Externship Interview

Come October, I will begin my six month externship. This is what we've been working towards. This is the part that counts. This is how they make or break a culinary student. This externship will be a royal pain in the ass.

Our externship must be in a scratch kitchen (i.e. no frozen french fries) where the chef works on site. We need to work a minimum of 30 hours per week which is a frivolous requirement considering the average extern clocks 90 hours per week, usually at minimum wage. We are fed all of this information from the school's Director of Marketing and Placement, a kind looking woman who is pushing seventy.

"There are two rules to your externship. Do not quit. Do not get fired." Okay, I thought, I can do that. She continued, "Do not quit no matter how many times the chef screams 'You are an f***ing idiot extern!' or 'Are you the dumbest mother f***er on the planet?!'"

We were horrified not only about our inevitable kitchen destiny but also by the language coming from a woman who could easily move in with the Golden Girls.

"I'm terribly sorry if I'm offending any of you by saying f**k, but the fact is you're just going to have to get comfortable with it. You don't have to participate, but you have to be able to hear it without wincing." Geez.

The search begins by securing a stage (pronounced: stah-je). A stage, for a culinary student, is a working (without pay) interview. A stage, however, can also be a "guest appearance" or "meeting of the minds" for industry veterans. Wolfgang Puck, for example, has staged at the French Laundry with Thomas Keller. A stage is not easy to secure for one snooty, self-aggrandizing, twenty-something reason: the hostess. I partook in the following exchange with hostesses at four different restaurants:

"Um, I'm sorry, who did you say you were again?"
"My name is Whitney and I'm a culinary student hoping to talk to the chef about an externship opportunity."
"Um, yeah, see I'm pretty sure the chef has enough people working for him, so, like, I don't think there are any positions open."
"Okay. I'd like to speak with the chef anyway, can you please see if he is available?"
"Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure he's busy right now, can I take a message?"

My clutch line became, "Please tell him I'm on the line and I'll hold until he is available." I held for the chef for less than thirty seconds each time.

One of my stages (I did five total) was at a fancy-schmancy, award-winning joint, run by a European, James Beard award recipient. I arrived with sharp knives and a pressed, clean jacket in tow. The Golden Girl insisted on sharp, pressed and clean. She shared a story about one of her students who staged at a place in San Francisco.

He arrived at a fancy-schmany, award-winning joint, run by a tough chef and was asked to form a line with six other extern hopefuls, all of them from the CIA (the Culinary Institute of America, a generally esteemed culinary school). The chef walked down the line and immediately dismissed two students who had spots on their jackets. The chef then instructed the remaining candidates to unsheathe their chef knives. He quickly dismissed all but one student, the Golden Girl's boy, since he had the sharpest knife.

I walked into the kitchen and counted nine men and zero women. Interesting, right? My first task was to peel the skin off of very tiny chanterelle mushrooms. It was tedious, but not terrible. I then chopped chives for about an hour. The chef had still not arrived by the time I finished. When he did, everyone knew it. Every man seemed to suddenly and simultaneously stand up straight and speed up his prep work. The chef walked into the kitchen, introduced himself to me and then one by one checked in with each of his peons to see how dinner preparations were coming along.

I didn't do anymore prep work after the chives, but stood and watched the dinner service. These guys moved at a dizzying pace with remarkable precision. Their memory is equally astonishing. "Ordering four rib eye, one medium, two medium rare, one ruined (well done), two salmon, two halibut, three squab, one pork belly and one duck egg," the chef motored. Ten seconds later he'd shout out another set. And thirty seconds later, another. I was overwhelmed.

In the end, he offered me a job, which was exciting. I'm thinking about accepting it. My hesitation is that I'm simply not certain I'm cut out for this. I only worked 5 hours, one third of a normal shift, didn't do any real work, and left with an aching back, neck and pair of feet. I left happy and excited, however, which hopefully counts for something. Its difficult to accept, but this externship could quite possibly be the beginning of the end.