2012-08-06 - Chefs Can't Cook With Their Own Hot Air

London on Monday, August 6th, 2012. The Olympic Games has been the biggest local news for the past week and a half and there's another week left to the events. Queen Elizabeth is still the reigning monarch and the current mayor of London, Boris Johnson, was recently stuck on a zip wire in Victoria Park.

The fencing portion of the games, which started on July 28 with the Women's foil, has concluded yesterday with the Men's team foil competition and the games are due to conclude in a week on August 12th.

Few athletes depart as soon as their part of the Olympics are over - being able to witness the living history of an ongoing Olympics is too great an appeal. This is true for one Erika Yorgensen, a seventeen-year-old fencer who competed in the Women's foil and the Women's team épée, and her teammates. They are being taken out for dinner by their coach. It is a celebration. Sure, no medals were won but they made it to the games and competed well and that is a marginal victory in and of itself. Would there be more jubilation if medals had been won? Of course, but Norwegian optimism abounds in this group as they are looking for the restaurant that their coach had secured a reservation at for this meal.

The thing about London is that one can find just about every kind of cuisine on offer in the city, so the options are quite nearly limitless. Traditional British fare and Indian curries might be the most authentic thing to get if you're looking to really immerse yourself in the local culture, though. Haldi is one such place, and it even has a newly minted Michelin star which assuredly means it is not hurting for business at the moment.

Still, the restaurant was more than happy to accomodate an Olympic team and remain open a little bit past their usual close time, putting them up in the private dining room. The waitstaff are attentive and very careful about recommending an appropriate spice level for the visiting athletes, while keeping drinks topped up and conversation flowing.

The kitchen in the back is a multiethnic conglomerate working under Arjun Patel, who just so happens to be a long-time client of Cedric's father. Yeah, it's a little bit of nepotism that got him the position working here part-time as he finishes up his cooking certificate, but it's good, steady work. Even if he's just a lowly commis chef - basically a chef in training, under someone on the line - he's getting relevant experience that will support him in his career. So he doesn't chafe too much about being bossed around, just keeps his head down and works to help push out plates for this late night dinner.

As the team settles down at the tables set up for them orders for drinks and appetizers are placed. Samosa, a crispy fried pastry filled with spiced potatoes and peas which is often served with chutney, is requested by name and paneer tikka (a grilled Indian cottage cheese) is also ordered. Drinks include a wide variety of alcoholic options for most of the team, but the youngest of course.

One of those youngest is, of course, Erika. Having only turned seventeen on the second of July, she's still more than ten months shy the legal drinking age in England. Breaking the law being such an ugly look for an Olympian she naturally orders something else: a Shirley Temple made with a lemon-lime soda rather than ginger ale. When asked her response is, "Whatever brand you stock, I'm not that picky."

As the drinks and appetizers arrive many of the team, Erika included, order the curry of the day. There are a few, however, who request steak dishes and even a few who ask for a simple bangers and mash instead. Of those alternate orders one is their coach, who in his mid-fifties has to avoid excessive spice for health reasons, and their star saber fighter who is just not interested in trying the curry according to his pre-drinking boisterous annoucement.

The waitstaff is, of course, perfectly calm and accomodating in every way. They're like an improv group tonight: just "yes, and..." all over the place.

In the back it's a bit of a different story. After all, the kitchen staff are rarely consulted about wanting to stay late, it's just a thing that happens to them. And some of them (like Cedric) had plans that are now dashed. Oh well. They push out the apps with little trouble and then, while the front of house handles the drink orders, it's up to them to figure out how to pump out off-menu food. Someone runs two streets over to the nearest grocers. Like, literally runs. Thankfully Cedric's not the only newbie in the kitchen, so that task didn't fall to him.

But they do as requested. The curries are as fantastic as one would expect for a place that has earned its first Michelin star off the back of them, and the rest is still plenty good. Steaks are, of course, one of those key things that any good chef worth their salt can make. And bangers and mash? Please. Easy. The wait staff starts filing out with plates balanced on their arms and slowly the kitchen starts closing down, just in a holding pattern for desserts and any additional orders.

