Waiting for the first pitch

As a former baseball player, I see ways in which just about everything in life can be related to the game of baseball, working in the kitchen is no different.

As some general ground rules, think of the kitchen as the batter and the customers as the pitcher. The chefs know the pitchers repertoire (the menu) but they don't know what is coming until it is on its way to the plate. They also don't know what new things a pitcher has that can throw them off, think Mariano Rivera adding a two-seam fastball to his devastating cutter, like someone who wants the carbonara but is allergic to cheese. Worse, outside elements can have a huge effect. Say you're facing a knuckleballer on a windy day, it's like the daily deliver of clams and mussels not coming in, you're just fishing.

The kitchen gets busy at 10, three hours before business opens for lunch, just like we had to be at the field in college. The chefs get their stations organized, making sure all the pilots lights are working, setting potatoes to boil for an hour, getting the vegetable broth going, sorting through basil leaves, chopping tomatoes and eggplants etc. I view this as stretching and tossing the ball around to loosen up the arm, relatively mindless repetitive acts, but essential nonetheless. What would the kitchen be without tomatoes? What good is a shortstop with a stiff shoulder.

After stretching and tossing comes batting practice. This is where the chefs get their muscles going a little more, but still know what is coming and are in a relatively controlled environment. Letting the tomatoes sauce cook for a few hours, making this week's crema di scampi, putting the sugary crust on top of the creme caramel, baking the daily bread. Every now and then there's something a little different, today we put together a white ragu with anchovies, like the pitching coach having to throw BP because the head coach is running late coming from his daughter's volleyball game, a slight change but easily handled.

After BP the infield is dragged and everyone relaxes for a minute, downing another gatorade, because it's a hot day in May in the Carolinas, at 11:30 we pause for lunch, enjoying a glass of wine, because this is Italy.

Everyone returns to the kitchen and the wait is on, teams to their respective dugouts while the home team pitcher gets it going in the bull pen. Restless middle-infielders play a game of pepper in short right field, Antonio and I chop up the remaining eggplant, the center fielder takes some extra hacks in the cage trying to keep that elbow up, Giovanni prepares eggplant rolls, looking ahead to the group of 25 that is coming this evening.

Finally the starting pitcher jogs out from the pen, the first customer of the day takes a seat. A group of six orders amatriciana al mare, a restaurant staple, but there the fish guy is still late, a pitcher seen many times before with a big loopy curve ball has developed a harder one with a later break, adjustments need to make on both sides. The next day starter up in the booth with the radar gun runs down to the dugout and passes the info along to the coach, Antonio yells at the waiter for forgetting the shellfish delivery hasn't come in yet and then digs around the fridge and finds the last half bag of clams still good from the day before.

And from there both teams settle into a rhythm. The chefs have gotten it across to the waiters that there's no swordfish so they stop telling people we have that instead of tuna, the second time through the order the players have seen that harder curve and make an adjustment to it.

There remains one gaping difference between the hitter and the chef, if a hitter is successful just 1 out of 3 times he is an all-star, a restaurant that leaves 1 out of 3 customers satisfied doesn't stay open very long. A chef needs to hit about .950 with a slugging percentage in the ball park of 3.600, those are beyond Ruthian numbers.