Weekend nights in a restaurant are where the rubber meets the road. You're at full staff. The Front of the House has the full compliment of servers, bussers, bartenders, and host staff. Service staff is usually raring to go because these are the big money nights. These are the shifts you get in exchange for the crappy lunch shifts or the week night shift with the over-sized stations. It's show time!
The Back of the House is likewise staffed for success. A line cook for each station. An expo to keep hot food moving and the window clear. Probably more than one person working the dish tank.
When it's show time you put your "Aces in their Places," You have your strongest person at each station. Your prep lists have been building throughout the week so that your lowboys are be packed. You've got back up sauces on low on the back line. It's showtime!
The weeknights, however, are a different story. On a Monday, Tuesday, or even a Wednesday, the volume can be half to one fourth of a Friday or Saturday night. There is less staff everywhere. Fewer servers, bussers, cooks, dishwashers, etc.
In my youth I worked for high volume, slightly upscale, Italian restaurant. It was a small "chain" of 4 locations. Pasta and sauces were all made in house. Fish was mostly butchered on premise. Raviolis we're all handmade. (We had one guy who made Ravi's for all four restaurants. He's worth an article of his own someday.)
We would do 450-500 plus covers on a Friday or Saturday night. But on a Tuesday night we usually would do more like 125-150. Once in a while you'd hit 200. We usually ran the line with two guys on these nights. Each would cover two stations.
We had a line rotation of four to five full time guys on nights. We were all of a similar age and background. We had worked together for over a year. At our best we were a well oiled machine.
We knew where guys were going to move. We sensed who was weeded and needed an assist. We were tight. We gave each other a ton of good natured grief. We cranked out good food fast and we knew it. We had the arrogance and attitude to match.
We were all in our early twenties. All lean and mean. We lived hard and played hard. Get through the shift so you could get to the bars. Stay at the bars until they closed. Then, either go home with someone, or go to a co-workers house and party some more. Energy, attitude, and testosterone was abundant.
Two of us running the line on a weeknight was child's play really. Some early prep and set the line. Then bang out the dinner rush for an hour or so. Then we mostly coasted until it was time to break down.
Prep was typically done during the day. So once we pushed through the initial rush we typically had down time. On summer nights that meant sitting on the back stoop perched on a milk crate. Usually smoking cigarettes. Occasionally something else.
Most line cooks worth their salt, at least back then, we're at their best when slightly stoned. A drunk line cook is useless if not somewhat dangerous. A moderately stoned line cook will churn out excellent food quickly. Of course, the emphasis is on slightly to moderately. There are diminishing returns the more high a cook is. Too baked and they fall into the same category as a drunk line cook.
As we sat perched on our milk crates we kept an ear out for the tell tale buzz of the ticket printer. Our routine was, when we heard a ticket, we would Rochambeau for who had to go make the ticket. That is, rock/paper/scissors for it. Loser made the ticket. Winner had another heater.
One of us cranking out a deuce or four top was nothing. The fear was that more tickets would come in while you were on the line. As the loser, you were responsible for whatever came in while you were there.
If too many tickets came in while you were solo you would ask your partner to get on the line But woe to the line cook who is such a pussy that he asks for help too soon. Usually if you were gone too long your partner would check on you.
Once the loser finished any tickets that came in they got to return to the stoop for a smoke. When the next ticket came in, the winner of the previous rock/paper/scissors was up. That way it evened out. Winning only meant you got a longer break. Not that you got out of work. After all, we were friends.
Eventually it would be time to start breaking down. Sauces go into smaller, clean pans. Everything in low boys gets covered in fresh, tight, plastic wrap. Everything gets cleaned and sanitized. Top to bottom. Front to back. Late tickets would still trickle in. You just cooked through it.
Eventually you cooked the last ticket. Everything is covered once and for all and goes in the walk in. Finally. Get the manager to check you out and it's off into the night. Those nights seem so long ago. Despite the fact that it was a job, those nights are remembered fondly.
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