The best way to describe my chef in one word is passionate. Everything he does is on purpose and perceived by some as over the top. He worked hard, partied harder, and gave me quite a hard time during my training. In hindsight, it was the perfect method to drive me to success. In the moment, however, I could not have hated his methods more.
Nothing I did, not one skill learned in culinary school was proper or sufficient to him. I was taught to never lift my knife from the cutting board when chopping things. The chefs would say that if they heard "tapping", rather than "rocking", the offending students would have to work on his or her day off to make up for it. I was also taught to move the food towards the knife, not move my knife and body. Though conversant with these simple, classical, French techniques, the sushi chef wanted me to "drop" the knife down with every cut to hear the tapping of my work and to judge my speed. He wanted me to move with the knife as it slammed down on the board one trillionth of a millimeter from my knuckles to ensure perfect cuts when dicing and making julienne. He told me to slice the fish towards and under my hand which held the fish in place, rather than the safe method I was taught whereby the knife was to move away from the other hand and body. Even when I peeled shrimp I was told that I would never get it done in time. He made it clear, though, that there was truly a method to this madness. In time I came to fully understand this.
Every day and night for three weeks I was told that I was the worst chef he had ever had the displeasure of working with. After a few beers with him in the evenings, he would tell me that Asian chefs prepped food both extremely fast and accurate as if their lives depended on it. He would tell me that Americans lack the drive and discipline necessary to be good sushi chefs. Of course most of what he said while "under the influence" wasn't truly his beliefs, he just wanted to "negatively inspire" me. I'm also aware that everything people say, whether embellished or not, contains some elemental truth. As the nights came to a close, he would begin to tell me of the days when he was a champion fighter on the karate circuit. I heard tales of unlicensed street fights with no rules except that the fighter who could no longer stand up lost. He never lost. I learned that his master invented weapons I have only seen in old-school games like Shinobe. All of these tales and nostalgic accounts were entertaining, yet revealed to me that which makes up this tough yet feeling, bull-headed yet brilliant, warrior/wise man I worked so hard to please.
Another benefit of his anecdotes was that the customers at the bar couldn't get enough. He was both a chef and an entertainer. I was beginning to fully understand what it meant to be in the hospitality business. Some cooks are brilliant craftsmen but cannot talk to people to save their lives. Others are fantastic conversationalists, but lack any classical or innovative skills when it comes to cooking. Sushi chefs, and subsequently the chefs at Benny Hana's, had to couple the best of both types of personalities to be successful at their complex jobs of both craftsmen and hosts.
The man had a wealth of knowledge and could write a novel from his life's experiences. He never gave up on me and for that I could not be more grateful. He is a trained lethal weapon and by far the best sushi chef in this state. The sole reason for this bar's success is my sushi chef. However, when things got bad for us and the rest of the staff, he was an intricate part of the downturn for the life of the sushi bar as we were determined to punish the owner for her despicable actions. Namely her complete disregard for both common decency and the U.S.'s fair employment laws.
"Wak-haw!" It's Mandarin Jimmy!
Over the next two weeks I was first taught by the owner how to roll the maki, cut cucumbers, and maintain the cooler which was visible to the public. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the sushi chef shaking his head in disapproval of her methods. Already I could see the uncomfortable dynamic that the assistants before me must have felt was too much to stick around for. It's easy to do some type of craft if there is one right way and you are being taught that. In this restaurant, there was a boss who didn't quite know what she was talking about and a chef who didn't want to break the poor habits of the assistant that would probably quit within a month like so many others so far.
I was also instructed on how to make the sushi rice by her uncle. Her uncle, whom I call "Mandarin Jimmy", was the chef in the kitchen who pumped out many hot Japanese dishes at lightening speed. He was also quite the ornery bastard and would chew anyone and everyone out in Chinese if they made the slightest of errors. His expletives fell on ignorant, non-Chinese speaking ears. Though he worked harder at catching someone screwing up, he was always equally quick to praise good work with a brief, "Yess-ah, O.K.-la. Thankyew sir!"
