There once was a chef, with a moustache, who owned a pretty little restaurant by some train tracks.
A fancy sign was painted to put outside, white lights were strung around railing and bushes, and a mural was painted on one of the brick walls and pronounced artistic.
In his kitchen was a Partie, and a Patissier, and a couple of apprentices. There were three waitresses, and a guest host, too.
Regence-style chairs of gold chintz patterns were filled with happy guests around tables of white linen and tinkling glass. From behind a colossal bouquet of hot-house flowers, a pianist entertained the diners.
The chef was very proud of his restaurant, and soon earned the respect of the townspeople as being a good cook.
This may sound like a good ending for a story of a local restaurant, but not to a Domestic Newsflash Informative Reporter.
I, A. Sampley, went undercover to this seemingly innocent operation for a first-hand look at what really goes on in a professional kitchen, and to get some behind-the-scenes experience.
My ‘accomplice’ arranged an unassuming meeting in the restaurant lobby between me and the respected, executive chef, who would give me access into the kitchen.
I was dropped off at the building and ascended the stairs to enter the lobby, checking the time. 6:23.
It was almost the rush hour of supper. However, excepting the guest hostess and myself, the lobby was empty.
The hostess was an elderly lady; sweet and helpful, who offered to find the chef for me.
I took a discreet sweep of the waiting room and desk. Paintings, mirrors, flowers, menus, napkins, cake showcases, peppermints.
My wait was not long. The executive chef greeted me with friendliness, shaking my hand. After some words of welcome, he dropped his voice and leaned closer.
“I want you to do something for me.” he said. “I’ll tell them you’re a young representative of the Lincoln Trail Department of Health and Inspection who has come to watch. You tell them you’ve come to observe, but you won’t grade them this time. And say, ‘Just do what you normally do.’”
I thought my character was up for a minute. My mind raced for a new disguise, or terms and conditions, but somewhere it passed what the chef had just said to me again. I read a little mischief in his face.
“You want me to say this to the employees in your kitchen?” I clarified, assuming this is what he meant by ‘they.’ I read his lips:
“I want to play a joke on my cooks. I’ll introduce you as a Lincoln Trail Department of Health and Inspection representative, and you tell them that you will watch them this time, but won’t grade.”
He handed me a clip-board of yellow paper and a pen.
I followed him through the dining area, hoping I would not get my roles mixed up. They were strikingly similar.
We stopped in the kitchen before the Partie, an apprentice, and some waiters to do our cute act. I am used to guise and concealment, but this masquerade was a little condescending.
I was seated on a tall chair at the counter, and given a piece of coconut cake and ice-water. I decided that inspecting health wasn’t so bad.
The chef introduced me to the Patissier who was coating another cake with icing and toasted coconut. She had cut the three cake layers in half, making it a six-layered cake with much more icing.
“Well,” said the Pattisier, as soon as we were left alone. “How do you do? I’m in on the secret. I know the real story!”
But by this time, I was getting used to startling phrases. She talked easily.
“Baking is science,” she told me. “When one bakes, one strictly follows a written recipe and measures exactly. But a cook- a cook is an artist! Let a baker into the kitchen and he will give you what you asked for with a knife and fork. But let a cook loose in the kitchen, and he will always exceed your expectations! Taste, smell, and beauty he combines to awaken your senses and draw your appetite!”
It turned out that the inspector mask was a good one, after all. I was allowed unquestionably into every part of the kitchen. Under extensive cabinets, a counter lined one wall of the back room, and heavy stainless-steel fridges lined the other. Doorways on either sides led to the main ovens and stove ranges and an enormous dish washer system. More cabinets and fridges were in the front room, along with a coffee bar and a salad bar.
From my tall chair, I could observe everything and keep out of the waitresses’ busy ways.
Between the oven and salad sections, was a table stored with clean dishes, and a shelf stood upon it.
The idea was: a waitress brought an order and stuck it on a large pin. Then the Partie and her helpers hung it on the shelf and cooked the meal up. They dished it on a plate, placed the plate on the shelf, and called the waitress who served it.
Then, something happened that crashed everyone‘s concentration.
The Partie announced, with voluminous laughter, that she could not keep the secret from her pressuring fellow workers. She spilled the beans.
And cover really was blown!
But luckily, it was the chef’s cover, and not mine, that was blown. He was exposed as a designing and mischievous employer, and though I appeared as his coconspirator, my initial guise was still intact.
I stayed for an hour, observing these things and making notes, before I covertly contacted my ride out. Not much happened between my call and my departure, besides my cheeks turning a little pink on account of the executive chef teasing me openly about a Mexican apprentice.
After necessary processes of grateful departure, I stepped down the street and jumped in the shot-gun seat of my driver’s Nissan Xterra.
“Thought I’d have to come in after you,” he said, pulling onto the dark road. He knew I would have to tell him everything. He knew I had a story.
This recorded Confession of Action is actually based on a perfectly true event.
P. S. I am a lady detective, though I could find no pictures of lady detectives for the top. :)
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