赵青奇

As a restaurant pastry chef， one of my favorite moments was watching the arrival of the kitchen staff in the morning before their shift2）. These cooks look like they rolled right out3） of bed and onto the train （because， well， that's what you do）. The early arrivers are those who treasure those few minutes of silence.

Unlike those who make it to work just in time， whose days begin—and often continue perpetually—under a lot of pressure， the early cooks appreciate ritual4）. They make that first pot of kitchen coffee. They take a few precious minutes to sharpen their knives. And they seem to know more—for example， the number of covers5） for lunch.

A treasured time for me was always the rest between lunch and dinner， the period of time after prep and set-up6） are complete， but before the printer starts to chatter， telling us service has started once again. Some days it might last an hour or two， other days it comes and goes in a few fleeting7） moments. It may start as soon as the last lunch order is out or as late as 6 pm. Typically， I tried to call the time around 4：30 to 5：30 pm my own. This was usually the only substantial break I allowed myself. If it was a marathon shift， it might merely mark the half-way point of the day.

One of the benefits of working in pastry is that you're provided with a sense of calm before the storm. The cooks on the "other" side of the kitchen seem to have a much tighter deadline. Their show starts the moment the front door opens at 5：15 am. We pastry chefs， on the other hand， put in8） most of the work prior to the dinner hour. As such9）， we are left with a few precious moments （once the first diners10） of the night are seated） to relax and refocus11） before service begins in earnest12）. This brief pause allows us to offer to the very first dessert plate—and all those that follow—our fullest attention.

It was during this period that I could check my e-mail， return calls， or even do a bit of research and recipe testing. I'd start to assemble my orders13） for the next day or review schedules and prep lists14）. Staff meal was squeezed in at some point， and although the rest of the kitchen management15） retired16） to the dining room to sit and eat in a more civilized manner， I usually hung out with my own team， often standing， eating and working at the same time. If it was really busy， I sometimes skipped eating altogether， choosing to cook dinner for myself when I got home around midnight.

Though there was always something to be done—whether in the office or the kitchen—it was nice to sometimes escape from the building altogether， to enjoy a few moments of daylight if the weather was good. When the midtown Manhattan streets were filled with 9-to-5ers17） and early bird18） theater-goers19）， I was just catching my second wind20）. But I was never envious of these passersby， their workdays finished. Instead， I knew that dusk—the "magic hour"—signaled something very different for me. For them， it marked the end of their daily routine； for me， it signaled the beginning.

The end of the night in a pastry kitchen is always a bit unpredictable. Sometimes， service finishes abruptly. Other nights， it's a slow crawl21） while waiting for a few lingering22） tables. Toward the end of my restaurant days， I no longer stayed until the very end， but I never got used to it. I had been the last in the kitchen for so many years—plating23） and sending out the very last order—that it always felt strange to leave before the entire station was cleared and scrubbed clean.

More often than not， it had been a busy day at the restaurant， leaving me little time to eat （except for a couple of pieces of bread and some small tastes of the daily dessert）. So by this point in the evening， I was hungry， generally for something salty and filling24）. To me， dinner has always been sacred， regardless of the lateness of the hour. So， almost every night after leaving the restaurant， I quelled25） my hunger long enough to return home and cook myself a proper dinner.

While all of these moments in a chef's day are precious—from those first few minutes in the kitchen to that last hour exchanging stories with coworkers at the end of the night—the best moment comes when your head hits the pillow. When you close your eyes， pull the covers over you and smile， delighting in the fact that it starts all over again tomorrow. That's when you know you're really a chef.

我当餐厅糕点主厨那会儿，最喜欢的时刻之一就是看着上早班的那帮厨房伙计们提前到岗。这些厨师看上去一副刚一起床就爬上了火车的模样（这是因为，嗨，你每天的工作正是如此）。早到的人都是那些珍视早晨那片刻宁静的人。

和那些不早不晚准点上班、一天伊始（而且通常一整天都一直如此）就压力山大的厨师不同，早到的厨师可以体会到按惯例行事的好处。他们煮好厨房的第一壶咖啡，抽出几分钟的宝贵时间来磨刀，而且似乎也知道得更多——比如午餐的餐具套数。

对我来说，午餐和晚餐之间的休息时间一直是一段宝贵的时光，这段时间是在准备工作完成之后，在厨房出菜打印机尚未开始嗒嗒作响，提醒我们又要开始接待顾客了之前。这段时光有时可能会持续一两个小时，有时又转瞬即逝。这段时光可能会在最后一个午餐订单一出餐就立马开始，也可能直到晚上6点才开始。一般来说，我尽量把下午4：30～5：30前后的这段时间称作是我自己的时间，这通常是我给予自己的唯一一段较长的休息时间。要是遇上一个马拉松式的漫长班次，到这个点可能只算是这一天才刚过一半。

在糕点部工作的好处之一便是，你能享受到一种暴风雨之前的宁静感。厨房“另一边的”厨师的上菜时间似乎更为紧迫。他们的演出从清晨5：15餐厅正门打开的那一刻就开始了，而我们这些糕点主厨则是在晚餐开始前完成大部分的工作。就这一点而言，当晚的首批用餐者落座后到我们正式开始为用餐者提供服务之前，我们还能有那么一会儿宝贵的时光用来放松和投入更多的努力。……