For a trained chef, this man's methods were both maddening and absurd. To make the rice, I was to first portion it out with an unmarked plastic to-go cup, wash it until the water ran clear, and then add it and some water to a rice cooker. The fun part was when I had to measure out the water. It was basically equal parts based on how much rice I had scooped out. Then I was to add another "2 fingers" of water. It was supposed to be his two fingers worth, but he would not mark the damn cup for me! The little guy's hands are the size of a normal child's. His index and middle fingers are thinner than my pinky! Needless to say, the first 20 or so batches of rice I made were either a bit too hard, or soft. I was yelled at in Chinese every day and night for ten days until I got it right. Maybe abuse is the best method in Communist countries, but here in our "pretend Democracy", along with the rest of the cooking world I might add, we measure things and become accurate within 2 tries! The explitive I soon figured out the translation to sounded like "One dollah!" It means something to the effect of,"You F'd up!" He was aware of it's sounding like a US denomination, so the worse n offense you committed, the higher the currency. "Ten dollah, wak-haw!" was the worst I'd received. By the way, "wak-haw" meant something like, "Holy F'ing s#!t!!"
I later found out that this man who fought with his neice, played scratch lotto all day and night, made male servers cry, and enjoyed a good techno track with a beer in the evenings, was actually a slave in a foreign land. He had nothing in his life except a wife and kids he hadn't seen in years, an apartment owned by his niece, who also owned the restaurant, and a kitchen where he spent more time than anyone else around him. When ever he asked for a vacation, his niece would lead him on for a while, saying he could go to keep him complacent, and then at the last moment she would tell him that she could not keep the restaurant open if he left for a week. He begged for an electric bike to ease his joints during his travels to and from work. This would have come out of his own money, mind you, he just couldn't make the transaction as he was unable to read english or posess a credit card. She would once again lead him on and finally explain that he'd just somehow be cheated by the American companies in the end. Even this early on I had to come to grips that my boss was pure evil and two-faced. Mandarin Jimmy would agree with me if he could only understand the English that I spoke to him. Maybe he did, I don't know. I cannot speak Chinese.
I was also instructed on how to make the sushi rice by her uncle. Her uncle, whom I call "Mandarin Jimmy", was the chef in the kitchen who pumped out many hot Japanese dishes at lightening speed. He was also quite the ornery bastard and would chew anyone and everyone out in Chinese if they made the slightest of errors. His expletives fell on ignorant, non-Chinese speaking ears. Though he worked harder at catching someone screwing up, he was always equally quick to praise good work with a brief, "Yess-ah, O.K.-la. Thankyew sir!"
For a trained chef, this man's methods were both maddening and absurd. To make the rice, I was to first portion it out with an unmarked plastic to-go cup, wash it until the water ran clear, and then add it and some water to a rice cooker. The fun part was when I had to measure out the water. It was basically equal parts based on how much rice I had scooped out. Then I was to add another "2 fingers" of water. It was supposed to be his two fingers worth, but he would not mark the damn cup for me! The little guy's hands are the size of a normal child's. His index and middle fingers are thinner than my pinky! Needless to say, the first 20 or so batches of rice I made were either a bit too hard, or soft. I was yelled at in Chinese every day and night for ten days until I got it right. Maybe abuse is the best method in Communist countries, but here in our "pretend Democracy", along with the rest of the cooking world I might add, we measure things and become accurate within 2 tries! The explitive I soon figured out the translation to sounded like "One dollah!" It means something to the effect of,"You F'd up!" He was aware of it's sounding like a US denomination, so the worse n offense you committed, the higher the currency. "Ten dollah, wak-haw!" was the worst I'd received. By the way, "wak-haw" meant something like, "Holy F'ing s#!t!!"
I later found out that this man who fought with his neice, played scratch lotto all day and night, made male servers cry, and enjoyed a good techno track with a beer in the evenings, was actually a slave in a foreign land. He had nothing in his life except a wife and kids he hadn't seen in years, an apartment owned by his niece, who also owned the restaurant, and a kitchen where he spent more time than anyone else around him. When ever he asked for a vacation, his niece would lead him on for a while, saying he could go to keep him complacent, and then at the last moment she would tell him that she could not keep the restaurant open if he left for a week. He begged for an electric bike to ease his joints during his travels to and from work. This would have come out of his own money, mind you, he just couldn't make the transaction as he was unable to read english or posess a credit card. She would once again lead him on and finally explain that he'd just somehow be cheated by the American companies in the end. Even this early on I had to come to grips that my boss was pure evil and two-faced. Mandarin Jimmy would agree with me if he could only understand the English that I spoke to him. Maybe he did, I don't know. I cannot speak Chinese.
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