Knives, Fire, and Growth – My Time at the Balboa

The life of a cook is far from glamorous—despite what the movies might have you believe. It’s hot, crowded, and loud. There’s fire, grease, sharp knives, and rarely a window in sight. Some days you’re banished to the basement, prepping for hours under fluorescent lights while upstairs, the dining room fills with laughter, clinking glasses, and guests indulging in the fruits of your labor. If you want to make it in a kitchen, you have to submit yourself to the grind: long hours, low pay, no breaks, and even less respect. And as you rise up the ranks, the work only gets harder. The responsibility grows, but the paycheck usually doesn’t.

Years ago, after a stint in catering and some time away from restaurants, I found myself broke and craving the chaos of the line again. I saw a Craigslist post for a Line Cook at the Balboa Café in Mill Valley—a local favorite known for its mix of old-money politicos, frat kids, families, and colorful regulars. The food was solid, the drinks were strong, and the place had charm. I figured, why not?

I set up an interview for 10 a.m. and walked in with quiet confidence. I'd worked in kitchens before; I knew how this usually went. But when the hostess went to fetch the chef, I watched the kitchen doors swing open—and out walked Howard Ko. My stomach dropped. I knew that name. Anyone paying attention to the Bay Area dining scene did. Goose & Gander. The Restaurant at Meadowood. I suddenly realized this was going to be more than just another line cook gig.

To my relief, the interview went well. He told me to come back the next day for a stage—a trial shift that acts as a hands-on interview. The word comes from the French stagiaire, meaning apprentice or intern. In professional kitchens, your performance during a stage determines everything.

I showed up early, ready to work. Over time, I got faster, more efficient, but I was still constantly under pressure. Chef Howard rode me hard. One Friday night, after a brutal 12-hour shift I thought I’d handled well, he pulled me aside. I expected a nod of approval. Instead, he said flatly, "Your performance tonight was unacceptable. Step it up, or you won’t have a job here much longer." I was stunned—and embarrassed at how much it stung.

Months passed. I was sharper, more confident—but the scrutiny never let up. "Keep your towels folded. Wipe down your station after every order. Clean your knives. Stack that salad higher. Medium rare means 30 seconds less on that steak!" It felt endless. One night after service, I lost it. I was in his face, shouting, done with feeling singled out. He looked at me, calm as ever, and said, "Let’s go to the bar."

We sat down at the empty counter while the front-of-house staff folded napkins and pretended not to hear the earlier blow-up. He waved Andrew down for two shots of Jameson. No words. We clinked glasses and threw them back. After the second round, he finally looked at me and said:

"Do you want to know why I’m always on your ass and not the others?"

I shot back, "Because you’re a huge asshole?"

He laughed and waved off the insult.

"It’s because you could be great one day. But only if you learn to do things right—every detail, every time. That’s what my chefs demanded of me. The other guys? They’re a bunch of clowns. They’re not going anywhere."

That moment hit me hard. I realized I’d misread everything. What I saw as criticism was actually mentorship. Tough love, sure—but love all the same. He wasn’t just breaking me down. He was trying to build me into something better.

After that blow-up, my relationship with Chef Howard shifted. The resentment I carried turned into respect—and eventually, real appreciation. He pushed; I listened. We worked together to refine my technique, sharpen my instincts, and hone my craft.

It wasn’t easy. But nothing worth doing ever is.