By William Breathes
By Patricia Calhoun
By Michael Roberts
By Patricia Calhoun
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
If you're going to suffer through an undergraduate business degree, work a demeaning restaurant job in order to pay tuition, sell out for the sake of money -- well, you might want to apply the life lessons of Jason Holben -- line cook, Hawaiian-shirt enthusiast, master of discretion, entrepreneur.
"I wasn't a happy student," Holben admits. "The slow pace drove me crazy, and I didn't want a real job, anyway. Business degrees set you up for life in a cubicle. You're supposed to feel like you can't wait to pick up the company flag and wave it around. You learn to fear the bogeyman lawsuit. You learn multicultural appreciation: Don't grab ass, don't say 'nigger.' It was insulting. It was like pawing through mud."
So why did he enroll at Metro State in the first place? He was driven to it by a decade in food service, starting as a Village Inn busboy at fourteen and working his way up through various Denver restaurants, each a little fancier than the next, until he surfaced at Ruth's Chris Steak House. "I worked in, oh, management," he recalls. "Everyone who ever ordered anything in a kitchen calls themselves a manager." Money was medium to lousy. How do you make more money? You get a business degree.
"I was at Ruth's Chris for eight months," Holben says. "I quit one night after I heard a waiter bitching about a twenty-top that had left him only $600. I was back there being a scrub, and he was bitching about $600! It was sick. He didn't even have to work for it, as far as I was concerned. That was it for me."
But he missed the intensity of kitchens. He belonged in a restaurant, "juggling a thousand things at once," he says. "It gets in your brain that you have to click, click, click. It's a good life. If only there were money in it."
Since there wasn't, he let his brain go click, click, click to come up with a product to sell to restaurants. He thought back on his years in kitchens, pictured the hundreds of people he'd worked with, imagined the various tensions that arose. Eventually, his persistence was rewarded with an elegant little brainstorm: He would write a Spanish-English phrase book for specific use in restaurants, where kitchen staffs often speak only Spanish.
"I got the idea from thinking about José, this guy I knew when I worked at Pasta Jay's in Boulder," Holben says. "He was this total badass guy -- elegant, salt-and pepper hair -- and he ran the dish crews and prep crews with a constant supply of his family and friends. He was invaluable. He was the patriarch. You knew everyone he brought over had papers, and if one guy didn't show up for work, so what? He'd immediately find someone else.
"But José asked for a raise, the manager balked, and José walked."
Without José, the restaurant went to hell with dizzying speed. Dishes backed up. Food failed to materialize. A replacement dishwasher got drunk, went out onto the patio to chat up customers on parents' weekend, then passed out for eight hours.
"José's absence lasted three weeks," Holben remembers, "but he knew he'd be begged to come back, and when he did, he was fresh. He came back rested, with creases in his white jeans, looking like a Mexican Sean Connery. The whole thing was a confirmation of who he was. And all we had to say was, 'José, necesitamos amigos,' and there they were the next day, ready to work."
It occurred to Holben that any restaurateur in his right mind would have a vested interest in communicating with a guy like José -- not just in "kitchen Spanish," but in more sophisticated sentences that might not just keep José on the job, but keep him content. So Holben began to outline, using typical restaurant life as inspiration. His chapters moved from "Hiring" through "Meats," "Vegetables" and "Beverages," on to "Front of the House," "The Way Things Are," "Doing Dishes and Cleaning Up," and ended with "Lists and Questions for Injuries," with stops along the way for No se permite tatuajes visibles (no visible tattoos), con permiso! (coming through!) and necesitas las cosidas? (do you need stitches?).
"Here's the stereotype I'm working with," Holben says. "A white guy owns the restaurant; a Mexican guy works there. I won't cushion that; it's the way it is. A Mexican guy has a better work ethic, and all the white guys want that. So I wrote these phrases for the white guy, and most of them can get yes or no answers. There's not much What is your opinion on the depth of the deep blue sky? in this book."
Working with a paid translator and then running the translations past several kitchens, Holben produced what he describes as "a happy marriage between academic Spanish and amigo Spanish." He printed the first thousand copies by maxing out his Visa card and went directly into marketing action.
"Which means I walked downtown to all the restaurants I knew and said, 'Hey, bastard, I'm a famous writer now. You're gonna have to give me $25.' After the first day, I knew I could make my money back," he says, with pride.
He bases this businesslike conclusion on the following hard data: Any restaurant person who sees the book will buy it.
Westword tests this theory at the Morton's of Chicago in LoDo, putting this question to assistant manager Anthony Anthony:
"Do you have any Spanish-speaking workers in the kitchen?"
"Do you own a copy of this book? Have you ever seen it?"
Anthony examines the book, then takes it back to the kitchen, where he amuses various employees by saying "Never put your hands in the disposal!" "Don't put anything wet near the fryer!" and "You will also owe me a case of beer if you make this mistake!" -- all in perfect, if oddly accented, Spanish. It occurs to him that, in a less lighthearted moment, he might want to make use of such phrases as "What hours can you work?" and "Green card."
His conclusion: "I have to have a copy of this book. Actually, I need several."
Sold -- to the man in the crisp black tuxedo, and to his corporate office.
Since 1997, Stainless Steel Translationshas sold more than 10,000 copies.
Now 31 and on his tenth printing, Holben has discovered that he doesn't do well sitting at home waiting for orders; through his window, he has too perfect a view of a certain neon tavern sign. So he's taken a flexible day job: He's now paid not just to deliver flowers, but to serve as a perp for hire, so private detectives in training can follow him on his delivery rounds, which are full of tight turns and unpredictable destinations. When Holben gets home, he sends out books and deposits checks.
His publishing inspiration didn't end in the kitchen. He's also published Spanish Phrases for Landscaping Professionals and is planning Spanish-to-English versions of both books. Although his idea of selling raucous Hawaiian shirts from alcohol-themed fabric didn't work, he's put that failure behind him (or will, as soon as he unloads the shirts on www.drinkingshirts.com).
The best ideas are simple, he says. Like his book.
"I knew everything that needed to be said," he explains, "and I said it."
Jason Holben's Kitchen Definitions, in Plain English
Assistant Manager: The worst position you can possibly have. Ass Man for short, appropriately. The minute you sign up for his salary, your hours double.
Bilingual:You know a little kitchen Spanish; the amigos know a little kitchen English. The kitchen is macho, male-dominated, ball-busting. Therefore, you know enough of the other language to give each other shit.
Dishpig: Dishwasher. Not a bad thing to be. Nobody fucks with you, and people are glad to have you around.
Monkey:Appended to the end of any kitchen job description -- cheese monkey, salad monkey, prep monkey.
Owner:Not worth demonizing. Profit margins are tiny. You have 25 employees drawing out a free pitcher of beer every night, you go broke.
Scrub: Cooks are scrubs. If you got a hot pan in your hand, you're a scrub. If you got a bankroll, you're a chef.
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