Chef Henry, I hardly knew ye
I realize now that the camp's owner, Stanley, had no business putting my 16-year-old self and peers in near proximity to these individuals. I suppose that on top of charging us room and board, making us slave away all day, and serve snot-nosed kids three meals a day for eight weeks, they were going to break down all of our teenaged defenses by making us work with the kitchen staff. I can personally attest to this fact, having had a meltdown after a carrot whizzed by my head in the sixth week. Entry into the real world begins at Camp Monroe.
There are really not enough words to explain Chef Henry. I was at my parents' yesterday and could not find the picture of him I had once taken, just for kicks. That could be because I did not want to be reminded. And maybe it's better that way. I wouldn't want to be responsible for what happens to you upon viewing of his visage. Think along the lines of The Ring.
Although his origins and background were a complete mystery to pretty much everyone, I’m thoroughly convinced that Chef Henry was a byproduct of post-World War II Germany. In addition, whisperings of “The War” (probably the Korean War) and its ensuing trauma surrounded him. So on top of losing two of his fingers, his hair, a few teeth, and seemingly his mind, he also lost all fashion sense - hence the chef’s hat perched jauntily on top of his ill-fitting toupee.
Simply put, Chef Henry was not right in the head; each day was a matter of life or death for us waitstaff. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. An older generation will tell you the hardships they suffered and how they had to walk through the snow four miles every day to get to school. I’m telling you that I worked as a Camp Monroe waitress in a time before Xanax existed.
Granted, some days you walked out of the kitchen relatively unscathed. Other days were not complete without the “Chef Henry salute”, which consisted of him waving his three-fingered hand, a butcher knife pointed at you in the other, and screaming in that crazy accent: “Get the book out!!!!”.
I lived in a certain amount of fear of Chef Henry, as we all did. At any moment he could freak out and when he did, hilarity ensued. Imagine at least six teenagers falling over each other with their trays in a domino effect, doing their damndest to get out of the kitchen as fast as possible. It got to the point that I tried to avoid eating hot food, as he was responsible for the preparation and distribution of it. Therefore, I gained 15 pounds stuffing my face with bread from the pantry and whatever cans of Chef Boyardee I could smuggle in, eating it cold out of the can.
Meet my new best friend, the can opener
The amount of bacteria and starch I introduced to my stomach was necessary, because:
A) His freak-outs unnerved me (and I was not alone).
B) That cheap toupee sitting on top of his bald pate really bothered me. I had visions of it softly shedding into our oatmeal.
C) Who really knows where those fingers ended up???
Can you really blame Cindy and I for trying to order that pizza?
The icing on the cake was (pause again) Ben-Wah and Ben-Well. Respectively from Pakistan and France, they stayed fast to their thick mustaches and short shorts, reminiscent of a era long ago.
There were whisperings around the camp about these two. The camp song began with "Friends, friends, friends..." but they were rumored to be more than friends and didn't mind ogling the male staff either. But I didn’t care. Ben-Wah - Pakistan's answer to Freddie Mercury - had my back and snuck me the odd bowl of soup throughout the summer. And those illicit bowls of soup replenished necessary nutrients denied to me, thanks to Chef Henry’s frequent flashbacks to Korea.
Yes, my time at Camp Monroe was a learning experience and I wonder from time to time whatever happened to Chef Henry. But who knows? Maybe he discovered the joys of Xanax and good hair plugs, and is now in the company of business titans like Bruce Wasserstein and Rupert Murdoch?
All I know is - Stanley Felsinger, I want my childhood back.
posted by Currin Girl at 3:50 PM
4 Comments:
The head cook at my summer camp was Mrs. Walton, a woman who although seemingly archaic and unchanged during my 10 years at camp, put out food with the quiet indignity of someone contrevening every aspect of the Canadian food guide.
Every summer she would put a new group of female recruits through their paces (my camp being painfully sexist only employed women in the positions of kitchen staff, laundry staff, and cleaners). Inevitably a couple of cute girls from the city would quit, and then the summer would end with hopeful prospects of training a new group of victims...er...kitchen staff.
We even had a camp song for dear old Mrs. Walton...and yes I remember the lyrics, but for fear of reminding my GI tract of her meatloaf, I'll refrain from serenading you.
G.
Ok, 2 months too late but I found this. I don't know who you are but I was a waiter in the mid 90's, can't remember when because it's all blurry right now... I think maybe 95? Anyways how could you NOT forget Henry... everyone knew the cooks and assistants were cooks.. it was why they were kept in those Ghetto shacks behind the mess hall .. hahaha..
I worked for Henry during a summer of servitude as one of the eurotrash kitchen assistants. I can still remember being woken every morning by his shreaking voice drifting up from the kitchen. Sleep through that and he would be in the bunk, poking you with a finger stump, very unplesant.
It was a great summer in all. I never would have remembered Henry and the Bens' names - nice post thanks.
my monroe kitchen staff: head cook named Ivan, moldavian, probably related to Ivan the Terrible,3 polish assistants and 1 French one as long as you didn't put your dirty tray on the counter he didn't hit you simple as that.
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