Female lobsters have smaller claws than males. Their roe is emerald green, but once cooked, it turns into a bright orange that matches its shell. It takes lobsters about five to seven years to gain their first pound; their claws and tails have the most meat. Not all are killed by submerging them in boiling water.
All these fun facts seemed random until I landed the helper position at The Palm Steakhouse Tribeca in New York City. I yearned to combine my recently acquired associate’s degree in fine arts with the culinary world and build a career out of my love for food and aesthetics.
The Palm seemed like the perfect pathway into the new world the Food Network had introduced me to through shows like Iron Chef and Chopped, which I never missed. I knew nothing about The Palm, but was thrilled to wear the white chef’s jacket.
I bought my first pair of Crocs, learned how to make a belt out of plastic wrap to hold up my pants, and happily hid under the burgundy colored cap I was given with the Palm logo. This new job behind closed doors and my new uniform helped me blend in and not call attention to myself.
My first day of work was also the first time I saw a live lobster up close. They were separated by weight into plastic see-through bins labeled with blue painter's tape. As the chef and I walked into the deep walk-in refrigerator, he casually mentioned how my duties included cooking them to order, changing the bins, and counting them at night's end.
“Be careful; sometimes the elastic that holds their claws closed snaps, and if they catch a finger, they might break it,” he said, using the same tone as when he showed me where the labeling tape was.
Dear Lord! What did I get myself into?
After the walk-in, we went to my assigned workstation, and the training began. “This is how you cook a lobster; it is effortless,” he said. “You’ll need to twist their arms until they come off, take the elastic out, turn them around, and then…”
“You twist their arms while they are still alive?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I felt pressure; I could see and feel all eyes in the kitchen on me, the only woman in the room. I didn’t belong.
After twisting their arms off, I had to turn them around and ensure their bodies lay flat on my white plastic cutting board. I was handed a knife, the biggest I had ever seen. I was reminded of the machetes farmers had growing up in Colombia hanging in colorful leather sheaths from their belts like ornaments.
I was instructed to cut the body down the middle, following the chest line, right where the arms meet. “Move quickly; this way, you won’t break the meat; we want a clean cut,” he said.
After cutting each lobster, I had to place it flat, open it up, and press the body. It required me to get on my tiptoes and push down on the body to ensure it would hold the shape during cooking, rub it with milk, and put it into the broiler to get some color before placing it into the steamer.
“Can you do it?” the chef asked.
“Sure!” I answered nervously.
(Can I do this?)
I took a deep breath. It felt like I had something to prove. I needed to earn my spot in a male-dominated world, and killing that lobster would get me just that.
I twisted the arms as instructed. They came off surprisingly easy, and with them, a squirt of lobster blood landed on my face. Colorless, cold, and gooey. I wiped it off with the white rag hanging from my apron.
The next step was to cut it open. I picked up the knife. It was heavier than it looked. I cut it in half. It was easier than I anticipated; I felt a rush of adrenaline, almost immediately felt guilty, and wondered if I was becoming insensitive.
I pressed the dead lobster’s body against the board. I followed the instructions and placed it under the fire on the broiler. It made a crackling noise. I thought it was screaming because it was still alive.
I panicked and looked up; my eyes found the chef’s gaze, assuring me I had done it right. When I looked around, my coworkers were back to their duties. The spectacle was over. I was one of them.