The Great Kitchen Caper, the 24 Hour Coma and Luis the Dishwasher

Spending 20+ years in the restaurant business offers one a chance to meet a myriad of personalities. I have met some of the most intelligent, some of the most troubled, some of the most interesting and yes some of the strangest people. One scenario a chef often encounters, is a friend, boss, loved one, asking me to hire an acquaintance, who, “just needs a chance.” The entire never ending process of staffing, whether for a line cook, sous chef, dish or pot washer was, to me, the most painful and stressed filled part of running a kitchen. So to alleviate that stress, while gaining some points, I found myself very susceptible to these requests.

The Great Kitchen Caper

One such hire was at the request of the restaurant owner, Mr. Donecker. He had a tenant that was behind in rent and rather than start the eviction process, he suggested that I find a job for him in the restaurant. Fortunately, my pastry chef’s helper had recently moved on, so a position was available. The very first day that he worked, I had three separate individuals come into my office and warn me to “keep an eye out” on this guy. The rumor was, that he had started a fire a few years back, in which his wife had perished. In this small town, it was “common knowledge” that it was a deliberate act, intentionally set to eliminate his wife. As the story went, the police knew he did it, but they couldn’t prove anything and they have been “keeping an eye” on him thereafter. So I was forewarned and now helping the local constabulary to “Keep an eye” on this miscreant.

The following weeks progressed uneventfully. Bill was a good worker, inquisitive and interested in learning. But his easy demeanor did not hide the underlying weasel. Both I and my Pastry Chef felt an uneasiness in his presence, so we did, in fact, “keep an eye” on him.

Adhering to this small town’s tradition, the restaurant was closed on Wednesday. I often found myself coming in on these days to catch up on ordering, paperwork and menus for the weekend. My office was located at the back of the kitchen and contained a locked file cabin, where the cash register’s cash drawer was secured. My office door was connected to a security firm for this reason, I was always certain to engage the system when leaving on these Wednesdays. One Thursday morning, I received a call from the restaurant manager, breathlessly asking, “Were you in yesterday? Did you turn on the alarm?” After answering, yes to both questions, he said, “You better come right in, we’ve been robbed.“

Rushing to my office, I was greeted by two local policeman and a detective. The window of my office door was broken in, depositing glass all over the floor and my desk. The file cabinet was broken open and the cash was missing. Looking at the condition of my office, the detective asks me, “Is this place always such a mess, can you determine if there is anything, other than the cash, missing or out of place?” Ignoring the insult about the messiness, I answered, “No, it pretty much always looks like this. I don’t see anything missing.” But spying a household, red checked kitchen towel and feeling vindicated that I had, in fact, discerned something awry in this “mess” said, “This isn’t mine, it wasn’t here yesterday.”

They bag the towel, just like in one of those TV crime dramas. They ask me some more questions, what time did you leave, did you set the alarm, (I did) and a few others. They explain that whoever did this knew right where to go. A window was broken in at the front of the restaurant to gain access. They could determine that they went straight through the dining room and kitchen to my office. They then asked, “Is there any employee that you would suspect?” At that exact moment, Bill arrived, with bits of toilet paper, on his face, as if he had cut his face shaving. Not satisfied with that single razor cut, he had continued to cut himself several more times. His face looked like he got caught in a confetti shower. Without hesitation, I gestured over the detective’s shoulder, “Yeah, him“. Turning, the detective, with a glint of recognition says, “Oh, we know him.” So, it was true, we all have been “keeping an eye” on Bill! The arsonist, murderer and now thief!

The police left, returning a short time later to arrest Bill. The detective tells me that they showed Bill’s girlfriend the towel and she immediately says, “Oh, that’s mine, where did you find it?” They go on to find the remnants of the cash bags in their basement, where Bill had tried to burn them. He was after all, experienced with fire. The detective shakes his head and says, “Can you believe these two, how can you be that stupid and still function?”

Returning to our day, the kitchen is buzzing with the story. As lunch ends, one of my lunch cooks, Charlie, goes outback for a smoke. Wild eyed, he comes into my office, “Bill is out back, he wants me to get something for him, I don’t want anything to do with this.” Incredulous that Bill is once again on the loose, I follow Charlie down to the basement where, outside the employee locker room, there are some banquet tables stacked against the wall. Pulling back the tables, Charlie says. “Bill said his stuff is behind these tables.” Sure enough, there it is, a bag of pills, marijuana and cash. I tell Charlie to go back to breaking down his station, I’ll call the detective.

When he answers, I say. “What the hell, I thought you were locking this guy up, he’s back, trying to get one of my cook’s to get him something he stashed here. There’s a bag of dope and money in my basement, I can’t have this bullshit going on.”

