September 2007. A kitchen in Perth, Australia...

Recently I told you about the time I got a job at Speaker’s Cafe, a new, trendy cafe in a Perth suburb. The employees were all malcontents of one form or another from various other restaurants and cafes, thrown together into a brand new, high-stress working environment that was still full of the kinks and quirks of an untested kitchen. We were still working on establishing our places in the pecking order and building a dynamic. The rank and file of the kitchen naturally fell in line under the sous chef, Frenchie. But Frenchie’s command of the back of house was under constant fire from a barista in the front of house named Charlotte, a demanding Persian woman with a grating voice who wore purple shirts a size too small for her slightly plump frame, and that brought to mind an image of Ronald McDonald’s friend Grimace.

Frenchie, whose real name I never learned, was a man of small stature, but he was handsome, suave, and well spoken on French culture. We both worked with our backs to each other in that small kitchen, he at the grill and me at a sink full of dishes. One morning we were passing the time comparing the humor of French and American cinema. He was extolling the virtues of subtle situational humor, as in a French-language film we had both recently seen called, Priceless. As a rebuttal, I fired off one-liners from the new American classic Old School. My coarse, vulgar one-liners by far drew more laughs from the kitchen staff than his French quotations.

He and I were allied against Charlotte- he because she sidestepped his authority by barking orders in the kitchen, and me because I was usually the object of those orders. Charlotte spent a great deal of her time on the clock chatting with the owner, Mark, wrapping him around her finger so that she could continue ignoring her duties at the espresso machine. My acquaintance Jane (who I wrote about last month) was far too nice to confront her, and so often ended up doing the work of two people. But when it became obvious even to Charlotte that her assistance was needed, she would begrudgingly do a little ‘work’.

On this particular morning I was standing in front of the sink, elbow deep in suds. I was in the weeds, but also in the zone, whipping out a few of each class of dishes every few minutes: kitchenware, cutlery, salad bowls, etc… The kitchen was still cackling from my rendition of the Dan Band’s cover of Total Eclipse of the Heart, which you may know as the wedding song from Old School. I didn’t know Charlotte was beside me until I heard her say, as if to a serf, “Brian, I need some fucking tea cups up front, Jane doesn’t even have time to tell you herself.”

A brief glance up front of Jane roll her eyes in mock disgust told me all I needed to know.

“Hello,” I offered Charlotte with a smile, “How are you today?” Wiping my hands on my apron I stood up from the sink and made like I was eager to take in a friendly chat.

“What?” she responded with a crinkled brow.

“I said ‘Hello. How are you today?’”

She crossed her hands defensively in front of her purple shirt and studied me for a moment.

“Fine. I need tea cups.”

“And what do you intend to do with these tea cups?” I inquired, emboldened by Frenchie’s muffled laughter.

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders with upturned palms and started bitching at me, but I was picturing her in my mind as that simpleton Grimace, all googley-eyed and waving her little arms about her plump, purple body, desperately in search of a Happy Meal, or at least some Chicken McNuggets. I meant to keep the laughter on the inside, but the thought was just too funny, so I shared it with Frenchie. Frenchie dropped his spatula and collapsed onto the counter laughing -and the rest of the kitchen, too- laughing openly at the image.

This was an unbearable insult to Charlotte, who then directed her tirade at Frenchie. The two got into a very heated argument about who was in charge of whom. This was a fight that Frenchie had to win, lest Charlotte leverage herself above him and he lose control of the kitchen. But Charlotte took orders from no one and didn’t hesitate to turn up the heat.

I felt, at first, that this was an important confrontation that needed to happen. I thought they would hash out their differences and all would be well in the world. But as the fight escalated, I felt it more likely that one of them would die that day right there in that kitchen—probably with a whisk or a muffin pan protruding from their skull.

Also, do remember that this was an open kitchen. There was no barrier from the kitchen to the service counter, nor straight through to the seating area. Plenty of employees got into hushed spats with each Speakers- we were a pretty dysfunctional group. But these two were arguing so loudly that customers began looking up from their meals.

This was obviously unacceptable, so the owner, Mark, who usually kept us at bay with gentle reminders and free cake, stepped in to intercede. Not even that worked. Mark even physically stepped between the two of them (and he was much bigger than them both), but they just leaned around Mark’s torso and kept up the heat.

Things were getting out of hand. Customers were staring in disbelief, food was burning on the grill, and coffee was going cold. The owner of the cafe was trying to keep a purple-shirted Persian woman from blowing a gasket, while a small, sophisticated Frenchman was cursing in his native tongue.

It came to a head when Charlotte turned and marched toward the back door, but Frenchie had not yet made is point. He demanded she come back and finish what had been started.

“Don’t you walk away!” he shouted. “Turn around. Turn around!”

And that’s when this dishie saved the day. I threw my towel on the counter, stepped into the middle of the kitchen, and began to sing from Old School.

Turn around…

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified I see the fuckin look in your eyes

Turn around bright eyes, every now and then I fall apart

Turn around bright eyes, fuckin’ every now and then I fall apart

And I need you now tonight

I fuckin’ need you more than ever

And if you’ll only hold me tight

Shit, we’ll be holdin' on forever...

By the time I finished the chorus, most of the kitchen had joined, some customers applauded, and Frenchie and Charlotte even laughed. From then on we all worked together with a semblance of professionalism. There was still a lot of animosity in that kitchen, but sooner or later you were bound to say something that could be referenced from a song lyric. Then, inevitably, one observant worker would break into song, and everyone else would fall in line and sing the chorus.

‘Music As Memory’ is an intermittent series about the memories that inevitably come to mind when hearing a certain song.

Brian Spigel is a reformed world traveler based in Portland, Maine, USA. After stints in various American national parks, Antarctica, Thailand, Australia, and the Appalachian Trail, he is currently attempting to live a so-called normal life in Portland, Maine.