It’s happening. Work is starting to penetrate every facet of my life.

For example, I had a dream the other night I went to a Chinese restaurant with a couple of friends for dinner. There was a pre-fixed menu and for our 3rd course, the waiter swooped in from behind and presented me with my plate. The plate consisted of two bright red, gigantic lobster claws perfectly placed to face each other on each side of the plate and a mountainous pile of lobster meat in the center. I was horrified.

Another example was when I walked into a shoe store to pick up some socks before work. I was on Broadway so it was undoubtedly swarmed with tourists. I noticed the socks were all the way in the back of the store, but my path was blocked by Europeans jibber-jabbering about who back at home needs a new pair of shoes. Already late for work, I rushed in head first and without thinking, started saying, “behind” every time I tried to squeeze behind someone. “Behind” is kitchen jargon for “excuse me.” It probably comes from when a cook had to walk behind the other line cooks during service and had to warn them they were walking behind them because the hot stoves were on the other side of them. Anyways, they probably thought I was being quite the rude American yelling strange words inside of a discount shoe store.

The last example was when I had to go to the bathroom during work and right before I opened the door to go back to work, I knocked on the door 3 times.  I really did catch myself by surprise with this one. You see, our walk-in fridge is right next to the pantry so in order to not slam the door on someone when walking out, you’re supposed to knock on the door to warn anyone perusing the pantry that you’re coming out. With all the trips to the walk-in throughout a shift, you can imagine, knocking on a door becomes quite the common practice. Sometimes I have the energy to shell out 3 distinct knocks. Other times I just throw my palm at the door hoping any indistinguishable sound is sufficient.

Aside from the body aches and sore muscles I get every morning, these instances are revealing just how much my life will change in the coming months/years (?!). No more jokes about Excel or stories about the time So & So forgot to put himself on mute during the company conference call. Now we joke about the difference between jam and jelly (trust me, the answer isn’t sweet at all) or my artistic ineptitude when it comes to plating.

Work Work Work Work Work Work Work Work.

I went to a bar the other night after work to meet up with a few friends. I had a knife in my purse because I had brought one from my own kitchen to sharpen it on a stone at work. This turned out to be a very dangerous idea. After about an hour of bumping into people in the crowded bar, I realized about an inch of my knife’s point was sticking out of the corner of my purse. The knife had come out of it’s sheath and pierced the fabric.

I could have stabbed someone in the stomach on the crowded dance floor. I can just imagine the front page news. “Korean American Female Stabs 5 Strangers in a Local Night Club. Reasons are unknown, but friends of the mass murderer describe her as quiet and amicable. One unidentified friend tells us the accused’s sudden jerky dance moves have been known to cause quiet an disturbance among friends, but never have they caused this much hurt. All victims are expected to survive.”

Last night was my first official night working (read: paid) at The Restaurant, which is what we’ll call it from now on. 

I walked in the kitchen during the end of brunch service as the morning shift was busy plating the final brunch dishes for that day. As I started to grin like a giddy school girl, excited for my first day on the job, I was met with stern and tired nods, which signaled my girlish excitement to instantly retract and to nod back with a cool disposition. I put on my jacket, black pants, and crocs. I tied my apron around my waist, and grabbed some dish towels- two to hang on my apron string and two to use during service to grab pots and wipe my station clean. I walked over to the hot appetizer station, the station I’ve been shadowing during my externship. I found my prep list, a check-list of all the ingredients that need to be prepped before dinner service started at 6 PM. This would be the first time I ran the entire hot appetizer station from start (prep) to finish (taking apart the grills and wiping down the entire kitchen). 

We would only have about 40 covers that night, and the list of things to do was minimal. Which meant the perfect pace for me. The next 4 hours were spent getting acquainted with the walk-in refrigerators and low-boys (the refrigerators under the prep counters) and figuring out what needed to be re-stocked or made from scratch. 

During service, I had the chance to take things slow and re-introduce myself to the dishes that were part of my station. I also got re-introduced to the co-worker who likes to keep me on my toes by making smart ass comments and pointing out everything I fuck up. Oz works the meat station, which is right next to me. He’s about 5 years younger than me but has been cooking since he was in high school. He’s a prime example of how kindergarten logic is the working logic inside of a restaurant kitchen: the more someone likes you, the more they’re going to harass you. I’m not saying he likes me, but I think he sees enough potential or at least a willingness on my part to take shit. This translates to a lot of pent up frustration, but I can’t argue against it because he is my unofficial mentor, the guy that’s been helping me realize what it means to be a professional cook, technically and philosophically. He questions my abilities and challenges me to be better. Specifically, he questions my ability to read tickets properly and challenges me to not burn food.  

Wherever you work, we can all get behind those “happy” hours after a good hard day’s work where we drink and vent about life and its shortcomings. We capped off the night with a few beers and shared stories at a lonely bar down the street like it was our Saturday night. While everyone else probably thought the night was uneventful or commonplace, I couldn’t help but secretly grin inside and get excited to be over-worked, under-paid, but “living the dream.” I realize I’m being completely ridiculous and romanticizing the situation. But it’s my first day, and I can be a giddy school girl if I want to.