Chef de rouille

In describing the work that we do to someone inquiring about their car, cars in general, an ongoing project or a dream, I often compare our shop to a kitchen. It is one of my favorite analogies. I see our shop as a turn of the century european kitchen serving up delicious mechanical experiences.

In our kitchen I am the chef de cuisine literally the 'chief of the kitchen'. I am responsible for the management of my kitchen, supervising staff, creating menus and new recipes, making purchases, and maintaining a sanitary and hygienic environment for the preparation of mechanical art. Steve is my saucier, a highly respected member of our kitchen brigade. Arthur would be the cuisiner, occupying an independent position preparing specific dishes on his station. And Juliet is our front of the house manager.

In our kitchen we use only the best ingredients available. If you ordered a Mercedes-Benz of any vintage the factory is probably still making any part you need. If not there is a good alternative to be found or fabricated. Our kitchen is clean, you may not want to eat off the floor but you can actually find stuff in here. Our kitchen is run with discipline and focus. We believe that allowing ourselves the time and space to carefully dismantle and reassemble complex components, solve problems, or follow through with ideas is crucial.

The swinging door that separates our waiting room from our workshop was once the door to a restaurant kitchen. With the word 'Kitchen' painted in green and gold block letters below a small glass window the door reminds me of a line drawn in the sand between patrons and crafts people. Beyond the kitchen door artisans work their magic and chefs become famous.

As romantic as my favorite analogy is I am troubled by how it fails to describe the true nature of our business. Unlike a restaurant our menu has been written for us. It was written many years ago and much of it has been lost or is unreadable.

What if Mario Batali or Lidia Bastianich couldn't do one of their cooking shows until someone from the audience flung them a neglected pork chop with freezer burn and a couple of rotten endives out of the crisper.

Maybe we are in a truly unique situation here. We take a large and very complex mechanical organism fraught with cancer, electrical glitches, dents, scrapes, leaking, smoking, stalling, and shaking. We pour our energy into the vehicle and its owner, attempting to mend each of them.

We talk about what we do in culinary terms as we struggle in vain to build a time machine. Perhaps we are better described as therapists, trying to decode the vehicles that we work with and in turn help their families understand and accept them as the beautiful, flawed objects that they are.

I still like the chef part best.