Yes, Chef! No, Chef! I don't know, Chef!

Moving from the Northeast to the Southeast was certainly a culture shock on many levels. One thing that struck me immediately, and has lingered, is the ability of two perfect strangers to strike up a conversation. This struck me, but did not shock me. This easy-conversation style was everywhere around me growing up in NY; so ubiquitous that my father, (a self proclaimed hermit), would strike up conversations with neighbors if they stopped by, or when he was at the local store.

Recently I have been more than a little jealous of this ability, and question whether or not I ever had this ability. When I spend time with childhood friends my storytelling ability is not up to snuff. Of course as I scrutinize my memories, I can recall many instances of stopping in people's driveways and chatting, spending hour upon hour on the phone, indulging people in mindless-directionless discussions...all willfully and gladly.

What the heck happened to me?!

Of course, this didn't take nearly as long to figure out: I started cooking for a living.
(Finding speaking on the phone absolutely detestable and loathsome is the subject of another post for someday in the future).

As a young cook, it was my ability to verbally spar with the chef that actually kept me employed. As I progressed up the ranks, expectations grew, and the tolerance of Beers "the kid who talks a lot" absolutely evaporated. Before too long, your conversations come to a halt.

Chefs want a SITREP, so that they can quickly evaluate the current situation, put out existing fires, and prevent future fires from flaring up. On the line/during service time-is-money and every second you use to tell me extraneous and extemporaneous information is a second that my vegetables are dying, the guest is waiting, the service staff is getting antsy...no bueno! To economize time and words, every question in a good number of kitchens gets answered in one of three ways:

"Yes/Oui, Chef!"

"No, Chef!"

"I don't know, Chef!"

Working in this compressed sense of time has certainly curtailed my verbosity. I have needled many a cook and fellow chef with the admonition, "I don't want a story, I just need an answer." For it seems that my tolerance of the wordy, has been diminished as well. I cannot blame this entirely on being a "chef." Like much of the highlight reel of eyebrow knitting "what was I thinking/that was the exact opposite of what I should have been doing," this gnaws away at me. Primarily because it eroded the part of my mind that generates/tolerates small talk. Parts that I consciously work at improving with every, 'hello."

Knowing now what I should have known then, I would have bailed on the the following philosophy when dealing with my team:

Be bright.
Be brief.
Be gone.