Is It Gray In Here?

Trail, try-out, stage, whatever you call it, if you're doing it because you're in need of finding a job, it sucks.

What is trailing or staging? Stage is the French word for "internship". In this context, it's part of the hiring process for cooks and chefs where they work a full day in the restaurant they're trying to get hired at without pay. Sometimes you would get a meal at the end of your free-labor shift. You might be forgotten about because you were put in some dark corner cleaning mushrooms and artichokes all day without saying a peep. You might have even ended up ducking out the back door without them noticing. I never did that, but I had heard of others who did. And don't dare to ask what time the trail ends - you're sure to get the "Why did you schedule a trail for today if you weren't available to stay? [for an undisclosed amount of time that exceeds normal work hours without pay] look.

It was best to show up early and get through the scavenger hunt of finding a clean uniform - don't expect it to fit, you're lucky that you found anything clean. Hopefully you remembered to bring a padlock for the spare locker if they had one for you, otherwise, there was a good chance at least some of your shit would be stolen.

You would finally find your way back to the kitchen and ask the sous chef what you should start on. If you were lucky, you were shadowing someone and getting a good idea of what a normal day for a line cook looks like. If you were unlucky, you did tedious prep work because they're short-staffed and are using you to fill in their labor gap. Or, my favorite, they're short line cooks, you're given a menu, and then are expected to fully set up and work the station for service, as if you've ever been in their kitchen before. Meanwhile, you're still looking for the plastic wrap to fashion a belt out of.

It was easy to spot talent in the kitchen and easier to spot un-talent. These poor slobs would stare you down, especially if you were a girl, attempting to intimidate you, thinking their glare was scary or threatening. In reality, it was sad to see the obvious insecurity, loneliness, and emptiness parked indefinitely in their eyes. The talented ones either just kept to themselves and intensely got their work done with ease and grace, or they were being friendly because you're a girl. And they hadn't been on a date in a while.

It was the late 1990's or the early 2000's and I was doing my rounds trailing at different restaurants. Lespinasse was one of the few New York Times 4-star restaurants at the time, helmed by the legendary, Gray Kunz and I was lucky to get the opportunity to trail and possibly work there.

I was assigned to a cook who, along with the rest of the staff, moved around with the speed and intent of a white-coated ant. The whole kitchen was well-organized, each white coat having their role in the colony, and weaving in and out of each other with speed and agility. I helped my partner get through his prep list with minimal chit chat and a high level of anxiety and extreme precision. The cuts of the veg that left more to waste than the precious dots of red peppers, shallots, and garlic, the specific ways the cooks' tools, pans, 1/9, 1/6, 1/3, 1/2 pans, were set up and used, even "just" blanching vegetables were treated as if there was a super secret specific way of doing it. And there was - this was a Gray kitchen.

The aesthetic of the kitchen was cold and painfully sterile. There was stainless steel and bright spots of lights throughout the kitchen, as was needed for the high precision work that was being done. Even so, it somehow was able to be dark and gray.

It was 15 minutes before service was to start. The silent intensity ramped up and with the mounting anxiety in the air, you could feel every minute growing exponentially more tense. In those moments, the look of sheer terror in my partner's eyes made me want to grab him, hold him, and gently rock him while whispering, "It's going to be ok." But I resisted.

Service started with the universally triggering sound of the ticket machine, with the clickity clickity, tickety tickety sounds drilling into your head, tormenting you for hours every day and even seeping into your dreams when you slept. My poor partner at this point was sweating bullets, hands, semi-shaking, and nearly hyperventilating (he may or may not had a drinking problem, as is so sadly common in kitchens). Then I heard chef's voice calling out the orders, but I couldn't see him. No time to worry about that, I thought, one of the apps on the first order is on the station you're trailing on. Your partner quickly and loudly calls back the order and starts showing you how to cook and plate it. As tickets continue to come in, chef continues to call out the orders and firing entrees. Every time, I would whip my head around towards the direction of where the voice was coming from, trying to catch him, and every time, no chef. It sounded like the voice was coming from above - an overly calm, even-paced, even-toned, ominous, big brother type of very audible voice, reading the tickets as they were steadily coming in. I finally asked my partner, "Where's chef?" He pointed to where I imagine the "front(?)" of the kitchen was. And there, standing at another shiny, stainless-steel table was chef Gray, calling orders into a microphone. A microphone. To this day, I've never seen or heard of a chef using a microphone when expediting service. Or ever. There was no yelling, no screaming, no name-calling, no wild gesturing. How completely out of the ordinary and down-right weird. And the rest of lunch service was that. A symphony of cold, robotic precision, conducted. through. a. microphone.

When Chef spoke to me after service, and I was surprised by a few things: his demeanor didn't match his kitchen - he seemed warm and human, he wasn't social awkward, as so many chefs are, and, overall, he was friendly and kind to me. Even so, I didn't accept the job offer. As much as I would've loved to have Lespinasse and Gray Kunz on my resume, I know I wouldn't have made it there. This was the first of a few indications throughout my career that would remind me that working in and for a 4-star restaurant and chef wasn't, isn't, and would never be for me.

To those who have worked in 4-star kitchens and have made it out on the other side only somewhat scathed, Respect. That shit's hard. It's a test of sanity that is almost always lost to burn-out and/or addiction.

Throughout the iconic restaurants, tough openings, and at times, tough press, I'm honored to have been able to have gotten a snapshot of the inner workings of a legendary restaurant (as weird as it was) that produced several greats, some of which I got to work with in some capacity later on in my career. Rest in peace, Chef Gray. Thank you for your food, thank you for contributing to producing other great chefs, and thank you for your spoon, which caused great discussions and debates. 🥄🎤🫳