Gimme that risotto!' . . . and the Italian . . . he's gonna give it to you . . .
An Ecuadorian guy? He's gonna just turn his back . . . and stir the risotto
and keep cooking it until it's done the way you showed him. That's what I
want."
I knew just what he meant. Generally speaking, American cooks—
meaning, born in the USA, possibly school-trained, culinarily
sophisticated types who know before you show them what monter au
beurre means and how to make a béarnaise sauce—are a lazy,
undisciplined and, worst of all, high-maintenance lot, annoyingly
opinionated, possessed of egos requiring constant stroking and tune-ups,
and, as members of a privileged and wealthy population, unused to the
kind of "disrespect" a busy chef is inclined to dish out. No one
understands and appreciates the American Dream of hard work leading
to material rewards better than a non-American. The Ecuadorian,
Mexican, Dominican and Salvadorian cooks I've worked with over the
years make most CIA-educated white boys look like clumsy, sniveling
little punks.
In New York City, the days of the downtrodden, underpaid illegal
immigrant cook, exploited by his cruel masters, have largely passed—at
least where quality line cooks are concerned. Most of the Ecuadorians
and Mexicans I hire from a large pool—a sort of farm team of associated
and often related former dishwashers—are very well-paid professionals,
much sought after by other chefs. Chances are they've worked their way
up from the bottom rung; they remember well what it was like to empty
out grease traps, scrape plates, haul leaking bags of garbage out to the
curb at four o'clock in the morning. A guy who's come up through the
ranks, who knows every station, every recipe, every corner of the
restaurant and who has learned, first and foremost, your system above all
others is likely to be more valuable and long-term than some bed-
wetting white boy whose mom brought him up thinking the world owed
him a living, and who thinks he actually knows a few things.