Almost two months into the New Year and I am already struggling to fulfill my resolution to be more consistent with my posts. I have also failed miserably with my resolution to eat less chocolate. But I figure lent is coming up, which is a shorter commitment for chocolate deprivation.

There are a multitude of worth excuses I could give for my digital negligence:

Starting a new trend by BMX-ing in a dress,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

colliding with the cranium of a docile rottweiler resulting in a crippling hematoma,

 

 

 

 

 

 

or climbing a mountain in the middle of the night to catch the sunrise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The most valid excuse is something with which you can all relate: work.

Yes, even the adventurer needs funds to support weekend trips and impulse purchases. Having a roof over my head and a cat attacking my feet is also a nice bonus.

Upon arriving in Rotorua I immediately started looking for a job. As an under-qualified and inexperienced graduate, I am quite picky about where I work. I require an understanding boss, reasonable hours, enjoyable coworkers, and a positive atmosphere. The money and trade are secondary. Oh, and a tea break is nice.

Knowing my employment in New Zealand would be casual, I anticipated working in the food industry. Previously, I worked as a waitress, a baker, and on a team of chef’s in a student cafe. Surely I was competent enough to clear tables, wash dishes, or flip burgers. To improve my chances of being hired I packed my chef’s pants and chef’s knife, Sire Walter. Looking the part is half the battle. Put on the pants, hold the knife, and there! Legitimate.

My first week in Rotorua I scoped out the restaurant scene. For a tourist town there were not many options, particularly in fine dining. Come one! I am a refined foodie! Do you think a knife named Sir Walter could work anywhere less than the best, anywhere without an amuse-bouche?

One place did catch my eye: Capers Epicurean Cafe. They had a respectable menu, a novelty grocery store, and a polished atmosphere. I eyeballed the display case of eloquent pastries and thought my apprenticeship with a pastry chef could come in handy.

Without hesitation I flagged down one of the employees uniformed in sleek black. He was a young boy with a big smile and a towering height.

“Hello, Hamish,” I greeted, using the name on his tag to establish familiarity, but wondering if it came off condescending. Like I knew more than him.

“My name is LJ,” there, that leveled the playing field, “and I came to inquire about a job.” I explained my experience working in the food industry.

“And I brought my chef’s knife,” I added to show my commitment.

Hamish, his smile not faltering once, responded, “I think we are pretty full in the front right now, but you could talk to the chef about a job in the kitchen.”

I knew mentioning the knife was a good idea.

“Great! When would be a good time?”

“He is away on holiday right now but will be back on Tuesday.”

Do his cheeks ever get sore?

“I’ll be back on Tuesday, then.”

Tuesday. That gave me a few days to prepare. I have never formally applied for a job before. I have talked my way into every job I’ve ever had, my sparkling personality winning them over every time. Or maybe it is that I just start working without permission and eventually my boss feels badly about exploiting my free labor and pays me. I knew meeting the chef was my opportunity to convince him his life- business, personal, and spiritual- would be better if he hired me. Whether or not it was true was not the point. I studied psychology. I know all about advertising, and applying for a job was no different than selling Britney Spears perfume; it is about convincing someone it will make you sexy, confident, and smell like a pop-diva. The perfume, not my employment.

On Tuesday I returned prepared: resume, coverletter, and friendly smile. I considered bringing my headshot like I do for theatre auditions but thought that might be a bit too much. Hamish was working, and smiling, so I flagged him over.

“Is the chef in today?”

“Yeah. Let me go get him.”

I looked around and saw quiet a few patrons eating. It was 10:30 am. What meal at 10:30 calls for toasted sandwiches and salads? Maybe the hobbit lifestyle of eating seven meals a day had rubbed off on Kiwis.

The chef followed Hamish out of the kitchen. He was an older man with thick white hair sprinkled with gray. Something about his mannerisms reminded me of an English gentleman. The chef glanced at the patrons, no doubt thinking of all the orders he had to fill. Drat. Poor timing.

I greeted him warmly, quickly editing my spiel so as not to take up too much time, and handed over my coverletter and resume. I could tell from his distracted look that my sparkle was not coming through. No! I was losing him! I was about to explain how certain obscure experiences on my resume- marine mammal training, nannying, and primatology- prepared me to work in his kitchen when another cook popped his head around the corner.

“Chef, could you come here, please?”

“Yeah, be right there.”

Come on! Couldn’t the sous handle things? Why have a second in command if the chef cannot step away for five minutes to be sold some Britney Spears perfume? The chef turned back to me, already folding my papers.

“We are full in the kitchen at the moment, but things change quickly. I will keep you in mind if something opens up.”

“I’d be happy to work as an apprentice, too,” I blurted out. Apparently free labor was not below me.

