A Night in a Three Michelin-Star Restaurant

I showed up at the restaurant thirty minutes early because I had paced every corner of our apartment and needed a new environment to pace. I stood near the door where I was supposed to grab a fresh apron and chef coat when I saw framed letters lining the outdoor walkway wall. I was reading the high praises in one letter when I noticed it was signed by a celebrity couple I followed religiously on Instagram. I turned around, no longer facing the wall, and saw the morning chefs walking past me from the main kitchen into the back prep kitchen. I noticed a trend. Each person reeked of concealed anxiety. I could feel their tension despite their stoic faces.

Brent and I had both just left jobs at a James Beard Award-winning restaurant owned by a Master Sommelier in Colorado. And now, we were working for a three Michelin-star rated restaurant – the highest rating a restaurant can receive. We had begun cooking at the top of our careers at one of the best restaurants in the world in Napa, California. The day prior, Brent affirmed our reason for being there.

“I miss Colorado. I miss the mountains and my friends,” I said as I unpacked our boxes.

“I know, but if we work here for 5-10 years, we can potentially get an investor for our dream restaurant one day,” Brent said, putting the TV cords together. “We just have to put in the time and learn.”

“I know. I’m just tired of working for $12 an hour. I had my meeting with Human Resources yesterday, and they’re offering me the same horrible pay despite being at the top of my career,” I griped as I unwrapped the mugs and put them in the cabinet. “It just doesn’t make sense. I could get paid more working at McDonald's,” I continued as I organized the cabinet.

“We have to. We have to do this. We need to make it here,” Brent repeated, trying to reassure himself too. “This is our ticket to our dream. We are so broke. We have to make it here in order to get noticed by an investor to believe in us. If we don’t, we will always be living paycheck to paycheck,” Brent said, looking straight at me this time.

Brent and I both paced our apartment with anticipation before our first days. We didn’t have a dining room table because we couldn’t afford one, so Brent poured all his kitchen tools out on the living room floor. He meticulously went through his knives and sharpened each one until it could slice through paper seamlessly. I did the same and picked out my favorite quenelle spoons for scooping ice cream and tweezers for placing edible flowers on desserts. We purchased an abundance of new Sharpies because Sharpies with impeccable tips are like crack to cooks. In fine dining, every item you make is labeled with tape that’s been cut perfectly with scissors. The cut tape line has to be perfect, and it’s labeled in Sharpie with the product name, date it was made, and your initials. You initial everything you make so that chefs know who made what and your work can be critiqued. You’re held accountable by your initials, and to make matters worse, if the writing on the tape is written with a dulled down tip, your chef will make fun of you. Every detail is considered and criticized, even down to the writing on the tape.

My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it out of my back pocket. I had set an alarm to alert me 10 minutes before I was supposed to clock in. I looked away from the framed letters and walked into the small co-ed locker room. Inside, a group of incoming cooks changed for our next shift. I put on my chef coat and apron and smoothed my bun. I looked for a locker to put my purse into, but there were none available. A woman I had cooked with during my interview, Emme, saw my problem and turned towards me.

“Sarah, right? You can put your things in my locker. We will be on the same pastry team. I’ll keep it locked up until you get your own locker,” Emme said as she reached for my things.

“Thanks, Emme. It’s good to see you again,” I said as I grabbed my knives.

“Anytime. You’ll be working with me today. I’ll be training you. Hurry up though, we are going to be late checking in,” she said, walking quickly out of the locker room.

“Don’t we have five minutes?” I asked, trying to keep up with her.

“If we don’t clock in within two minutes of our scheduled time, we will get in trouble. And there’s a long line of front-of-house staff that needs to clock in too. Let’s go,” Emme said, walking two steps in front of me.

I walked through the main kitchen behind Emme and was in awe. It was the prettiest kitchen I had ever seen. It was a neat freak’s dream with everything in its own perfectly designed place. The stainless-steel kitchen equipment and white accents glowed. It was like walking through a cloud with access to the most expensive, finest ingredients. I watched a farmer drop off Mara des bois strawberries picked that morning and saw Wagyu beef ready to be seared on a station. I passed the wine cellar on my way to clock in and saw single bottles worth $60,000. I was in a world of luxury, and I couldn’t even afford groceries. I didn't want to be the one that costs them a Michelin star.

My first day at the restaurant was intense, and that’s an understatement. There are multiple stations and positions as cooks. I started out as a Chef de Partie. I quickly learned Emme didn’t have time to talk through my soon-to-be projects. She frankly didn’t have enough time. I watched her speed through her work as if every step was seamlessly coordinated to her next motion. I watched her spin ice creams, assemble a cake, consolidate sorbet bases, shave chocolate curls, and prep cheese gougeres all at once. Multitasking at its finest, and yet everything had to be perfect; otherwise, it would be rejected. We were at a brisk pace, and we hadn’t even hit service when the real heat begins.

