The Slight Touch

I always get nostalgic in the fall. I’m not really sure why, but I think it’s the end of summer and the memories of yellow leaves and a new school year. For me, this time of year is more meaningful than January 1 as a time to reflect on the past and look forward to the year ahead. In Edmonton, winter is a time for working, so if you lived here you’d probably agree with me. Here’s one that came back to me this week.

I used to work as a line cook at a couple fine-casual restaurants. I learned from the cooks around me and from many reps on the line how to convert a messy burger to something appetizing with my bare hands in a quick motion.

What’s the magic of going to a restaurant? I’ve worked as a bartender, a server, a porter, and a cook. And although there are several important things, the moment that matters most is the one where the plate lands in front of you.

So imagine, the burger has been assembled, but not fully plated — it’s loose. All the ingredients are there, but it doesn’t look right. You’re wondering what the easy fix is and I’ll tell you. The gesture is this:

I need to put a lot of muscle engagement in my fingers to make the right shape, the fingers are fully engaged and rigid. The antagonistic muscles are engaged against each other — the basic hand shape is a claw. I reach my big punching knuckles (metacarpophalangeal joints) away from the palm of my hand. At the same time I suck in the palm of my hand towards my forearm, this opens just enough space for the crown of the bun and its tenuous attachment to sesame seeds. Pointer finger and pinky at nine and three on a clock face, and the middle and ring fingers fill the gap as best they can with my thumb at six o’clock.

It helps I have big hands.

Claw over the assembled burger, if the fingers touch the plate, that’s too far. There’s the potential to leave finger streaks on the (hot) plate, and it’s the wrong height anyway for the next action. A slight encirclement contraction of the fingers will move the burger patty, tomato, lettuce, sauteed mushrooms, caramelized onions, and even the crown centerward. At this point it’s never unbearably hot, just normal-painfully hot when melted cheese sticks to my fingers. That slight touch is the whole fix — the difference between a recipe and the thing that makes a night out feel special.

This week I ran a video shoot. Slight background noises worried talent and production team it would ruin the take. But I’ve done enough production work my brain is classifying every element in real time as fixable or unfixable, because what matters in this moment is whether we have to do another take. I already knew how the video and audio would clean up in post, kinda like seeing into the future through the process of applying all the tools I know how to use.

Knowing the difference between a problem that will cause severe issues can only be fixed with a retake, and which issues get the slight gesture on its way out the door. That’s what I noticed this week.

There’s no moment where it clicks. My brain doesn’t notice a wear-in period towards mastery, just the realization I’m here and I’ve been here before. The burger, the background noises on set are different jobs, years apart, and the feeling is the same. Not excitement — closer to recognition. I’m not surprised by the problem, and I already know what to do about it.

But that sorting is the whole skill. Some problems mean you stop and start over. Some get the fix on the way past. And the important one, the one that separates experience from knowledge: this one looks scary but isn’t, so don’t let it eat your afternoon.

A problem arrives and my hands are already moving. The only proof is nobody had to panic today.