Sunday. The beginning of my weekend. The morning after. Saturday night always embodies a long, hard dinner service. Last night was no exception. The number on the books ominously hung on the expediter's station. We all saw it, we all secretly feared it. It motivated us to work harder, faster, lest we not have our mise en place ready before those words, "4 canape, table 12", signifying the start of dinner, broke the intense calm. The following 6 adrenaline-filled hours would be stressfull, that goes without saying. Those dreaded words came early last night, and I was still assembling my new lobster salad. If I didn't hurry, I was going to be in the shits faster than I could say garde manger. The salad was only three days old, the kinks still being worked out. My rythm still yet to be discovered. I was running out of asparagus and the lobster salad mix. More canapes were being sent. Shit! Call in the backup. First order in, trumpet salads, not me. I was fervently applying asparagus tips to the outside of my lobster. Must move faster. Second order in, 2 terrines, not me. Thank you, God! By the time my orders came in, I was clear of the worst. I had 18 salads made, enough for the first push.
Sunday. The beginning of my weekend. The morning after. Coffee in hand. No stress.
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1 comment:
J ... it's time for a new entry. I read this one a little more thoroughly, and even though I'm still lost on most of your lingo, I still found it rather entertaining :) So write more.
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