I spend a lot of my time mixing. The order for a Volcano at the Café comes in frequently but it’s mostly waiting around for the brownies to bake. That’s all I’m in charge of at the Rainforest Café as a dessert chef. It was my dream to create beautiful desserts that tasted even better but in this economy you do what you can for a job. The timer goes off, I hit the hour glass shaped button on the oven and stop the timer. After culinary school I thought I’d be doing more interesting stuff than cutting four 8 inch sections out of a pan of brownies, stacking 12 scoops of vanilla ice cream and putting it all together into a Volcano. It’s repetitive and simple. I drizzle caramel and hot fudge, add the toppings and put in the sparkler. I don’t even get to light it as the waiter carries it away. I walk back to my station fuming with eggs and brownies and start mixing ingredients. I close my eyes and make the brownies making sure not to peek. I then place the brownies in a large pan and slide it into the chrome oven. Kicking the oven closed, as I turn around, set the time and temp and hit the hourglass button to start the cooking. I move back to the ingredients to prepare them, lined up, in order, for the next batch.
My hand grabs the frost bitten freezer door and I pull it open so as to see if I need to get more ice cream from out back. Right where there should be a huge green frog with crazy eyes saying, “PROPERTY OF THE RAINFOREST CAFÉ, NOT FOR RESALE” looking back at me there is only more chilled wisps of jacked cooling nipping at my face.
“Damn, empty.” I wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not we had enough trademark vanilla ice cream in the freezer if I had gotten that position as head desert chef at Le Cirque in New York. I’d be designing softly browned cherry and apple cinnamon crapes or presenting my signature chili and peanut butter cupcake to the waiter with a smile. Not checking my wristwatch every 30 minutes, on the dot, after I finish an order.
Moving past the other chefs to get out back to the large storage section of the kitchen is always my least favorite part of the day. Because my art isn’t as difficult as theirs they make exaggerated motions and extend their bodies as I pass to make it more difficult. Some are joking around with me but the others really do despise me. I try not to pay any attention to them though, I think about the pasta sauce cooking in the pan at station 5 or the grilling chicken at station 3. So many interesting mixtures in the air pelt my nose. I make it to the back section off the kitchen and I’m about to open the purple freezer door when Amy bolts by me. I slip on the only section of the kitchen without those ugly sand brown anti-slip pads and tumble into her.
There is a little scramble and I notice a small duffle bag on the floor leaning up against the stainless steel cabinet. The duffle bag is a standard black design with a golden clip for the main flap. Looking closer I see the golden lock is two triangles forming and hourglass design. The bag seems very regal and modest compared to the kitchen. With pots clattering, waiters yelling and the constant roar of fans the bag is a diamond in the rough. The jungle that is the kitchen is the body that the restaurant is modeled after. The gorillas and elephants are actually the head chefs and the waiters, all the stomping and romping. The rain is the water and spices pouring and reducing.
This duffle bag is a rare sight among the stained sleeves and cigarette smoke. Amy slips the duffle bag under her arm and stands up alert and focused.
“Hey Cam,” she says peering around.
“Hi Amy,” I say, “don’t worry no one saw.”
“Saw what?” Amy says with a ghost pale look. Peering into my eyes I could see she was actually nervous and disturbed.
