THE CHEF HATES YOU! A Soliloquy on Brunch

Article by Josh Gregory

Illustration by Fitz

It’s Sunday. The wind is rustling through the tree, a slight chill presses through the open window, as you roll over to nestle next to your boyfriend. After thirty minutes of quality snuggle time, you hop out of bed, and unroll your yoga mat. Namaste.

After your morning routine, you pull your hair back into a bun, put on your favorite jeans and Ugg boots, joining your boyfriend in his Hyundai Tuscon and head to brunch. You’ll be meeting all your friends; six, eight, maybe even TEN. Who cares? It’s Sunday Funday! YOLO! Dosas and Mimosas!

Fuck you. No really, fuck you.

Brunch, although certainly the trendiest of meals, is without a doubt the most hated of the week for chefs. It’s the one shift of the week that reminds us that you live differently than we do. While I’m sweating into the pancake batter in the back, Jameson and PBR still on my breath, your drink order goes something like this: “I’ll have a cup of coffee, a diet coke, a Strawberry mimosa and a glass of water.” You’re gabbing about last weeks episode of the Real Housewives of who gives a fuck, and I’m standing in the back cracking eggs trying not to curse like a Tourettes afflicted sailor who struggles with anger management. Each time a yolk breaks as it hits the flat top, I let loose a stream of obscenities that leaves me seeing stars, and leaves the server crying in the back, having just unearthed a whole new string of daddy issues, made all the more painful by an angry chef that she can’t ever seem to please.

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Saturday night ended with three yards and a cloud of dust, and naturally the beers and shots that followed made early return to the kitchen seem like an eternity away. Just to make sure at 2 am, I sucked down a cup of coffee to help even out the effects of stress, frustration and alcohol, to drop my head on the pillow for four hours, to feel “rested.” As always that cup of coffee lied to me, and as I’m standing with one eye half cocked open, I’m looking in the mirror trying to decide whether or not to throw up.

Brunch, where the menu’s made up and the price doesn’t matter. While you’re arranging your order in your head, using the menu as more a guideline than, you know, a menu. In regards to the great metaphor that cooking is like fucking, brunch is supposed to be the morning quickie, but after a massage, and a short but effective burst of energy you wanna cuddle. I’m standing in the back arguing about pancakes. An order calls for three. Well, your girlfriend’s boyfriend ordered one as a side and the whole table thought, “Mmmm that does sound good.” with 36 individual pancakes hanging, only being able to cook six at a time, the exchange with the manager and myself goes somewhat like this;

Manager – “I need those pancakes for table 10”

Me – “They’re working, I’ll get them out as soon as I can”

Manager – “They’ve been waiting”

Me – “WHY DON’T YOU COME BACK HERE AND DRAW ME A FUCKING MAP OF HOW I’M SUPPOSED TO FIT THESE DAMN THINGS ON HERE!”

She’s crying now, I’m not really that much of an asshole. You are. Okay you’re not either. No one forced those six shots of Jameson down my throat, I don’t have to yell to get my point across. But isn’t yelling just a loud way of saying “I love you?” Anyone? Bueller?