idiot”
There are many lessons worth learning–and a few deliveries that you never forget.
Fast foward to current day “pirate” banter, as chef and I chatted about kitchen personnel…
He: “What’s with all the text message bullshit?”
Me: “It’s out of control. How can you cook if you’re texting?”
He: “I had a former cook call me and ask if I had any available hours to give on Sundays. I said yes, actually, that would be great, see you on Sunday. Hours later I get a text from him. It says “Chat?” What the fuck?! Why do we have to chat? Why does everyone want to chat all the time. You asked, I answered, now get your ass to work.”
Seriously, put the damn phone down.