Home > Chef Oz: Inside the CIA > Archives > 2009 > September > 13 > Entry
Blood, Sweat, and Beers
I guess it was my old cooking buddy, Steve, who first uttered the kitchen maxim that I’ve tried to live by. It goes, “Heat burns, sharp will cut you, and pain…well—it really hurts.” There’s a lot of truth in those words. The kitchen is a dangerous place that’s full of sharp objects, heat in various forms that can do all kinds of damage to human tissue, and harsh chemical agents and poisons that most of us keep under the sink within easy reach of the average inquisitive rug rat, Those of us who toil in these treacherous environs are keenly aware of what can and will cause us physical damage, and most of us have the battle scars to prove it. But the sad fact is the diner you’re about to feed or that persnickety dinner party guest doesn’t give a rat’s patootie if the cook has just splattered a gob of third degree cajun napalm (aka roux) all over his forearm or that the prep cook has just learned, astonishingly, that he really doesn’t need the tip of his left index finger after all. The show must go on, the next course must get plated and served in spite of blood loss or bandaged burns. It’s like the butcher who backed up into the chopping machine and got a little behind in his work—oftentimes there’s a little bit of the cook in everything that is served.
You all know the old saw about getting out of the kitchen if you can’t stand the heat, right? Well let me enlighten you about how hot it actually gets in a commercial kitchen. I spent three weeks working in a campus production kitchen where the average temperature was 120-degrees. How do I know that? All our chef jackets come with a pocket on the sleeve which is where we keep our instant read thermometers. Normally we use these devices to tell the internal temp of a roasted chicken, but after seven or eight hours of roasting yourself in your own personal version of cooking hell with a crazed and feisty Frenchman playing devil’s advocate breathing down your neck muttering French chef terminology like “merde” every time he tastes your food, not only will you have cooked your own goose in your own juice, you’ll also be craving an ice cold adult beverage at the end of the shift. At least I know I do. Some restaurant kitchens get even hotter than that, which stands to reason once you crank up a bunch of commercial gas burners, flat tops, salamanders, and ovens all at the same time. A couple zillion BTU’s in a tight airless space can make Death Valley seem as airish as Aspen by comparison. I’ve had 50 years to figure out how to handle the Texas heat, but I’ve got to tell you, that was one hot New York kitchen. I would literally wring out my whites at the end of the day. I think I wrung out part of my gall bladder after the last day of that class.
Hydration is important. Therefore I will now advise you to have something cold, nice, and preferably adult to sip on while you cook, unless you’re currently enrolled in a 12-step program. In that case drink something semi-adult like Waco tap water. It may not smell too good but it’s the only drinking water I know of that you could legitimately call al dente. It is kind of chewy. Or you could splurge and have a few O’Doul’s, but be careful. I got addicted to that stuff. I was drinking maybe nine or ten cases a day. It was ruining my life—I spent all my time in the bathroom until I had the courage to get some help at Non-alcoholics Anonymous. I also went through ATE of the twelve steps when I got hooked on phonics. The advantage, of course, to imbibing while cooking is the painkiller effect it’ll have when you realize that’s not a breakfast radish in the salad bowl—it’s your thumb. So let’s stick to food-related accidents. That’s where I started this rant, and that’s the way I’ll end it.
I can happily report that since arriving at culinary school I have managed to survive with only a handful of minor nicks, burns, and abrasions—no stitches so far, but many of my fellow culinarians have not been so lucky. I have progressively watched a young fellow from Curacao lop the tips off of two fingers and accrue a nasty gash in the palm of his good hand. He still hasn’t learned the value of the monkey grip—the way your guiding hand is supposed to hold whatever item you’re trying to cut. I keep telling him to tuck his finger tips back but pretty soon it won’t matter. He’ll hold whatever it is with his new set of nubs. I’ve seen a well intentioned Jersey girl slice her hand wide open with a serrated bread knife. Okay, it was kind of dumb. She was holding a baguette while she sliced instead of using a cutting board. I’ve seen a number of nasty burns on the legs and feet of those who didn’t move quick enough when hot stuff spilled. And I’ve seen a whole bunch of self-inflicted injuries that happened when people had a few too many of the aforementioned adult beverages outside of class. I think I can recount for you one broken neck, a broken clavicle, two fractured ulnas, one wrist, an ankle, and various digits that have all happened when normally nice kids turn into alcohol induced jackasses. Some have managed to soldier on bravely, working through and with the pain. Others have to drop out until they heal. These culinary types work hard, play hard, and sometimes fall down really hard. It’s a testament to toughness or stupidity, or probably both.
So just because you think you know your way around the kitchen, don’t think you’re immune to injury. Bad things can, do, and will happen in the kitchen. Be watchful, especially when your sous chef isn’t a cook. I once watched a girlfriend who was helping me make dinner catch her hair on fire when she was trying to boil water. Thinking fast, I smacked her with a wet dishrag before her do went up like Michael Jackson in a Pepsi commercial.
So here’s what I want from you. Give me your sordid tales of kitchen mayhem, your worst self-inflicted wounds—how did they happen, how did you react, what were the circumstances, how did you fix it? If we can’t laugh at ourselves we have to laugh at other people.
As we say in the bidness, Chow!
