“The Past Cannot Be Changed. The Future Is Yet In Your Power.”
— Unknown
Present day events have forced me into my past. Current stories of prejudice and harassment echo my experiences. I feel the rumble of change and I am glad.
In January 1983, I packed my car and drove west, to Los Angeles. A few months earlier I had graduated from cooking school and, at 26 years of age, was fortunate to find an apprenticeship working in one of L.A.’s trendy restaurants.
Although my family had spent summers in California, I, as a Salt Lake City girl, had no idea what it would be like to live in a big city. Nor did I understand what it meant to work in a male-dominated career. It was rare in those days to find a woman cooking in a restaurant kitchen. Top chefs were men, whether in hotels or fine dining. Women were hostesses, and in upscale restaurants were rarely even servers. A woman’s place was in coat check.
As one of the “in” spots, the restaurant’s parking lot was filled with late model Rolls Royce, Bentley and Mercedes Benz automobiles. The restaurant décor was eccentric, not like the formal atmosphere of most upscale restaurants. Movie stars, producers, and directors were regulars for lunch and dinner. The restaurant’s telephone number was chicly unlisted.
On my first day at work, I arrived and was given a short tour and then escorted to the pastry kitchen. I had little experience with pastry but it was the only cooking position that was open. I was introduced to the pastry chef. He nodded and mumbled, “I hate working with women.”
We wasted no time and went to work. He shared recipes and technique creating beautiful cakes, tarts, cookies and homemade ice cream. Time flew in the midst of delicious smells, colors and textures. It was close to noon when and a famous director carrying a small dog walked through the kitchen, greeting the staff. I was star struck as other celebrities did the same before sitting in the dining room.
Close to noon the dining room host appeared, saying he had heard about “the new girl” in the kitchen. He gave me “the once over” and blurted, “Nice tits!” Then he slapped my bottom cupping his hand around the curve at the top of my thigh. I was stunned.
“That is why I hate working with women,” the pastry chef said again, rolling his eyes. “The men in the kitchen can’t control themselves.”
Not a day went by without the dining room host touching me inappropriately. He would sneak up behind me and grope my breasts or grab my crotch. Although he was the worst offender he was not alone. One afternoon a chef stood so close to me I could feel his breath. He licked my cheek, with the excuse: “You had chocolate on your face.” A few days later the same chef kissed me hard, forcing his tongue down my throat.
I was not the only powerless person in the kitchen. The restaurant had hired several Mexican immigrants. They were paid a pittance and worked long hours. They endured, as I did, insults and abuse from the white male staff. Donald Trump’s harsh words about Mexicans, “they are not our friends, they are criminals and rapists,” did not describe these men. Despite their own vulnerability they often stood up to protect me. We found common ground in our mutual mistreatment.
Now victims are insisting, “No More!” I join the chorus to speak out against not only sexual harassment but also the xenophobia that makes us smaller than our aspirations.
Anne Freed Goldberg
Anne Freed Goldberg, Salt Lake City, is a licensed clinical social worker in private practice.