“So, do you hate cooking yet?”
He asks this with a smirk and a chuckle while standing far too close to me in the small, dimly lit kitchen. He is looking down from a vantage point at least a foot above the top of my head. I shrug, and try to smile. It is a weak attempt, and I know this. I say “yes” because I am certain that he wants to hear “no.” I turn my eyes back down to the white plastic cutting board and keep chopping. I try to ignore him, and I mostly succeed.
By this time, I have been working at my new job for two weeks. I was excited to start but the thrill is already rapidly diminishing. I have cried on at least least three separate occasions, once in public. There are burns on my wrists and scrapes on my knuckles, inconsequential injuries which I barely flinch at anymore. I have already come to understand that pain is irrelevant here unless there is blood spilling onto the floor. The age old refrain has been spinning around in my mind — “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.” I remain determined (perhaps a little too stubbornly) to withstand all temperatures.
And still somehow, I am happy. For as long as I can remember, my heart has belonged in front of a stove. I have hungered to be wearing an apron and clogs, hair tied back messily into a bandana. I remain hopeful that this kitchen will fulfill its promise. It will be at least a little bit better. I can feel myself getting stronger, learning new skills and techniques. I try to remember that this was the reason I came here.
I have mastered the art of grinning and bearing it, and I am capable of continuing to do so.
Up until now I had mostly worked front of house, and he asks about this too (“Why the sudden career change?”) which feels like another intimidation tactic, though it is possible he is simply curious. I brush it off, explaining that up to this point I haven’t been able to find a kitchen that felt comfortable. I do not say that I have fallen into front of house roles because they were easier, less demanding, or higher paying. I do not point out that I am a queer woman working in food and it is safer this way. I simply tell him that I have always been drawn to back of house work, and finally felt ready to give it a real shot. I want to cook, I am eager to learn.
They said that I would be taught here, and I was hired with an understanding of my front of house leaning resumé (barista, server, manager), enhanced by some minimal prep and cater cook experience. I was an avid home chef and baker, I just hadn’t worked full time on the line. Even still, on my second week of work he is mad that I didn’t mix the cookie dough long enough. I am cutting the broccoli too big which can be attributed to “intentionality” rather than the fact that no one instructed me on its proper size. He calls me into a meeting and says that I have an attitude problem, that I need to respect his authority. I tell him that he needs to respect me in return.
I am quickly learning that nothing I do will be good enough, and I am trying desperately to stop the lesson from internalizing itself. He tells me that I seem happier up front, making lattes and pouring iced tea. Apparently I am chatting more, smiling in a way that I don’t when I am working with him. He doesn’t stop to wonder if this is his fault rather than a result of the work itself. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, or whether his assumptions are correct. He decides that I am happier serving customers, and he is confident that he is always right.
Familiar cycles start repeating themselves. I begin to wonder if I am the problem. Am I too quick to take offense, reading into micro-agressions and condescending tones of voice? Have I developed a tendency to see the worst in people, or perhaps a self-righteous ego of my own? Maybe a little bit — I will be first to admit that I am not perfect. Jaded, perhaps. Scorned, most likely. Tired and beaten down, without a doubt.
I quickly become self critical. I start telling myself that I don’t belong here, that my culinary skills were never as good as I thought they were. It’s possible that I, too, am harboring an unrealistically high vision of myself and I need to tone it down. I should stay in my lane. I listen to their feedback. I let him explain things to me that I already know, correcting errors that I only make when he walks into the room. I get more nervous and start doing more things wrong. I attribute this to my inadequacy, not to his imposition and lack of faith in me.
I get home tired and defeated each night and begin to feed my sourdough starter more regularly. I make pastry cream for the first time, and learn how to make body butter out of beef tallow. I roast a chicken to perfection and master the art of pizza dough. I mix chocolate with chilies and feel my tastebuds dancing. I find myself coming alive again; I remember the passion and joy that brought me here in the first place.
My strengthening muscles and overflowing creative energy further validate a sentiment I have always known. It is not the heat that I can’t handle. It is the men, and their egos.
My mind flickers back to the first restaurant owner that I worked for, and the way that he disrespected me at every turn. He was upset that I was young and still learning, frustrated by my lack of experience despite being the one to hire me. I recall a general manager once slamming his fists into the server station over a minor error on a customer’s check. I think about the way he would scream at myself and my colleagues, and then turn around to offer everyone high fives and mezcal shots at the end of the night.
I think about the fact that I am the only female back of house employee. It doesn’t take long to realize why this might be.
I know this is the way things have always been, and mistakenly assume that this is the way they must stay. I learn to turn myself off, to deactivate and move forward blindly. I push slices of roast beef and porchetta across the hot, greasy grill. I forget to eat, to drink water, to sit down. Instead, I try to leave my own body, and find that I am floating. Free and unbothered, though frighteningly untethered. I retreat to the walk-in fridge to shuffle pints and quarts and bins of produce. I discover comfort in deep breaths; inner peace comes in waves and dissipates every time the heavy metal door opens.
Back in his kitchen, I am being offered a beer. It is the middle of the day and we have just finished a lunch rush, and I am still trying to ignore the past hours of backhanded compliments and passive aggressive feedback. I am not thinking about the rap music which has been blasting slurs and swears into my ear, or the way I have been referred to as “dude” and “bro” all day. I pretend the delivery man doesn’t stand too close to me while I sign the invoice, and I decide not to hear him when he says “thanks, sweetie” before leaving. I am ignoring the other cooks, all of whom are male, being called “bitches” and getting playfully whipped with towels. I am shaking with anger as I turn my eyes away from a paper bag full of bananas that has been labeled with a phallic drawing rather than the name of the fruit.
There is a silver lining of sorts. In the months after our first encounter, he has learned to leave me alone. He was made to apologize for speaking to me the way that he had, and I was told that “male chef egos” would not be tolerated here. On a surface level the problem was solved, although my coworkers continued to complain about the digs he would make in their direction. They scoffed at his arrogant habit of coming into the kitchen for the sole purpose of commenting on how dull someone’s knife was. He tried to avoid my eyes but I met his with bitterness. I stayed at my station and made his lunch day after day until finally, he left.
He never found a new job, and kept coming back to visit. He still does, though much less frequently. A different man took charge of the kitchen, and he reassured us that things would be better. Instead of being rude to me, he lashes out only at my male coworkers. He calls them stupid and saves his derogatory comments about women for the times when I am in the basement or have a day off. I am spared from his direct wrath, but privy to unprompted mood swings and many mornings of silent anger.
He was right that it was a little bit better. As it turns out, a little bit better is quite a long way from good enough.
Unfortunately I can attest to this being a norm long before your experiences- whether restaurants or other jobs. I applaud your speaking up and out. I did the same and while it may not have moved the needle much I felt empowered over my self , my self respect and - maybe- others after me.