all of that, and had transformed The Emerald Room from a glorified steakhouse to a state-of-the-art dining room.
She walked down the hot line, minding her high heels over the black slipmats. “Ready for the good news?” she asked the bulky figure at their dual Jenn-Aire ranges.
Dan B. jerked his gaze up from a pan of sauteed soft crabs, his tall white chef’s hat jiggling. He had every burner going with a different entree, not to mention the prime rib and the duck in the ovens. He smirked at her with a look that said
“The governor’s liaison just called,” Vera announced. “He’s bringing in a party of ten in twenty minutes.”
“Tell him to go to Burger King!” Dan B. close to yelled. “I’m running eighteen dinners per half hour since seven o’clock, and now he’s bringing in his stuck-up cronies? Christ, those guys eat like pigs! Last time they ordered two entrees each!”
“You can handle it, Dan B.,” Vera assured him. “You have my absolute and unhesitant faith.”
“I don’t want your faith,” the big chef sputtered. “I could use a raise, though, and while you’re at it how about getting me some secondary so I don’t have to do the jobs of three men six nights a week. And how about…”
Vera traipsed off, smiling. A good chef was never happy unless he was complaining. Dan B. was the best chef she’d ever known. No matter how well Vera ran the place, it didn’t amount to much unless the orders were superlative every time.
“Hey, gang!” he yelled. “Governor and his fat pals’ll be here in twenty! Get ready to bust your humps!”
The entire kitchen released a wave of moans.
Good staff worked best under pressure. The line preps didn’t even look up as she passed—they were too busy. Successful staff management involved the maintenance of respect and acknowledgement. Vera had pulled off both. Her employees respected her without fearing her, and they knew that good work would be properly acknowledged. They also knew that bad work would be properly acknowledged too, with a prompt invitation to take their skills elsewhere. Vera had honed The Emerald Room into a model of excellence, and in doing so, its reputation only attracted the most serious to its payroll.
“Would you please get me some clean broil pans!” the hot prep whined again. “You want me to start cooking the fucking fish under my Zippo?”
“You can cook it on my fat ass,” yelled back Lee, the dishwasher. His long hair swung in wet strings at his shoulders as he slammed full racks into the machine one after another. Then he rushed to the conveyor exit, madly unloaded the clean dishware, stacked it, and carried it to the shelves. Lee’s long hair and tremendous beer gut made him look like Meat Loaf on the skids. Vera dismissed his shortcomings: he drank on duty, griped to no end, waged nightly wars with the cooks—but he was a great dishwasher. Vera pretended she didn’t see the carafe of Wild Goose Lager that he’d secreted behind the machine.
“Like I don’t have enough to do,” he complained to himself. “You dumb fuckers make all the money and I do all the work. One day I’ll put my foot up all of you’re a—” He paused as if shocked, only then noticing Vera standing by the rack stand. “Oh, uh, hi, Vera. I, uh, I didn’t see you there.”
“Hello, Lee. Happy at work?”
“Oh, yes ma’am,” he stammered, then slipped away to carry more broil pans to the hot prep. Vera could easily put up with his manner. Any guy who would wash dishes all night, steam-clean grease-laden floors, and wade waist-deep in dumpsters—all for six dollars an hour—was worth putting up with.
