Hub - Sous Chef Nightmare

"Sous Chef Nightmare: The Legend of Consuelo, Culinary Disaster Extraordinaire".

Ah, the joys of running a VIP venue for the world's most important people—where everything must be perfect, where timing is key, and where the food must not just taste good, but should sing, dance, and perform an opera on your tongue. Naturally, when I needed a sous chef for such an event, I didn’t just want someone competent. No, I wanted someone who could practically *levitate* over the stove while creating Michelin-star masterpieces. Enter **Consuelo**—the woman who, in theory, was about to make my life a breeze. Spoiler alert: *theory* is where all the good stuff stayed.

### The Phone Call: A Symphony of Lies

It all started with the phone interview. You know those moments when you think, "This is too good to be true"? Yeah, that was Consuelo. On the phone, she was the culinary equivalent of Beyoncé: multitasking goddess, menu designer, restaurant owner, administrative wizard, and, most importantly, someone who could “run the whole show.” A miracle, right? Sent from the gods of gastronomy to bless my kitchen.

She talked like she’d designed menus for royalty. She assured me she knew her way around any kitchen blindfolded and could whip up a soufflé with one hand tied behind her back. She spoke fluent "kitchen"—terms like *mise en place* and *reduction* flowed from her lips like poetry. I’m thinking, *Wow, this is it. She’s the answer*. Boy, was I wrong.

### When Consuelo Arrived: The Plot Twist

Consuelo showed up at the venue, and from that very moment, my confidence crumbled faster than a stale croissant. I handed her the menu, smiled, and asked her to start setting up for service. You know, nothing crazy—just the *basics*. Well, turns out, Consuelo’s version of *basic* was to stand there like a deer in the headlights, staring at the kitchen like it had suddenly transformed into a NASA control room.

When I say she was running in circles, I mean that quite literally. The woman was sprinting from station to station, flailing her arms around like she was reenacting some sort of interpretive dance routine. “*Mise en place*?” I asked her, trying to keep calm. She blinked at me like I had just spoken to her in Klingon.

“Mise what?” she asked, holding a paring knife upside down and gripping a tomato like it was about to explode.

### Chaos in the Kitchen: Cirque du Consuelo

For those unfamiliar, **mise en place** is a simple concept. It means "everything in its place." It’s basically Kitchen 101: chop your onions, measure your ingredients, have everything ready so when service starts, you're not running around like a lunatic. But for Consuelo, it might as well have been nuclear physics.

The only thing she placed in that kitchen was pure, unfiltered **chaos**. I swear, at one point, I saw her try to *boil* butter. Butter! There she was, stirring it like she was about to make soup. Then, when I asked her to make tea, I half-joked that she’d probably burn the water.

Turns out, I wasn’t kidding. I didn’t even know it was possible to scorch water, but Consuelo found a way.

### The Grand Finale: I’ll Just Do It Myself

It became clear, about 10 minutes into this culinary disaster, that I had two options: fire Consuelo on the spot and attempt to save the kitchen myself, or let her continue and watch the world burn. Being the responsible, well-adjusted person I am, I chose the former. So, while Consuelo continued her one-woman kitchen circus, I swooped in to save the day, chopping vegetables, sautéing, and assembling dishes faster than I ever thought possible.

I was a one-man kitchen army while Consuelo looked on, occasionally stirring something that didn’t need stirring and asking every five minutes if the oven was on. I even saw her try to fry something in a pot of cold oil at one point. *Cold. Oil.*

Six hours later, service was done. Plates were served. The VIPs were fed (thank God), and I was ready to collapse. But it wasn’t over. Oh no. You see, Consuelo—our culinary genius—came over with a smile and casually asked for her pay.

Four. Hundred. Dollars. For what was essentially a six-hour audition for the role of "most chaotic sous chef on the planet."

### Moral of the Story: Seeing Is Believing

So, what’s the moral of this story, dear readers? Don’t believe anything anyone says on the phone. I don’t care if they tell you they’ve cooked for the Queen of England or personally taught Gordon Ramsay how to swear. Until you see them in action—*in person*—assume they don’t know a paring knife from a hammer. Because while Consuelo talked a good game, when push came to shove, she was about as useful in the kitchen as a waterproof teabag.

Next time, I’ll be hiring based on one simple criteria: can they boil water without setting off the smoke alarms? And if they start running in circles, I’ll just ask them to dance... and call for backup.