Saturday, March 03, 2012


I worked for Romanian Executive Chef named Gaspar. He was brutal. He smelled like Paprikash always, and when you looked into his eyes it was like looking into a well. He could make you feel like crawling through the grout to get away from him.

He would come into my Kitchen, take a look around, and in his thick accent ask:
“Esssstifff, (That’s how he said “Steve”) Essssssstiffff, how eees zee kwalitee tonight?”
And I’d smile and try to say positive and say “Great chef, everything is great!” and he would shake his head and mutter under his breath “Ohh shure, Essstifff, shure” and he would look at a plate in the window, and shake his head and just saunter away. And for the next day or two you would expect him to call you to his office and fire you.

Well, I got tired of it and decided to just go ahead and quit. I walked into his office and announced “Gaspar, you Romanian Bastard, I’d like to give you my two weeks notice, but if you want to shoot me out of here right now, that will be just fine by me”
Gaspar leans back in his chair and very calmly says right back to me:
“No, no, Esssstifff, you go ahead and vork out your two weeks, and on your last day ve vill have Champagne!”

Like I said, he was brutal.


Martijn said...

You are such great story teller. I can imagine sitting quietly in the corner of the room with a glass of this-or-t'other and hearing you tell, tell, tell. Paprikash is a super new word for me.

bulletholes said...

Its a tasty dish too Martjin