The Incredible, Edible, Problem

There’s an old joke in the restaurant industry, “What’s the difference between a cook and a chef? About $50,000 a year.” Nomenclature and money aside, most people wouldn’t give this a moment’s thought until, that is, the eggs start burning. For unbeknownst to us food consuming mortals, the gods (or at least their lawyers) of food service are in a fight of Olympian proportions over kitchen titles and responsibilities.

This great battle pits Hyatt hotels against their Chicago employees union which, according to the Chicago Tribune, involves litigation over how to stop a kitchen catastrophe. Going back to the chef/cook title, it turns out that in this particular union shop chefs are management and cooks unionized workers. Each has a long menu of exclusive responsibilities, including who takes what food out of an oven. This all came to a head last year when a chef, sensing impending egg burning, pulled out a tray of quiche, thus intervening into a “quiche ‘emergency.’” The cooks took offense to usurping what is normally their job and filed a grievance. Two arbitrators delivered different decisions, and the lawsuits, like appetizers, were served quickly. Personally I side with chefs on this one, as I’ve never been asked if I want my quiche rare, medium, well done, or extra crispy. And in a delicious only-in-Chicago irony, Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker has vested personal, financial, and political interests on both sides.

While this minutia of collective bargaining may not make much difference to your brunch plate, I am reminded of what happens when eggs go very, very wrong. In college, our fraternity’s Saturday breakfast/lunch was mostly reheated leftovers from the past week and something vaguely greasy to sop up Friday night’s remaining alcohol. Occasionally a sober brother stepped up to make something from scratch, and thus “Chef” Mark whipped up scrambled eggs that morning. Mark knew his way around food, and was happy to tell us as such whenever we asked. And even if we didn’t. But instead of the usual flavorings of salt, pepper, or maybe a dash of cheese, he chose a heretofore unused additive—beer.

Predictable to everyone but its creator, these “Oeufs á la Old Style” were a disaster. Coming down the steps to the dining room, our nostrils were met with the aroma of soured, long-fermented hops. And not the hops beer makers show in long panning shots of some Bavarian hillside. Think industrial agriculture at its most grinding and chemical. Finally gazing upon the curds we saw a two-toned mess-one half yellow and the other jet black, a seeming color tribute to our Big10 Conference rival Iowa Hawkeyes. I vaguely remember it tasting like a football field. After a rainy game. But what were we to do, call for help? It might have gone something like this:

“Hello this is 911, Operator 584, what is your emergency”

“One of the brothers burned the house’s eggs.”

“I’m sorry, did you say that your hen house is on fire and your brother is burned.”

“Oh no. Sorry. One of the fraternity members scorched our breakfast.”

“Sir, is this a police, fire, or medical emergency?”

“Do you have a culinary division? We may be losing a Michelin star here.”

“Sir, let me give you some cook’s advice. Toast some bread, fry some bacon, and slap it all together with your eggs. Because if I’m sending anyone to your place, it’s the cops to lock your stupid French butt up.”

So where are we in this great egg dilemma? Should diners settle for singed quiche in solidarity with the common man working the oven in the fight against capitalist exploitation? Does management have the last say about how to deliver the perfect high-cholesterol meal? I will leave this all to lawyers, courts, and union negotiation. All I know is that you can’t burn eggs, throw it in a pie pastry, and call it quiche. Real men don’t eat that.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.