A treasured time for me is the one that lies between lunch and dinner, the block of time after prep and set-up are complete, but before the printer starts to chatter, telling us service has begun once again. Some days it might last an hour or two, other days it comes and goes in a few fleeting moments. It may start as soon as the last lunch order is out, or as late as 6pm, but typically I try to call the time around 4:30 to 5:30 my own. It's usually the only substantial break I allow myself. If it's a marathon shift, it might merely mark the half-way point of the day.
One of the benefits of working pastry, besides the relative autonomy, is that we're afforded a sense of calm before the storm. The cooks on the 'other' side of the kitchen seem to have a much tighter deadline. Their show starts the moment the front door opens at 5:15. True, we're stuck at the end of the night, but our daily goal is to be so prepared that we're able to stand around with nothing to do for those few minutes beforehand. It's our chance to stretch, to perform the culinary equivalent of murmuring into the mike, "Check one. Two, check, check." It's like the din from the orchestra pit just before the abrupt silence that signals the first note of the show. We like to think that we give the very first plate, and all those that follow, our fullest attention.
It's during this lull that I can check my e-mail, return calls, or even do a bit of reading in our conference room/library. I'll start to assemble my orders for the next day, or review schedules and prep lists. The main office- staffed by the reservations, private dining, accounting, and consulting departments- will soon begin to clear out; it's a great place to escape the early clatter of service. The Chef himself is usually catching up on office work too, so it's often the only chance we get to chat and touch base of goings-on in the kitchen, though it often degenerates into the trading of industry gossip outside of it.
Staff meal is squeezed in at some point, and although the kitchen management tends to retire to the dining room to sit and eat in a more civilized manner, I tend to hang with my own team, often standing/eating/working, or when it's really busy, passing on it altogether (although most people find the practice odd, I make it a point to cook a real dinner at home every night, though that usually happens after midnight).
I think we all feed off of the energy and adrenaline rush of service: the anticipation, the execution, and the satisfaction (hopefully) when it's all over. But the pause, the chance to breathe a brief sigh, it does make it easier. It's true, I'm more often than not pretty amped up. I drink coffee from morning until night (yeah, I know it's bad). The very first cup of the day is perhaps the most important, but I think the cup at 6pm is my favorite. Or maybe it's all about the time set aside to enjoy it.
Though there is always something to be done, whether in the office or the kitchen, it's nice to leave the building altogether, to sit outside and enjoy a little daylight if the weather is good. As the midtown Manhattan streets begin to swell with 9-to-5ers and early bird theater-goers, I'm just catching my second wind. On my days (or more honestly, day, singular) off I'm most acutely aware of dusk. That twilight time of day is my favorite, probably because I rarely get to see it but for that once or twice a week. There's a reason why in film and photography it's called the 'magic' hour.
It's not just the light, but also the energy. I'm not envious of the crowds, their workday done, on their way home or out for the night. And it's not that I regret my chosen schedule. Perhaps I just feel that I appreciate this time more than they do; I don't take it for granted, though I do experience it from the perspective of a spectator rather than a participant. For most it signals the end of the day. For me, it's all just coming together. And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
