Fine dining depends on humble, hardworking dishwashers and cooks

Shir Khan Khamosh settled back against the wall and waited patiently. He had dressed for the interview the way he had been taught: pressed khakis, crew cut freshly trimmed, resume in hand. Cooks and waiters ducked by briskly as 30 minutes passed.

The chef finally rounded the corner and motioned for him to follow. As lunch tickets slowed to a trickle she could afford two minutes to meet with the dishwashing candidate. He stood quietly, hoping to make eye contact, as she quickly scanned his credentials for restaurant experience, never noticing the business degree. She had already decided to hire him—or anyone who could fill the most important role in the kitchen.

“We E-verify, $10 an hour, the shift starts at 3, how does that sound?”

“Yes.” He spoke softly, smiling. Weeks into the job he looked down at his hands, now an ashy white, pruned from hours wielding the sprayer—the stark reality of his new life starting at the bottom in America’s restaurant industry. He could peel his skin where it cracked and perhaps not even feel it, he thought to himself. His yellow dish gloves were forgotten at home and though he re-applied latex substitutes one after another, they didn’t last long. Having grown up with dreams of studying politics, he marveled at how he had come to work this position, in this country. Grateful, really: He was several steps closer than had he stayed in his native Afghanistan, a country wracked with war.

Paola (who didn’t want her last name used) was late again, behind on prep, and on that one day of the week the whole team pulled together to cover the dishwasher’s day off. Every service was a struggle since she had been promoted from dish to garde manger. Her body more tired than her mind, or possibly the other way around, she woke in the middle of the night to the sound of a ticket printer; three orders antipasti, a tiramisu, she ran to complete tables in her dreams and in real life, often feeling disappointing glances from servers, the general manager or the chef.

She juggled two jobs—two sets of worries, two voices unable to quiet after she clocked out. It wasn’t a nightmare, it was her life. On this dreaded day of the week, any spare moment was spent loading racks of sauté pans or silverware, whichever was needed most, into the dripping hot dishwasher. Meanwhile, maternal instinct whispered quietly. She needed just one moment to pull out her cell phone and check that her four children had made it home safely from daycare.

White tablecloths, the errant smudge on a wine glass, maybe a glimpse into the kitchen through a swinging door: paper-thin distractions protect diners from stacks of dishes and ripped trash liners heavy with waste. Not a thought to the cook cranking out a 50-pound bag of carrots in minutes, watching over the stock, checking it doesn’t boil, straining in the wee hours before hustling to catch the last bus. That stock then reduced to a clear and shiny jus that would dress the fourth-course rabbit farfalle on a nine-course tasting menu. That is all diners will see. The fruit, never the labor.