Down at the very bottom of the food chain, Sarah Habershon is wedged between the grease trap and the sterilizer.

She's up to her knees in garbage and grime with astringent residues coating her fingers and the general appearance of an escapee from a zombie wet t-shirt contest the dish pig scrubs, sorts, sprays and stacks to the hypnotic mantra of the waitress' constant demands for more steak knives and the head chef's wails of discontent.
Thankless, demanding and almost invariably underpaid, the dishie's task is to spread a one-person support net beneath the goings on of the entire kitchen operation. The best dishies are multifunctional, capable not only of completing almost every kitchen task but also of identifying what these tasks are and when they must be done. An alert dishie will be running tables, waiting and plating between loads of the sterilizer whilst keeping an eye on the levels of every salt and pepper shaker in the place. Installing a bad dishie in a fast kitchen (a tragic yet common phenomenon) is the surest way to drive chefs into fits of fanatical fury and wait staff up the wall. Just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, the speed and efficiency of any kitchen is dictated by the speed and efficiency of its dishie.

The dishie is the grease in the kitchen cogs, the gorilla filler in a leaky compression chamber, the unsung hero behind the scenes. The dishie carries the slack, the dishie takes the rap. Never confined to just one task, a wise dishie is never standing still long enough to open his or her mouth to utter the sacrilegious phrase; “That’s not my job!”. A true dishie knows his place, but also his worth.

John Greet, owner of Tea Culture and Verona on Auckland’s infamous K’Road, has seen many a would-be dishie balk at accepting his lot as the minnow to the head chef’s shark. “You either walk in and walk straight out,” says Greet, “or see the time-honoured hierarchy for what it is.”

That hierarchy sees dishies mop, fetch, carry and duck flying saucepans, silently riding waves of abuse from above every time a glass explodes in the sterilizer and the dish cycle is momentarily paused for safety’s sake. The injuries sustained by a hardworking dishie can be stomach turning. In the furious kitchens of Cuba Street’s Midnight Espresso, it is an unwritten law that a dishie has the right to fling at the guilty culprit any sharp knives covertly deposited in the sink to lurk dangerously beneath the soapy suds.

Reports emerged some years back from a certain Ponsonby haunt of a dishie whose fingers were broken by the punishing whip of a wet tea towel wielded by a sous chef impatient for his chicken board. Scalds, slips and the inevitable crushing baptism of fingers in the sterilizer are the tip of the iceberg; scorching hot pans dripping with sizzling fat are no excuse for a slackening of the pace.

Everything goes through the dishwasher, and the dish pig doesn’t miss much. The best way for anybody new to the industry to get their head around the complex rigging of ropes that must be learned in the kitchen is to spend a few shifts at the sink. For those with the tenacity and endurance there is a fast track to the next level through the back door of the industry. One of Verona’s current chefs started as a dishie and proved her worth so thoroughly that three years later she’s the one flinging the pans at the hapless individual at the sink.

The best managers know that a shift or two in the dish pig’s apron will provide them with a valuable diagnostic insight into the dynamics of the kitchen, and those who aren’t too proud to do so win the affection and loyalty of their employees. For some, a shift in the bitch’s corner provides some therapeutic isolation as the meditative rhythm of the kitchen’s heartbeat allows them to lose themselves in the dishes. For front of house staff who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty it’s an educational experience, a wakeup call for the waitress who has never deigned to empty the plates before depositing them on the sideboard.

Restaurateurs, adore your dishies. For you, they sacrifice their fingerprints, their knuckles and their souls. Reward and revere them, they are amongst your finest assets.

At the end of the shift, the dishie disengages his station and straightens his spine with an almost audible creaking. His ankles are aching, his back aflame from bending down into the bottom of the sink and his fingers are puffed up, wrinkly purple prunes slick with grease and shredded on the tips from hauling shards of glass out of the plug hole. He staggers out the back door and flops onto a fruit crate, fumbling in his pockets for the pouch of Riverstone that his fingers are too mutilated to roll. Leaning against the doorframe and slurping on a staffie, the dishie contemplates his night’s achievements with a complicated compound of pride and elation sautéed in exhaustion with a garnish of relief. A sucker for punishment? Perhaps. There’s a lot more to it.

By Sarah Habershon – a new young writer for grill who has experienced hospo from the hell of a crazy kitchen inferno to the studied precision of silver service waiting.