Comments
By TJ
September 23, 2009 5:30 PM | Link to this
My one and only trip to an “ER” (doc-in-the-box) in the 1990s was on one July 4 when I sliced the tip of my left ring finger off making something for a picnic I was invited to. Hurt like heck, couldn’t get it to stop bleeding, so I wrapped it in wet paper towels and headed out to get it stitched up. Maybe it was the blood loss, or maybe I was just no longer in the mood, but I never did make it to the Independence Day picnic.
By Mike Grabe
September 23, 2009 11:38 PM | Link to this
Hey Mike,
This is Mike tht lived 3 doors down from you. That’s a good ole blog, bring back memories of the jackasses in my class that did all the same stuff. Although slicing the hand on a serrated knife may possibly take the cake.
And this Chef that says “Merde,” is it LeRoux?
By Chef Oz
September 24, 2009 9:47 AM | Link to this
Hey Mikie— No, no not LeRoux, Coyac. Who is a really cool cat, by the way. It would kill me when he would grab a red hot pot off the stove with his bare hand and mutter “HOT, hot, hot!” Then he’d say that was some of Chef’s fond on the side of the pot. What would you use to deglaze human fond?
By Chef Oz
September 24, 2009 9:55 AM | Link to this
Howdy TJ— I was slicing a lemon with a dull paring knife when I was maybe 15 years old. The knife slipped, dull blades will do that, and I sustained a nasty gash in my left index finger which promptly filled up with fresh lemon juice. The pain was quite exquisite, so intense in fact that it caused me to black out. That’s the only time I have ever fainted. It pays to keep your knives sharp.
By Drain Bramaged
September 25, 2009 4:59 PM | Link to this
Ozzymo,
Kitchen disasters? Several come to mind, including the meat loaf I attempted to make shortly after leaving home. After a few weeks of frozen pizzas and TV dinners I was craving home cooking but to proud to call dear ole Mom and ask her the ingredients. I remember putting two pounds of hamburger meat in a mixing bowl, along with some tomato paste, chopped onion and bell pepper, salt, pepper and an egg or two. Not sure how many eggs, thanks to those left handed cigarettes from my youth. (Memory loss…something Mom told me that Tijuana tobacco would do. She was right, but then she always was.)
I remember it was runny, almost like a thick soup, and I knew that wasn’t right. “What’s missing?” I asked myself while munching on Doritos. I searched the cabinet where I kept my “cooking stuff”, (I’m sure you NY chefs have a fancier term for that “stuff”), and proudly said “Yes!” as I saw the can of baking powder. (I took one of every spare thing Mom had in the cupboard when I left and a can of baking powder was one of them.) I thought to myself “That’s got to be it. I’m baking, and the powder must be what she used to soak up all that tomato paste so she could “form” the meat in the pan.” Not sure how much baking powder I used, but I think it was most of the can. I remember it was sticky, and when I shaped the meat for the pan it looked allot like that plaster of Paris volcano Mom helped me make for my 5th grade science class, except it wasn’t cone shaped.
Now, what temp did Mom bake these things in. Again, too proud to call Mom to ask, I winged it. I remember she always preached about meat having to be cooked thoroughly or you would get sick, so I turned the oven dial up to the max, stuck the pan with my masterpiece in the oven on the center rack, and returned to the living room to search for my alligator clip and watch the Dallas Cowboys on TV. I remember it was halftime when I heard a noise…a LOUD noise. I thought someone slipped in and threw a grenade in front of the oven. I remember being grateful for having an imitation leather couch instead of a fabric one, and for it being about time to go to the Laundromat anyway.
Imagine my surprise. The door on my tiny oven (it was an efficiency apartment) was open, and looked kind of warped. Then I looked at the wall by the oven, and the ceiling. I think I yelled “Holy _ _ _ _!” as I saw the carnage on the sheetrock.
And the injury? It was the inside of my fingers and palms, which occurred after I grabbed the hot and twisted oven door in an attempt to bend it back into shape.
Then there was the time I made macaroni and cheese in a pressure cooker (don’t ask) and twisted the handles apart to take the lid off WITHOUT bleeding off the steam first. (I thought that wiggling thing that hissed on top of the lid was just for entertainment value.) The velocity of the macaroni amazed me. I didn’t think a flying piece of macaroni could go that far up in your nose.
Yep, Ozzy, you are correct. The kitchen can be a very dangerous place. Oh yeah, NEVER fry squash in hot oil on the front burner of the stove while wearing flip flops. Peace buddy. :-)
By Chef Oz
September 26, 2009 6:15 PM | Link to this
Dear Drain, That macaroni story has some real merit. I never noodle now that pressure cookers could be so versatile. I think there’s a sale on haz-mat suits down at the Army Surplus, but it sounds like asbestos body armor would be a better fit. Thanks for the stories and keep ‘em coming. That’s some good stuff.
By BV
September 30, 2009 1:38 PM | Link to this
Hi Oz—You complimented me once on my knife-wielding skills, but that was after I learned the hard way—never look away from the task at hand when chopping! After watching the pros chop with a chef’s knife, I was attempting a mound of parsley—yes mound. The trick with holding the side of the knife against the first knuckles with fingertips tucked is to not raise the blade above the knuckles. Saved fingertips, lost a bit of knuckle. Lesson learned. Love ya, BV