Heaven's Kitchen

Thanks to Gordon Ramsay , we know that restaurants are intense, fierce, macho arenas. Here's a Rare exception

By Fiona Morrow

The orders are stacking up along the line. On one stove duck breasts are sizzling, on the other cumin encrusted albacore tuna is seared. On the pass sits tuna tartare with sesame crackers as well as a marscapone-laden polenta mushroom terrine.

“Let me test—sorry, taste—those sesame crackers,” says Chef, displaying the merest hint of concern. “I’d like to see them darker. And they need salt.”

Despite five tables having shown up in the past 10 minutes, and some confusion as to how many amuse bouches have been called, things are running pretty smoothly. There’s no shouting, no pans on fire, no one’s hurling abuse or sharp implements. But everyone knows that working in restaurant kitchens is hell. “There was one chef who would get mad and throw hot pans off the grill at his female sous chef—and shout ‘cunt’,” says chef Colleen McClean. “You had to duck,” she smirks, letting me know this tale is personal.

McClean, now chef de cuisine at Vancouver’s excellent Rare restaurant (formerly of Lumière, Coco Pazzo, and Feenie’s) has indeed seen it all—and survived. There was the touchy-feely boss, the sous chef who told her to stick the job when he discovered he’d be working for a female chef, and then there were managing guys determined to outdo each other in the pranks department.

No such nonsense at Rare, where McClean proudly leads a female-only brigade: sous chef Udele Delfin (Del), first cook Hulya Birol, and pastry chef Amber Rutherford. Typically they’ll be phoning each other outside work to plan field trips, like a visit to Phnom Penh on East Georgia Street to stuff themselves silly before prep.

“I didn’t set out to have an all-female team,” says McClean. “But when you’re dealing with a small kitchen, you have to have good communication skills and you need to get along—otherwise you’re just going to end up killing each other.”

She’s not kidding about the kitchen at Rare. Produce is stacked on open racks, bowls of rising bread dough and various pastries encroach into the territory marked out for wine. Ingredients are kept up high, too high for five-foot-one Delfin, who must call for help or grab a footstool.

At least here she’s in no danger of having her pants pulled down while climbing up—one of the favourite jokes in previous kitchens. “Working with a group of male cooks is a circus,” she sighs. “One sous chef thought it was funny to burn me—deliberately. It’s the only day I ever walked out of work.”

This is where McClean takes her role of mentor seriously: “I tell my girls they have to stand their ground.” She frowns. “They have to learn to set their boundaries.” Riled, she is formidable. “You have to fight clever.” The battle scars are everywhere. “Not many women would put up with this,” Delfin says, revealing multiple burns on her forearms. “On my wedding day I had to put makeup on my hands, they looked so awful.”

“Get out of my fridge!” she shouts, as Rutherford tries to sneak in a bowl of peaches. “Where should I put them, then?” asks Rutherford. “Down your pants,” Delfin counters quickly, nevertheless bending down and finding some space. “Taste that before you send it out,” McClean butts in, firmly restoring focus.

I look around the kitchen and notice something missing: there is no dishwasher, no floor-mopper, no dogsbody. In this regard, absolutely no hierarchy: if you’re free for a minute, you clean up. “What we lack here,” says McClean, “is ego. When there are men in the kitchen, it’s all about ego and greed.” She thinks for a moment, then grins: “And towel-whipping.”

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