The meal is a mixture of eating and talking. The team shares stores about events they've watched separately, about their own events and naturally some of the "old hats" that are trotted out at any gathering - some new to members of the team, some that everyone has heard before.

Partway through the meal loud-and-boisterous-not-the-captain begins complaining that his steak (which he didn't begin to eat immediately anyway) is cold and undercooked.

And this leads Erika to begin to slump into her seat but instead she excuses herself to go to the restroom, hoping to miss most of the drama by absenting herself. However, she has her top-of-the-line flip phone (she hadn't upgraded to a smart phone yet) and discretely asks one of her teammates on the Women's épée team to keep her abreast of the goings on. What she doesn't say is that she feels like she may owe someone an apology for the older fencer's behavior. Not that it is actually her responsibility of course.

It's a good thing that the kitchen is set well apart from where their last remaining diners are eating, because the cacophony of groans that erupt when the steak gets brought back. There's no real drama from the waitstaff, who just says "Sorry, we'll take care of this," and sweeps the plate away before any further discourse can happen.

In the kitchen it's an entirely different ordeal, though. There's swearing, and a good bit of complaining, and the chef yells out "That grill better not be off yet!" which has Cedric exchanging a look with a couple of the others on the line as one of them scrambles to get another steak on.

You can only rush a steak so much, though. Gotta give it time to cook, especially if the previous one was reportedly not cooked enough.

Eventually, it gets dropped off at the table by a waiter who only looks mildly harried, putting on a brave face as he's bounced back and forth between the guests and the kitchen.

With the restrooms so close to the kitchen and her need mostly being an act to give her an excuse to step away, Erika overhears much of the chef's bellowing resulting from her teammate's behavior. She hangs back until the waitstaff heads out to the tables (who's given a terse thanks and a grunt confirming that the steak looks good this time from the more-than-half-drunk athlete) and approaches the kitchen door.

Clearly marked employees only, she honors the letter of the sign and doesn't enter the chef's domain. Rather than that she violates the spirit of the law and raps her knuckles against the door, hoping someone - perhaps someone less angry than the head chef sounded to be though - might come to the door for her to speak with.

There's a sudden, telltale silence on the other side of the kitchen doors when that knock sounds. On the other side, everyone has gone stock still, looking back and forth between the door and the head chef, then amongst themselves once it becomes obvious that even the chef isn't sure how to react.

When the bellowing returns, it's a simple word. Just a name: "CEDRIC!"

And then a squawking, "What'd I do?" Cedric asks, but then he's being shooed over to the door like he's a rat scurrying around the floor, and he goes with only some mild whinging about it. So it's indeed someone less angry than the head chef that steps half-out of the swinging door to greet Erika.

With a puzzled, "Ehm, yes?" A pause, before he remembers his manners. "Hello, how can I help you?"

On the bellowing of the name from the otherside of the door, Erika's face goes whiter than normal for a Scandinavian woman who's not spent much time outdoors in the past weeks and months preparing for an indoor fencing competition. She takes a step back from the door but doesn't flee even if she's feeling like she's stepped from the ashes to the fire.

When the door half opens, she motions to the young man to step out and fumbles verbally for a moment only to start off in her native Norwegian saying, "Takk," ("Thank you") and, "Beklager," ("I'm sorry"). Before he can express any confusion verbally, she has shaken her head and started over in heavily accented English, "Thank you. I'm sorry for my..." she pauses and switches back to Norwegian for a moment. She says, "Lagkamerat..." and then grins as she remembers the correct word and almost but doesn't quite yell out "Teammate," as the word came to her again.

She, other than her fairly average height of nearly five and a half feet, looks like a textbook Scandinavian woman with her blonde hair and blue eyes. She's wearing the pull over sweatshirt of the team uniform with the letters NORGE above a representation of the flag of Norway stretched out into a bar above a circle which has the outline of Norway in white on a blue background on it. With the official top she has blue jeans and white Converse trainers on. Her expression is compassionate and concerned as she repeats, "So sorry."

When Cedric pokes himself half-out, he was really just intending to make this quick. But Erika beckons and for some reason he goes, probably just responding unconsciously to the prompting, and then he finds himself standing there in his chef whites, rag over his shoulder, feeling somehow out of place at his own job.

