Living the vida malsana

You know, this is a bad life, right?”

These were the words of encouragement given to me by a fellow cook at the restaurant this week following a particularly hectic service. I was initially puzzled—I mean, we get to work in an exciting atmosphere, occasionally sample great food—but I caught on quickly to what he meant.

Cooks live miserable lives and are distracted from their misery only through the grace of alcohol, drugs, sex or other vices. I learn this every night when, after service and during the laborious clean-up, I dream only of one thing: a frosty Budweiser from the family walk-in fridge (we always keep several cases on hand). Marie Antoinette should have told the masses to drink Bud instead of eating cake. Believe me, it calms your anger.

The unhealthiness doesn’t end at post-service substance abuse. The job itself is unhealthy. You work long hours on your feet, sometimes lugging back-breaking amounts of food up and down stairs, with little nourishment and sometimes less fresh water. Dehydration is a necessity for a good night’s work, it seems; if my piss isn’t a bright yellow when I stumble home, I know I’ve had too much time to drink water during service.

If you work the grill station, you’re likely to have burned-out forearms that look as though they are inflicted with some kind of skin disease. If you work prep, sharp knives are your best and worst enemies (mine happens to be the French mandolin, however). If you work the fry station, you could get splattering oil on you at any time. Pasta seems a relatively safe haven (maybe I should reconsider my previous comments), but I’m sure they have their own hazards.

Hell, even getting ice for the oyster station this week proved a hazard for me. The hinge on the ice machine apparently had broken earlier in the day, and when I opened it the door crashed back down against the bridge of my nose.

But despite that my hands now look like an old leper’s, despite that I see my wife maybe one night a week, despite that I usually eat a sandwich or leftovers at 1 a.m. for dinner, despite that I find myself licking my lips when I pass a liquor store, I’m still enamored with the profession. For now, anyway.