The Appetizer and Steak Indeterminacy

I debated on whether to blather on about every single detail of my translating work in one 10,000 word post - but, truth be told, it was all very dull. I smiled, I kissed ass, I wore a giant head chef's toque, I helped my boss through the perfunctory "Hello and welcome to the Royal Park Hotel. Please enjoy your stay" greetings. So, no.

Instead, I will share with you the most interesting bit. It happened on a day when I didn't even expect I was needed for translating. I was in the kitchen - makeup-less, sweaty, apron splotched with pork fat and french dressing - when the call came: "Amanda, get changed and meet me in the kitchen of such-and-such banquet hall in 15 minutes." Ah, Executive Chef T. Always so pleasant.

I ran that entire 15 minutes.

Once I reached the kitchen, the instructions came fast and loud - and then were repeated every five minutes: "The Canadian Chairman will arrive within the next half hour. This Chairman does not eat fish, and so I have changed the appetizer from the salmon to an assortment of cold meats. However, since he prefers his steak well-done, I've also made another option of the same assorted meats, only cooked. You need to explain what is in this dish, and ask if he prefers the non-cooked or the cooked."

I stood in a corner, eyes fixed on the floor as words churned through my head. Should I greet him as Sir? Your Honour? Your Excellent Highness? Your Generous Lugubriousness? Maybe Hey, Dude. My coworker, Pretty Boy, prepared the 70 other appetizers with the Executive Chef, the Chef de Cuisine, and the third in command all breathing down his neck, throwing wilted garnish at him and yelling about his incompetence. I also took the time to memorise what was in the special meat appetizer. Iberico nama ham in the shape of a rose? Check. Roast beef marinade? Check. Duck breast, more nama ham, port wine reduction, cheese? Check check check. Fine. I can do this.

He was late. Late enough that every other guest was finishing their foie gras and steak main courses.

"Ok Amanda, change of plans," said E. Chef T. His eyes were a little wild. "First you will ask him if he'd rather skip straight to the main course or start with the appetizer. If he chooses the first, you won't have to explain about the meat."

Wires crossed in my brain, sparking dangerously. I tried to project tranquility in my answer - "Yes, Chef. I understand, Chef." but it came out tremulous. His crazy eyes were beginning to affect me.

Chairman arrives. I walked shakily behind Chef T. into the banquet room, and stopped before a plump man who was talking animatedly with the person beside him. Chairman barely looked at me and chose to start with the appetizer.

Aha.

I returned to the kitchen, did a U-turn and followed the server with the app back out.

"Excuse me again, sir," I said. Aha! Sir! I didn't call him dude. "I hope that everything has been to your satisfaction so far."

He blinked up at me. The entire table went silent. "Why yes, thank you," he said in a smarmy voice. It was obvious that he was mocking me.

"I..." Deep breath. Quick glance around the table. Yes, everyone was listening. Crap. "There is a small matter we just need to clear up about your appetizer, sir. The Chef is aware that you do not eat meat-"

"Fish," Chairman corrected me, very patronisingly. The table tittered. I could feel my cheeks flaming.

"Fish," I repeated, "Yes. Sorry. You do not eat fish, and so he has prepared an assortment of meats instead-"

He interrupted again. "Why yes, I do believe it's actually all written out for me here!" He reached for the beautifully designed menu card and held it up for me to see. "Let me read it out for you: beef marinated in sweet chili sauce, nama ham- what is nama ham, anyways?"

"It's very similar to cured ham, sir," I said, then rushed ahead before he could go on. "He is also aware that you prefer your meat well-done-"

"I don't know where that comes from, actually!" he cut in again, "Everyone here is so absolutely sure that I like my meat well-done, when I don't remember ever saying that! Seriously, it's an obsession. I've been told my meat is well-done at least 10 times since I arrived here. I actually like my steak done medium-rare."

Impatient, I lost the fake waiter voice. "Perhaps you should speak with your publicist about that, sir."

He blinked. "I think I will," he said, but his voice had lost a bit of its smarm and he looked up at me in surprise.

"Where are you from?" he asked me. I answered, he asked more questions about my lineage and blood purity (jk) etc., the usual. I fielded them with no problem and even shook hands with the Brazilian Ambassador. Nifty.

"So you have absolutely no problem whatsoever with this dish?" I smoothly directed the conversation back.

"Nope."

"Great! I'll inform the Chef. Enjoy your meal."

I did inform the Chef. He immediately entered into panic mode when I reached the bit about the steak doneness. Flurried phone calls were made to the butcher, Pretty Boy sent running to the B2 floor for an uncooked tenderloin, fresh mashed potato and garnishes sent up from the prep kitchen. Four chefs crowded around a frying pan, the poor guy in the middle looking like he was doing brain surgery, as another chef checked and rechecked the foie gras.

A server came running in. "He says he wants his main course now!" she said, brandishing the plate that had held a cold meat appetizer five minutes earlier. "He says to hurry, he's late."

I looked over: although they'd already flipped the steak over by then, it was still obviously very rare. Before Chef T. could frighten the server with his Crazy Eyes, I followed her out to the dreaded table.

"Hello again," said Chairman Smarm smarmily.

"I'm sorry for the wait, right now the Chef's rushing about getting your medium-rare steak done," I said, cutting the bullshit. "I promise it won't take more than 3 more minutes."

He sniffed. "Well, make it medium-well and I'll wait for 4." The table tittered in unison.

I tried not to run, and sort of tumbled back into the kitchen, stammering out the words to the four chefs hanging on my words like their lives depended on it.

"4! 4 minutes!" hooted Chef de Cuisine N. "Before you know it he'll be saying 'Forget it, I actually do want my steak well-done!' Then we can just throw it into the microwave and be done with it." E. Chef T. hit him upside the head lightly, looking very stressed.

The steak was done. The steak went out. I followed it out and watched from the sidelines as the Chairman took the first bite. Then a second. And then a third and a fourth, all without pause in the conversation he was having with the woman next to him.

Honestly. Some people.

The air of the kitchen collapsed in relief when I informed them he had no complaints. Many hands hit me on the shoulder, and Chef T. kept repeating "Thank you, thank you" as he gripped my arm. I was just glad that we all got through it without any hearts failing.

It was exciting. It reminded me of how tricky this line of work is, how you have to be able to make split-second decisions to adapt to your customer's desires. Especially when it comes to VIP customers.

It also explains why Executive Chef T's hair turned from pitch black to completely gray in less than 5 years.

Later I asked one of the chefs why Chef T. didn't hire a proper translator for APEC. "Money," was the answer. "Money and... well, Amanda, he kind of likes to show you off. He has someone in his kitchens who's gaijin, bilingual, and is good under pressure. Plus, you're super kawaii." Awww, thanks.

All I need to do now is learn French, and I'll really go places.