THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED: PART 1

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FIRST CHOPS

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I started cooking professionally while I was in college at West Liberty University, back before it was even a university, around the end of 1999. I'd been cooking for friends, family, and myself for years by then, but I'd never given much thought to doing it professionally. At the time, I was determined to be a writer. I'd already graduated with a degree in graphic design and knew immediately I didn't want to do that, so after a year and a half off, I went back to school for English and philosophy. I wanted to travel, and I wanted to write. My parents had helped pay for art school, but this new venture was all on me. I'd been living on my own in Pittsburgh for over three years, enjoying my relative independence. I was pretty put out when I came back to West Virginia for school and couldn't get any financial aid, because apparently I was still considered a dependent of my parents. Long story short, I had to work. The first year, I paid off school in monthly installments and worked full-time, and realized quickly that wasn't a winning strategy. In the second year, I took out loans and started looking for part-time work on the hill.

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I happily took a job at the campus library, but I was still looking for something else to help get by. I lived off campus and mostly fended for myself. I needed beer money. Working the cafeteria made sense, since I figured I'd at least get to eat.

There was a new food service contract in place, and campus meals were in complete flux. I didn't know any of that when I applied, or when I showed up to my interview with dyed blonde hair styled into a devil-lock, but when I sat down with the head chef, a gruff Pittsburgh punk rocker with "US" tattooed across his knuckles, I started to think I'd found the right fit.

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Like a lot of folks in this field, I started out scrubbing pots. I was kind of lazy about it, honestly, squeezing in as many cigarette breaks as I could get away with, letting the pots pile up, then busting them out all at once in a flurry of hot, sudsy water, elbow grease, and copious swearing. I knocked pans around for a month or two before I got moved onto the dish line for a full shift. I'd jumped in to help the two guys back there a time or two before, but this was my first entire shift in the pit.

The waste and rudeness of the students, the slurring crassness of my coworkers, the humid haze of leftover food smeared with snuff, chewing gum, and undrunk milk. It was too much.

Later that night, the head chef, the sous chef, and I were knocking beers back at my place off campus, and I told them how, with every tray I loaded into the dish machine, I'd started chanting under my breath: screw this job, screw this job, SCREW this JOB.

My chef looked at me with hard eyes. "Matt, you can't quit."

"You gotta get me out of the pit, man. Get me on the line."

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I started training on the line the next day. Nothing fancy, I'll wager, but I was cooking professionally. At that point, I had no intention of doing this for the rest of my life. I wasn't even into cooking, really. I just wanted a job I didn't hate. Flipping burgers and dropping fries into the deep fryer seemed decent enough, all things considered. And when I got the chance, I'd jump back and bust out some pots too, just to show my appreciation, you know?

As we worked on moving the cafeteria out of its drab old home in Krise Hall into a completely updated space and concept over in Rogers, my responsibilities got updated right along with it. I became the head of my own line and station, working with one or two others. I was still basically a glorified grill cook with a fry cook handling our two double-basket deep fryers, but I felt like I'd earned some real skill and trust, and for the first time I felt actual ownership over my job and what I was putting out.

The students were still pretty damn rude, though. Funny story: the walls around the grill were all stainless steel, and that was it. No drywall underneath, nothing. I cooked with my back to the customers, so my number two usually had to deal with them directly. On nights when they got especially rude, or wouldn't stop hollering for "nugs" (chicken nuggets), I'd haul off and whack the wall right between the studs, and it would GONG like a giant steel drum. The next thing I'd usually hear was some student going, "Yo, damn, I think I'll have some pizza instead."

I worked the caf for the rest of my years at West Lib. I listened, I watched, I paid attention. I got to help with some catering gigs around campus. I learned about ordering, checking orders in, putting things away properly. I got better, faster. I worked harder. I felt real pride in what I was doing, and I felt the camaraderie of the people on the line with me, at every station, back in the kitchen proper.

And to be honest, I didn't really think I'd ever cook professionally again.

-- Chef Matt