He says, “That stupid motherfucker, we knew he was dealing, we released him to try and track him to his supplier. How stupid can he be going back there? We’ll pick him right up.” I wanted to ask, how can you be tracking him when you don’t even know where the hell he is? But never had the chance and never saw Bill again.

24 Hour Coma

One of Charlie’s partners on the lunch line was a talented young man named Doug. It was not unusual for the three line cooks to put out two to four hundred covers for a busy lunch. It was a busy restaurant. I don’t recall the circumstances in which I acquired Doug, but he was hard working and a talented cook. He was also a drug addict, which he was very upfront about. Our deal was, show up on time, do the work, don’t get high at work, don’t fuck anything up and I’ll get you out of here as soon as you clean your station. Normally, lunch cooks might be asked to do some prep for dinner, the following day’s lunch, or banquets. The other two lunch cooks were more than happy to pick up these extra hours. They could also recognize Doug’s red eyes and jittery behavior as they cleaned their stations.

Doug had repeatedly tried to kick this habit, entering rehab six times in his past. At one such stint, his roommate was Danny Bonaduce, of “The Partridge Family” fame. None of these attempts were successful. Neither was the loss of his girlfriend to an overdose while he was working for me.

The arrangement worked well for about half of a year, Doug showing up daily and working his ass off through the lunch shift. Around two o’clock, station cleaned, Doug looking pleadingly at me, strung out, deep set eyes watering and scratching at his arms. “OK Doug, get going, see you tomorrow.”

Then on a Saturday morning, promising to be one of those four hundred lunch cover days, with one hundred dinner reservations and several banquets, I get a call. “Chef, this is Doug’s friend Brian. Doug was in an accident last night and he’s in a coma.” Shocked, hearing the anguish in Brian’s voice, I didn’t question the legitimacy of the call. As a Chef for 16 years at this point, I had received a fair number of calls with questionable reasons for not working. Grandparents, cousins and best friends dying repeatedly, but this seemed genuine. I was saddened and had to take a few moments to compose myself before conveying the sad news to my staff. There was not much time to grieve, a busy day was ahead, still, a dark cloud lingered over my staff. The normal loudness and chatter associated with a busy day in a restaurant kitchen was subdued, like walking in a heavy snowfall, muffled.

Not normally working on Sunday, I came into to assist with brunch. Donning my jacket and toque, (a chef’s hat, traditionally with 100 folds, one for every way an egg can be prepared), the back door opens and in enters Doug, appearing more chipper than a normal person in a coma.

Looking up I said, “What the hell, was that a 24 hour coma you had?” Doug, dropping his head says, “Do I still have a job?”

“What do you think Doug, Jesus, A COMA, REALLY?” I shout, “NO“.

We never saw Doug again, but a year or so later, we saw that his addiction had finally taken it’s toll, when he died from an overdose.

Luis the Dishwasher

As a Chef at a center city restaurant, dishwashers were a constant need. I often hired right off the street, or from a nearby drug half way house. At one point we had two Hispanic dishwashers, Alfredo, an immaculate, gay man, always dressed in black slacks and a white shirt. His co-worker, Luis, was the polar opposite, rumpled ill fitting clothes, often unwashed. Luis personal hygiene was practically non-existent. But, he showed up, did his work and was mostly pleasant. Alfredo, would often complain to me about Luis’s smell and appearance, but, like I said, he did the work. Until one night, when Luis came in to work, obviously well under the influence. Being inebriated was not necessarily detrimental to accomplishing the job. Having one of two dishwashers drunk, was preferable to just one dishwasher on a busy night, so we just crossed our fingers and hoped for the best. It didn’t take long to uncross those fingers. Alfredo screamed something in Spanish and ran from behind the dishwasher calling “Chef, Chef, come, come.” I, fearing the worst, rush across the kitchen, finding Luis urinating in the floor drain! “LUIS”, I scream, GET OUT YOU’RE FIRED.” Luis, a steady stream splashing into the floor drain, just looked at me quizzically, wondering what the hell I was screaming about. I gestured, pointing at the deed, screaming, “NO, NO, GET OUT.” Alfredo said something in Spanish, Luis shrugged, zipped up and left.

This restaurant was on the ground floor of an apartment building, which we shared with a Hair Salon, owned and run by Larry, a former dancer on “American Bandstand“, who referred to every straight male as “Hammer” and a Legal Aid office. In the center of the courtyard was a fountain and pool. Moments after Luis’s departure, the owner/manager bursts through the kitchen door. “WHAT THE HELL IS LUIS DOING? HE’S STANDING ON THE FOUNTAIN, PISSING INTO THE POOL.” The search for another dishwasher was on.