Ramsay examined a rabbit leg on the pass, the shelf where a completed dish is set before it is picked up and taken into the dining room. The leg had been sliced in three, and some stuffing had spilled out. Ramsay stared at the stuffing. An established item in the repertoire had been diminished by a bit of last-minute sloppiness, and the sight enraged him.
The culprit was Stuart Collins, twenty-three, adolescently thin, long-limbed, with big ears and the quick-twitch temperament of a racing animal. (Most members of the fine-dining kitchen—the bar was served by a different operation—made me think of overbred greyhounds, not a woman among them, all of them skilled and clearly capable of instantaneous nervous collapse.)
...
"More oil in your pan! You're not cooking it. You're scorching it. Did you hear me? You're ruining the dish."
"Yes chef." Stuart quickly added oil to his pan.
"Why are you scorching it?"
"I don't know, chef."
"You don't know! Will you get a grip?"
"Yes, chef."
"Will you focus?"
"Yes, chef."
Ramsay stared, bewildered. In his kitchen, meat was browned with butter and oil, the pan tilted every now and then, and the fat spooned on top. Stuart, under scrutiny, was shovelling the fat at an astonishing speed, spoon after spoon, like a cartoon on fast-forward—anything to keep him from having to look up. Ramsay wasn't moving.
From the New Yorker, April 2, 2007
3 comments:
That's why I'm a cook not a chef! I do sort of admire the pressure and requirement of perfection though.
Gordo, please do not give any more publicity to that revolting person.
He does seem a bit out of control doesn't he. I liked the writing.
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