Gays InThe Kitchen: Why ask? Everyone Yells

(Sit down. This is gonna be a long one)

When it comes to sexuality, I don't believe in labels. What I believe about sexuality is this: There is gay and straight. Like black and white. But there is A LOT of gray in between. Most people fall in the gray area, as much as they may not want to (because of the whole "label" thing).

I've known enough gay guys in the restaurant biz who used to be married, and had kids (including Malcolm Forbes)-- and yadda, yadda, yadda. On the flip side, there was my totally straight bartender friend (who was a dead ringer for Matt Dillon -- to the point that when I actually ran into Matt Dillon, I called him by my friend's name), who wanted a 3-way with me and the girl he was cheating on his girlfriend with. I did. But kept laughing because I called it a "3-D porno movie," and had to leave the bedroom to snort more cocaine while listening to Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" over and over again (It was New York City, during the mid-1980s. You had to be there). Yet, on another long night, my straight bartender friend had sex with one of the waiters we worked with (after playing poker, doing coke, and listening to Roxy Music -- it was New York City, during the mid 1980s. You had to be there). When I asked him how it was, he said: ""Eh. Not bad."

Then there was my friend in Washington, D.C., who was a TOTAL pussy hound. He told me once, in confidence, that he did a 69 with his guy best friend. When I asked how it was, he said: "Eh. not bad."

And I won't even get into my fraternity brothers from college (yes, I was in a frat. The most redneck, farm boy frat on campus). Nor will I get into the 3-way with my then girlfriend (who was engaged to some other guy) and another girl. Who both pushed me away when I tried to join in (biggest mistake a guy makes in a 3-way -- thinking that the girls are only into you).

But back to my point: I don't believe in labels. Were my straight friends gay? No. Were my gay friends straight? No. But their biggest concern, across the board, was what they thought other people thought. The labels, and stereotypes, about who they were.

Which goes directly to my point about gays in the professional kitchen.

The thing is, kitchens are one of the last bastions of hyper-masculine sexuality that exists. Like the locker rooms of team sports (child, please). Or the fire and police departments in cities across the country (child, please). Or NASCAR (well, okay, they may have a something there). Women know this, because it takes a thick skin to put up with all the bullshit played by the boys. And like straight women, gay men and women who survive in a kitchen quickly learn this too.

A professional kitchen is ABOUT the boys. We act like 12-year-olds most of the time, because we can. We rule! Sure, we question everyone's sexuality (do I need to name a sous chef's name?). And, we are used to front of house being gay. Hell, in my last restaurant, we had a waiter who performed Beyonce's "Put a Ring on It" while waiting for his order. Everyone on the line fell apart laughing, thus the order was late. And, when I worked in New York City, Monday nights were slow. So all the gay waiters started doing the "Monday Night Sissy Snap Circle" by the kitchen door before we closed. Suddenly, people started showing up, just to watch it.

So gay is not news to us in the kitchen. Sometimes, we wished a person would sleep with the same sex just to get the 2-by-4 board out of his/her ass (especially in the pastry department, do I need to name her name). But if you are gay, and can hang with us --my experience is that we don't care. If you are gay and skittish about working under the pressure of being in a high-end kitchen, don't used the fact that you are gay as the reason you failed. No. You failed because a kitchen is tough, and you were too skittish to hang. That's it. Pure and simple. Yeah, I said it.

In other words, a kitchen is where a gay person doesn't have to be gay. Don't get me wrong, they don't have to be who they are not, they just have to play no differently than of the boys.

The gays I worked with in the kitchen were tough. There was the one guy, pastry. Real young and a twink (look it up on Google if you don't know what that means). I walked up to him after he was hired and said I didn't want to be politically incorrect around him. His response was: "Bring it on, bitch!" After that, we were friends. He pranced around the kitchen when he met a new boyfriend, he was rumored to have slept with a guy on the line and said "well, at least he's cute," and he took me to the old man gay bar to hang. I even flirted with the old man gay bartender to get some free drinks, which he gave -- to him.

Then there was another guy at a restaurant where the famous head chef/owner was out and about being gay. I didn't expect gay jokes, until I worked there -- and the gay jokes flew. But the gay guy shot back with straight jokes just as fast (He told one guy that at least he knew what good dick was, unlike his girlfriend -- damn funny!).

There was also the guy in the chef's coat who I saw on the "L" in Chicago (that's "train" to New Yorkers, and "Metro" to people in D.C., and subway to everyone else). Who talked about his boyfriend buying a Black & Decker power drill for his birthday. And he said: "Black & Decker? I may be gay, but I know my power tools! Why didn't you get a DeWalt?"

For those in a kitchen, it's not about being gay. It's about being one of the boys. Because, at the end of the day, being in a kitchen is...already kinda gay.

Let's face it --

Working in a kitchen you take more abuse than a submissive cub at a bear BDSM leather bar on Christopher Street in the West Village (again, check Google if you don't know what I am talking about). The yelling, the screaming, the orders -- you endure being stepped on every day to make your main chef happy. Like the chef I nicknamed "Gordon Ramsey Junior" for his ability to scream at everyone. Yet when he used me to diss another line cook, I played along like a high school girl finally being noticed by the cool chicks. How gay is that?

In a kitchen, we worship our head chef. I can't tell you how many times my head chef walked by, and I was "please just say something." Me -- mister tough guy -- and I was a total pussy around him (one sous chef called me a complete "Nancy," she was right). Once I made a chicken dish for him, and he put his thumb up. And I was the happiest man alive. Don't get me started on my sushi chef, who I hung on his every word after he ate my food ("needs more salt' was his biggest complaint). How gay is that?

Then there was the chef I worked for who was practically the same size and height as me. Most people in the restaurant treated us like we were a couple because we were inseparable at work. A lot of times, the servers mixed our names up, even though we looked nothing alike (I was black, and he was white. I was older, and he was younger). Yet most thought we were together, even though he had a girlfriend (who became his wife). It didn't matter, we were joined at the hip. How gay is that?

Guys on the line let loose the expected idea being guys without knowing it. One of my sous chefs called me his "big black stud" while he rubbed my back (my response was always: "you know I can sue this place, right?"). And it wasn't just me. This other cook referred to the time spent with the head chef for training as his "chef and me" time. How gay is that?

My favorite country-boy came around my table singing "Hey Jude" by The Beatles after we started working the line together. I joined in singing lyrics on beat. Next thing you know, we both hit the song's crescendo, top of our lungs, across a steel table from each other. I did John Lennon. It didn't matter that he was fucking a server I wanted to fuck. We were singing a duet to each other over chopped carrots for no reason. How gay is that?

So, at the end, it's not about being gay. It's about being one of the guys (and girls). Because that's what make a great kitchen -- when we can grab each others dicks at the end of the shift, and say "we kicked ass tonight." and no one cares what anyone thinks. You just did the job.

I got three words for that: Fab-ol-ous!

And I'm though.