I tried to assist Emme as much as I could by setting up the pass. I felt more like a nuisance to her than help because every question I asked cost us time. In the midst of restocking plates, my sous chef came up by my side. My body tensed, waiting for the barking orders.

“That plate is worth $20,000. It’s inlaid with gold, and we use it for VIP guests. If you drop it, you’re fired. Always keep your hands and eyes on the plates,” she said sharply and quickly as she moved to the other side of the pass.

I stared at the plate, knowing it cost more than half my annual salary. Emme elbowed me to keep moving as her eyes glanced in the direction of our executive pastry chef. He was walking through, examining the setup of our station. I put the plate in the cabinet, willing my hands to not shake.

All orders for each table were relayed to us through an expediter, commonly referred to as the expo. They are the liaison between the front of house and back of house. We rely on them to set the pace of how courses travel from station to station. 

Our ears are constantly attuned to their voices because it helps us understand when a massive wave of orders will hit our stations. I was trying to listen to the expo, watch the pace of courses move through the kitchen, and listen to my pastry chef calling orders simultaneously. My brain was spinning with numbers as I tried to keep track of everything going on around me, as well as the desserts in front of me. I was in the midst of adding popped sorghum and edible flowers—the finishing touches—on a plate when my pastry chef walked behind me. My stomach sank to my knees. He could shatter everything I had worked for within an instant if he wanted me gone.

“You're thinking too hard," he said as he reached for the edible flowers.

"Yes, chef," I responded while trying to keep up with the quick pace of service.

"If you think too hard, you can't move effortlessly. You'll be too slow if you think. It needs to be as if your body is anticipating every movement," he said as he put edible flowers on the gold plates.

"Yes, chef," I said as I handed my coworker the CO2 canister for the strawberry foam. I was supposed to have it ready for her the moment she reached out, so her eyes never needed to leave the plate in front of her. Every meticulous action thought through.

"Don't think. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think," I repeated in my brain as I tried to lose myself in the flow of service. Taking a break from the usual long shifts on my feet while we moved to Napa left my feet in terrible shape on my first day. I kept wishing my feet would numb themselves because my brain kept directing me to my pain. Each step to grab plates or an ingredient for plating sent needles into my arches, begging me to let them rest again.

"Numb the pain and don't think" became my pep talk to myself when I desperately wanted to take a seat break and enjoy a long drink of cold water. My throat was starting to get dry. I shoved my body's needs and desire to rest aside. I remembered my conversation with Brent. I needed this job. I needed to prove I could make it here.

At the end of the night, I grabbed my items from Emme's locker without wanting any small talk. Emme walked with me until we needed to part ways, both of us trying to slow our walking pace down. I wanted to get home and drift asleep. I walked even more slowly to my car, enjoying the late-night cool air and stillness. The smell of orange blossoms hit my nose from the welcomed breeze. I pulled my non-slip shoes off in the car when I sat down in the driver's seat. My feet throbbed. I knew to keep a water bottle in my car at all times, so I chugged the entire bottle, dehydrated. My lips felt dry and cracked. I pulled my notebook open and stared at my notes. I knew I needed to organize and memorize them before tomorrow if I was going to survive at this restaurant. My body sank into the seat. If I allowed myself, I could have fallen asleep in the car chair. The seat warmer slowly smoothed out my muscle aches. You just survived a night in a three Michelin-star restaurant. The corners of my mouth smirked, and I turned the car on, willing myself awake.

I drove home listening to smooth piano as a way to try and calm the adrenaline pulsing through my body. Lyrics seemed like too much stimulation. When I got home, I took a quick shower to wash off my sweat and crawled into bed. Brent was already fast asleep because he had worked that morning. I didn't want to wake him because I knew if he was anything like how tired I was, then he needed his sleep. I stared at the ceiling unable to close my eyes. My body was still in fast-paced kitchen mode with my heart racing. I know why cooks drink or do drugs after a long shift. It's to calm themselves down after an intense, stressful night. It's a way to cope, and every cook has their vice. Mine is ignoring anxiety and downing chocolate. I'd seen a family member cope with alcohol when I was younger and wanted to avoid repeating the past. I rolled over and grabbed my lavender essential oil, rubbed it on my wrists, and inhaled the scent as I sucked on a piece of dark chocolate. I closed my eyes and repeated in my mind until I fell asleep what I had been taught at one of the prestigious restaurants in the world: "Don't think, don't think, don't think."

"Yes, chef."