The chef smiled warmly, like a friendly uncle.

“I will keep that in mind.” He turned back towards the kitchen, dropping my papers in the office along the way. Something told me I did not make the impression I wanted.

“How did it go?” I jumped at Hamish’s cheery approach. How long had I been standing whimpering at the kitchen like a sad puppy?

“Okay,” I replied, stretching the word into five syllables.

“Hey Hamish, do you think it would be a good idea for me to follow up with the chef? Keep me fresh in his mind?”

Hamish continued to smile through his hesitation.

“I don’t know.”

Translation: No.

I sighed.

“Thanks for all your help, Hamish. Really. Sorry if I’ve been a pest.”

“No worries. See you around!”

Not as often as I would like. I passed the rest of the day browsing other restaurants in town, hoping to find a bakery case that made me tingle. Without success.

The following morning I met my friends H&M for coffee. I told them about my embarrassingly poor performance, wondering if I should have taken my headshot after all.

“We might know someone looking to hire,” H&M confided.

Really? Who? I leaned in closer.

“The owner of this cafe is looking for a weekend breakfast chef.”

Snapping out of my distracted mood, I inspected my surroundings. We were at Zippy Central Cafe. Although it was my first time there the cafe’s reputation preceded it. Zippy’s is “the local” cafe, known to have the best coffee in town (or all of New Zealand, depending on who you ask). It is also the central hub for bikers. Not a coffee drinker, I realized I was actually enjoying my velvety cappuccino. I suspected the atmosphere added to my enjoyment; multicolored retro chairs surrounded Kiwiana tables lining the walls opposite the till. Local artists displayed eclectic paintings for sale, ranging from alien lovers to My Little Pony. The espresso machine hummed, clicked, and screeched away as the lovely cashier chatted with the customers, greeting most of them by name. Above the counter scattered with goodies were sizable blackboards displaying the menu in loopy, feminine writing. Zippy’s was buzzing, and now that I had tuned in, I started to tingle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oooh, yeah. It feels good.

I pressed H&M for more information regarding the positing.

“It has not been officially advertised, but you could talk to the owner, Willy Wilson. He works Mondays and Tuesdays.

This was my (second) chance! Insider information about a position and a connection to the owner. A week seemed like a long time to wait before talking to Willy Wilson, but at least it gave me ample time to write a coverletter and practice my sparkle. I also used the week to do my research. I stalked Zippy’s daily, collecting information about the patrons, the employees, and the busy hours. I was not about to make the same mistake and talk to a distracted interviewer.

On Monday I kept myself occupied, not wanting to ruminate over my performance at 5 pm. Finally, the time came. Papers in hand, voice warmed up, and sparkle cranked to max, I walked into Zippy’s and approached the only man working the espresso machine.

“Are you Willy Wilson?” I asked, wondering if it was even creepier greeting him by name than Hamish, considering Willy Wilson did not have a name tag.

“Yes I am!” he responded enthusiastically. I relaxed a bit.

“My name is LJ. I am a friend of H&M’s and they told me you might be in need of some kitchen staff.”

“Oh, you know H&M? That is cool. Yeah, we are looking for a weekend breakfast chef. Do you have any experience?”

“Well, I have worked as a baker, a pastry chef apprentice, and I chefed for a cafe I helped start at my university. But nothing professional.”

“Aw, cool. Will you be in Rotorua long?”

“That depends on whether or not I can get a job,” I hinted wryly. Willy Wilson looked amused.

“We get pretty busy here, but it is a fun place to be. So long as you can keep up with the pressure of the dockets.”

I stoop up straighter and looked confident.

“I am a fast learner.”

“Great! You can start Friday.”

Wait. Really?

“Don’t you want my coverletter and resume?” I can tell you how primatology related to kitchens.

“Nah, you know H&M.” Wow. Connections really do matter.

“The best way to know if you fit the job is to see if you sink or swim.”

Gulp. That sounded slightly intimidating.

“See you Friday!”

I forced a smile and scooted out, not wanting him to see my panic over his words.

Sink or Swim.

The rest of my week passed with mixed emotions. I stayed away from Zippy’s, the churning feeling in my stomach still too fresh. H&M were excited by my opportunity.

“Zippy’s is such a cool place. You will love being there.”

Friday approached. With the well-wishes of my friends, I put on my checkered chef’s pants, grabbed Sir Walter, and biked to work. Considering it was a biker’s cafe I figured it could not hurt to identify myself with the “in” crowd.

I introduced myself to the front-of-house staff and was directed to the kitchen to meet Daryl, the other breakfast chef. As I entered the kitchen, a broad man stooped over the stove top, stirring scrambled eggs while singing a song about a pink toothbrush and a blue toothbrush. Even on the other side of the world it seemed cooks were exactly the same: weirdos. I knew we would get along well.

