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Considering the tremendous strain I acrimoniously ladle upon my dour employees—what with my allegedly unreasonable workloads, constant bellowing and nonsensical desire to continuously rearrange the office furniture—it would seem prudent, from time to time, to allow a leisurely holiday. Color me dogmatic if you must, but do we not already share in the glory of several national festivities per annum? What of Saint Crispin’s Day, I ask?

Alas, I am no ogre. But who amongst us titans of industry can stomach the thought of labor output mislaid by crude daydreams of never-to-be-seen locales. A distracted worker is an unproductive worker, and this is most unbecoming a true gentleman of labor.

Still, something need be done to restore a moral imperative to our productivity. After a few short lifts of the switchhook, a solution materialized. A three week gustatory tour of Paris was just what I needed to relax my belt and wit enough to reflect on these unprovoked accusations of lost fingers and broken spirits. Foodservice is not for everyone. Hrumph! I settled my mind on tripling the workload to teach these plebeians a lesson, and then threw myself wholeheartedly towards a fourth helping of profiteroles.

Lo, unconceivable misfortunate! I dare not ask what antagonized deity conceived such an in-flight encounter, for who do I find beside me but the prickly gentleman with the surname Sinclair?  Unsettled, I returned to the States with my mind angled toward fair compromise (or the retention of some able attorneys, at least). And so, with much fanfare and ballyhoo, I hastened my new “chums” to the local animal penitentiary for a day of primal voyeurism. But as is often the case, my ulteriors were quietly motivated.

As we strolled along the wide lane, much delight was found in the quiet calm of sun-drenched animals in repose. I roared with approval at the various tiny cages, laughing with gusto at each progressively cramped creature. How soft and fluffy the tail of the Siberian tiger. What a wonderful scarf it could be! I guffawed heartily at the tantalizing grill marks on the curiously white stallions, only to be chagrined by the placard declaring the African origin of these oddly marked creatures. Oh, what a laugh the employees had at my expense. Hrumph! When you live a life of foodservice you must view everything through its powerful lens, lest you quickly fall behind. Those laughs would die as assuredly as their spirits when this day was done.

Muculent from our mid-morning constitutional, we took refuge from Apollo for a snack. At last, my ultimate plan was sprung! There were copious concession stands to survey here! Why else would I have had my assistant lug over one hundred pounds of collodian dry plates, bellows and box cameras up such hills—for a smiling group photo? I think not! With a flourish not seen since Houdini, I produced inkpot and quill, parchment and lime. I barked orders with a jolly that jiggled my ample frame. As my startled laborers scrambled to take copious notes and frame our pictorials, I lay back to enjoy a trifle of popped corn and some softly cottoned candy. Not competitor is going to get the jump on me. I’ll see you in Hell, Upton.

Yes, I may occaisionally be accused of exaggerated levels of expectation with my employees. And yes, one could easily consider allusive statements like “constructive criticism” to be nothing more than mere solipism on my part, but surely this does not make me a villian. For in what developed nation, I ask, does a managerial requirement of high thread counts, imported silks, perfect windsors, crisp lapels, stylish handbags and tastefully bold, not roguish, colorizing of one’s cheeks and lips, seen as anything other than pure professionalism?

Hrumph, I say! But alas, if the exasperated looks of my well-worn, albeit stunningly dressed laborers is any indication, I may do well to funnel the acidic lashings I usually save for employees whose socks do not measure exactly halfway between the ankle and the knee, towards a target with less conception of self-esteem.  So it was that I found myself driving to an obscure restaurant deep in the Virginia countryside to bother about a mere foodservice establishment.

The dining room at The Inn of Little Washington

I was told that this was no ordinary restaurant. In fact, The Inn at Little Washington has served its fair share of Queens, Presidents and luminaries, which, if I understand correctly, predisposes its patrons to some insufferable air of veneration. But few are the berths that can contain my tremendous girth, few are the aliments that will satisfy my palate and even fewer are the waitstaffs who remain composed during my typical condescending impugnments, however accurate, on the basic positioning of tableware.  Is a brief exculpatory remark on the angle of incidence betwixt silverware and glassware really so absurd? Charlatans, all.

Regardless, I was well prepared for an evening of mirthless distemperment. After what seemed an interminable fortnight, a quartet of inimitable delights was laid before me: a horseradish crème, with visage smooth as silk and tinged by lavender hues; a tiny cube of watered-melon crouched in a puddle of lightly infused oil, topped with an assiduously curled sliver of zested lemon; a petite rock shrimp, miniscule in fact, perched atop a tantalizing mélange of avocado, herbs and spices; finally, a small round of poached pear, carefully swaddled in a thin layer of prosciutto. Beautiful though it was, I was sufficiently aghast at the crease drawn into the tablecloth by the lowering of the plate that I almost dismissed the whole meal right than and there. But I managed to compose myself, and with pursed lips, gathered and drew a tentative fork to my mouth.

Several small sea creatures boiled in butter

Much to my dismay, the flavors melded together like a symphony.

Each taste danced past my tongue and gullet with the grace and beauty of the many starlets whose stage careers I patronage. Next arrived a simple soup, served in a fine china cup. Has the chef been secretly observing me from my cupboard?! How else could he know that I would not dare raise a peasant’s soup spoon to these tender lips?

A feast was soon laid before me. Each plate was an artist’s canvas, splashed with color and arranged with meticulous care: rigatoni bathed in a small pond of rich cream, graced by julienned bits of Virginia ham and cradled in a mitt of crisply fried Parmesan cheese; razor-thin rounds of lamb carpaccio arranged in a battlefield artifice, replete with tabbouleh turrets and cannonball capers; a heavenly tin of perfectly salted caviar beside miniature squares of buttered brioche; and, finally, tender Maine lobster, swimming in a sea of light citrus butter.

Well, this pretentious old cotter has finally worn down. Words have failed me. I yield, fine sirs of The Inn. I yield.

Welcome to the FoodServiceWarehouse.com Blog Network!

Here in senior management, a loose term if there ever was one, we strive to make foodservice fun for our customers and employees. How do you make twelve hours a day of grueling work spent slicing, dicing, chopping, mixing, melding, folding, pouring, simmering, steaming, sauteeing and plating, all while standing on your feet in a kitchen with a thermostat pegged to 98 degrees fun? Mostly by cursing alot.

Believe it or not, this can be a great time. Just ask our Bloggers, all of whom are actively involved in the foodservice industry and making it all look simple. How do they do it? Don’t ask me, I am an executive. Not an executive chef, mind you, just a typical business guy. And as far as I can tell, that allows me the opportunity to criticize everyone without actually needing to have any of that pesky and annoying experience that is necessary to accomplish anything myself.

That is why I will leave it to the people who know it best. Instead I will sit high on my throne, scepter in hand, directing people who are more talented to do all of the dirty work for me. The FSW Management Blog will give you a little insight into the inner workings of foodservice on the edge, found online at FoodServiceWarehouse.com each and every day. Feel free to explore our Blog Network, browse the world’s largest foodservice education center, meet our employees, or shop our tens of thousands of products. It is all part of what we affectionately call the FoodServiceWarehouse.com Experience.

Happy Cooking,

Steve Kurtz
Vice President
FoodServiceWarehouse.com