I miss the kitchen. I’ve been a long time out of it. People often ask how I was able to survive let alone thrive or enjoy. It’s true. The kitchen is one of the most intense places I’ve ever existed. There’s something about the small, enclosed space. A place where everything is either hot or sharp or angry or some beautiful and terrifying combination of those things, but it was home.

I worked professionally in the kitchen for some 14 years of my life. In that time I was able to get to know the construct, the people and even myself. It’s amazing to watch the way the intensity of an environment can separate the wheat from the chaff. Not to say some people were weaker or less valuable than others, though that’s precisely how chefs see it. In truth, it’s just like any other profession: you have to have the heart to work there. You have to feel the call to have the drive to succeed and make it your own. Doctors dealing in life and death in the ER, soldiers surviving in a constant state of high alert, teachers who man a shift concerning themselves with the wellbeing of your children: If you don’t have the heart for that life, those professions can easily take pieces of your being away from who you are. But for those who heard and heeded that summons, you find yourself built up and refreshed for it. I dare say those called find purpose!

It was always interesting watching the clientele who worked in the pits of a restaurant. I referred to them as pirates and it’s not too far off; rabble at best. The crew was never short on those with a history. Felons, defectors; drug use, abuse and addiction ran rampant. People who struggle merely living, always running from someone to whom they owed money or from eviction, a broken or breaking relationship. They would find a home here. We would find a home here. I would watch (and, later in life, lead) them as they shifted consciousnesses while walking through the door. There was a sigh of relief as the exited the hard world and entered the eerie peace of hot chaos. I watched as they left the struggle and became a single, cohesive unit: shoulder down, bleeding and burned as they produced some of the most honest and beautiful expressions of creativity and raw emotion imaginable. People (you!) would queue up and wait just for the chance to give your money to sample their offerings not understanding the painful truth of denial.

In the kitchen, you get to have all the pain and none of the pleasure. You consider the food. You imagine and plan the food. You order and receive the food. You inspect and store the food. You rotate your stock of food. You measure and process your food. You prepare and cook. You present your offering and at the moment when you can finally appreciate the literal fruits of your labor, you send it away. How is it possible to live like that?

Maybe we’re wired differently. Maybe something is broken. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that this place, hot, dark and dangerous, is home for some. For those of us who’ve heard the bellow, it’s the only place that makes sense. It’s how we survive. It’s a refuge from the rest of the world, from our debtors and our broken relationships. It’s a haven from our addictions and our responsibilities. It’s a place where measurements and rules can finally be challenged and a well-executed challenge can be rewarded. It’s home to hot, sharp, angry things, but that’s a monster that I know and one with whom we can relate. It’s home to a potency so intense, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. It’s a home to… me. It always will be.

I miss the kitchen. I’ve been a long time out of it.

Chef Shanker

Keeping the world in balance.
Have you ever eaten something so delicious it made you angry?