“Hello, Daryl. I am LJ, your new breakfast chef.”

“Hello love,” he grinned at me, turning an enormous pile of bacon on his grill. “Welcome to Zippy’s.”

We chatted a bit, exchanging pleasantries. Daryl did not ask me about my experience in the kitchen, for which I was glad. The more I watching him flying around the kitchen making elaborate breakfasts with beautiful presentation the more unqualified I felt. I wondered if he, too, was just waiting to see if I would sink or swim.

When there was a break in the dockets Daryl took me to a picnic table out back. He spoke while rolling a cigarette.

“Your job as weekend breakfast chef will be to run breakfasts Saturdays and Sundays, then help with prep Mondays and Thursdays. The weekends can get busy, so the lunch cook will come in earlier the first few weeks to help you. Today and tomorrow you will train with me, then Sunday you are on your own.”

This Sunday. As in a day and a half from today?

“I am taking the kids to the Blue Lake for the day.”

He must be desperate for a weekend off if he is comfortable letting me run his kitchen after two days of training and no experiencing poaching an egg. The stunned look on my face must have been obvious.

“You’ll be find. If you really need me, you can call my cellphone.”

Talk about throwing someone into the deep end. When they mentioned sink or swim I did not think they meant through a hurricane. In acidic water. Infested with sharks.

Over the next day and a half I tried to absorb as much information as I could: The elements of the menu items (“Big Zip” did not exactly describe the meal), the techniques of cooking, and how to time dockets. No wonder Daryl smoked like a chimney. Even his pluming second-hand smoke could not calm my nerves. Despite my efforts, the only piece of information that really stuck were the words to “You’re a Pink Toothbrush, I’m a Blue Toothbrush.” That definitely fit into the “sink” category. It did not help that over those days I never actually cooked on the grill, either.

Saturday night I went to bed early, setting my alarm for 4:15 am. Although my shift technically started at 6:00, I planned to go in at 4:45, just to be sure I had enough time to bake muffins, make hollandaise, open the cafe, turn on my elements, prepare my station, and cut cakes before we opened at 7:00. I fell asleep reciting my routine.

Unlock door.
Turn on lights.
Turn on dishwasher.
Turn on oven.
…

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My dream of sharks brushing their teeth with singing toothbrushes faded as I fumbled for my alarm. I tried to open my eyes and realized they were open. The world outside was as dark as the backs of my eyelids.

Time for work.

I grabbed my packed bag and tiptoed out of the house. The morning air was crisp against my face as I biked down the middle of the street into town. Quiet rays of light started to stretch across the sky as I opened the back door to Zippy’s.

Turn on lights.

I began my memorized routine. Everything went swimmingly. Until I got to to oven. Then they went sinkingly.

The oven would not turn on. The knob was turned but the happy orange light did not turn on. What else could I do? I remembered Daryl saying the oven once turned off by itself and had to be re-lit. Was I so unlucky that it happened to me? I walked away and continued a few more tasks, thinking it was not used to being turned on so early and wanted a sleep-in. When I returned there was no improvement. There was nothing else to do but call Daryl and hope he would forgive me for waking him at 5:15 on a Sunday.

“Mello?” said a groggy voice.

“Daryl, it is LJ. I am so sorry to be calling you this early, but I cannot get the oven on. I don’t know what to do.”

“M’kay. Be right there.”

What a horrible chef. I cannot even turn on the oven. Guilt made me work hard on my other tasks until Daryl arrived.

“Did you flip the switch on the wall?” he asked immediately.

What switch?

He walked over and flipped said switch right next to the stove. The happy orange light turned on.

Oh. That switch.

“Boy, do I feel stupid. I am really sorry, Daryl.”

“S’okay. I probably should not have left you alone on your third day (second and a half). How about I stay and watch you today?”

I released an audible sigh.

“That would make me feel a lot better.”

Daryl’s presence proved crucial. He helped me remember the components of the Big Zip, shared his method for beautiful presentation, and taught me more songs to sing.

By the end of my shift I felt much more confident in my role as weekend breakfast chef. I still had a lot to work on; my poached eggs were hideous, I still did not know the hot spots on the grill, and I failed to realize when orders were “take away.” Still, I finished work with a bounce in my step and a new song on my lips (“I’m Sexy and I Know It”).

That night I got a text from Willy Wilson.

“Hey Chefy! Heard the day went well. We’re all excited to have you. Would you stay and be a Zippy’s Girl?”

Ditch the floaty. I am swimming this one.

“Count me in, boss!”