Well, this part isn't in the job description, after all.

He stares kind of dumbly at the first attempt at communication, but thankfully there's a switchover into a language that Cedric does understand, and he nods slowly along as Erika works her way through her apology. "Oh. Right. Thanks, you know, for that." His own accent is fairly thick, though he's from Manchester, so at least he has the benefit of English being his native tongue. Which doesn't explain why he finds himself struggling with what to say.

"D'you... I mean, did you enjoy the food? Alright?"

"Ja," she responds reflexively nodding also and then, only faintly blushing repeats in English for clarity, "Yes. Had the curry. Very good." Smiling warmly, she asks, "Did you make it?" making sure to speak clearly.

She glances down the hall for a moment and pulls out her flip phone and dexterously types out a message on the number pad - lots of practice doing so back then after all - and texts her épée teammate 'Alt bra. Beklager. Ingen hjelp nødvendig.' (or: "All Good. Apologizing. No help needed") and snaps the phone shut after sending.

"Telling them all is good," she explains the message away, lifting up the closed phone to indicate what she means.

That much translates across, so Cedric nods, and they're just nodding at each other and he has to forcibly make his head stop moving. "Great. Yeah. I, right, the curry?" He has to stop himself from nodding again. "Yeah, that was me. Well, not just me, but I helped. Prepped stuff, did some of the cooking."

He goes silent while she's texting on her phone, then starts a little bit when Erika explains it away. "Right. Okay." Then he's just standing there, wondering what exactly he's supposed to do. "So, uh, the Olympics, yeah?" is apparently what he decides on.

And then he gamely does not wince at himself and his newly developed inability to speak.

Erika smiles at the question. She nods and says, "Ja, ... eh...", she pauses and shakes her head and says, "Fekter," as she looks a little embarrassed forgetting a word that she's been hearing announcers blasting on the PA for over a week. Instead, she pantomimes fencing and repeats the word, "Fekter," and asks, "Understand, yes?"

She then makes an expressive sound of remembrance and reaches out with her right hand for Cedric's. She gives him a firm handshake and says, "Erika Yorgensen," in a way that clearly is introducing herself. "From Norway," she explains redundantly and then laughs softly pointing at the clearly visible indication of the same on her top. She somehow begins smiling even kindlier, her body language showing signs of thinking she's got someone who may have become smitten with her as she says, "It was good. Thank you to whole kitchen please?" as she releases the handshake.

The initial moment of them not communicating has Cedric staring, wide-eyed. But the beauty of charades helps to fill in the gaps, and after Erika's gesture, his eyes widen. "Oh, right! Fencing? You're a fencer then, yeah?"

He doesn't ask whether or not they won, figuring if they did Erika would be parading around a medal. Or do they not wear them after? Actually, Cedric doesn't know. Going to err on the side of caution here.

"Cedric. Uh, Cedric Williams." Then he seems to come back to himself and smiles, a little bit amused, as he shakes her hand in return. "From Manchester." When they part, he holds up a hand in the universal wait gesture, and glances back over his shoulder just before bumping the door open with his hip. "Hey, this lovely lady says thank you for the meal!" he calls out.

The kitchen goes silent again, but only for a passing second or so before one of the younger guys shouts out a semi-confused "You're welcome!" and some of the others end up joining in with various noises of gratitude. Cedric lets the door swing shut and glances at his watch.

"Are you staying for dessert?"

"Ah! Manchester United," Erika exclaims proudly, remembering it from mentions in Doctor Who - not that the source of her knowledge is in anyway apparent.

She then nods and says, "Ja, I think so, yes," in response to the question about desert. She repeats, "Thanks," and points in the direction of the private room, "I will order with waiters," and suddenly shakes his hand again, "Good to meet Cedric," she says and departs for the dining room.

Laughing, but not unkindly, Cedric nods his head. "Yeah, like Manchester United," he agrees. Then Erika is offering her thanks once again, and also shaking his hand again too, before she's just gone.

All Cedric can do is call out, "Good to meet you too!" before he's alone in the hallway. And he stands there for longer than he means to... until the sous chef comes out and smacks him upside the head and tells him to get back to work.