[dropcap size=big]A[/dropcap]fter driving 100 miles through the Grapevine from Los Angeles to Bakersfield to feast on the James Beard Award–winning Noriega Hotel’s famous oregano-scented pickled beef tongue, I met a venerable dishwasher named Arturo Soto. He was an immigrant from Tuxpan, Michoacán, a rural village in a state in Mexico known for being the world capital of avocados and for cartel violence.
Eating at the family-style tables inside the restaurant’s 127-year-old dining hall was like stepping back in time. There were plates piled with cold, floppy spaghetti drowning in tomato sauce and others heaped with roast lamb. As you can imagine, the masses of dirty dishes left after each dinner service were nearly as legendary as the restaurant itself.
My wife and I watched as Soto gracefully scooped up a heavy platter, littered with gnawed-on bones, with one hand. With his other, he balanced four greasy wine glasses. There were no sharp sounds as he gently stacked each utensil and cup. We greeted him and thanked him in Spanish. He smiled and responded, “It’s nothing!” We asked how long he had been working at the restaurant.
“Thirty-seven years of washing dishes, happily,” he replied.
Often, in interviews, chefs talk about starting out washing dishes to establish how diligently they rose up the ranks. This narrative reinforces the notion that dishwasher is a stepping stone, not inherently worthy. But there are dishwasher lifers out there, indispensable to running a restaurant. Soto was proudly one of them. At the Noriega Hotel, he’d found a place that valued his loyalty. Many other dishwashers, of course, cannot say the same. They are among the most vulnerable workers: mistreated, subject to exploitation and illegally low wages. That’s another thing those superstar chef narratives ignore.