John Price
Bet
- Sep 19, 2008
- 373,975
- 24,893
I'm working in a Michelin kitchen right now, toiling away, hours after hours, days after days. My hopes and dreams are nowhere to be found as I scale and portion salmon after salmon, shelling pods after pods of broad beans.
My body is calling for maintenance nightly when I hit the sack. I need to eat more, put in a little more weight training, need a little massage to sort out the neck and the lower back. My home life, it's a f***ing disaster, like all cooks. The closing thing I have to a father is the menacing figure prancing around at the pass, barking commands and bollockings when needed. He won't have the time to listen to my shit, because all the other cooks around me are in the same shit. Some have come from council houses, some are recovering addicts, one has been in jail. There's only one guy who has a still happily-married parents, and he's the Cordon Bleu-graduating white boy who helps on the larder section.
Sometimes I look out the tiny window and I can see people walking around the streets, enjoying the sunlight, while I'm here, questioning my dedication to this art as I rotate stock in the cool room, getting frost bitten, but the fear of the chef stops me from stepping outside to warm up. When a waitress walks in to clear plates, I sometimes would look up just in time to see a beautiful room full of happily-fed and merrily drunk people. They actually look happy, like, what the f***? How can anyone be as happy as our diners are? I have a f***ing deadbeat father living on the other side of the planet, calling me up for money once every six months. Friends, women, any kind of company, I can only dream about. The closest thing to feeling any kind of joy I get is those rare moments when I walk through the dining room near the end of service to get some coffee for everyone, and there will be a few diners, left, idly sampling those little petite fours that we've painstakingly ensured are all perfectly round, identical and just plain delicious. Then, one of them will stop the conversation they're having with their company, look up from their food and say, 'thank you chef. this is delicious', and making the previous 14-hours of sweat and tears kind of worthwhile.
My question is, how did you deal with it? How the f*** did you deal with all the bullshit, Gordon? Because 'thank you chef' is nice and all. Very nice in fact, that sometimes I have to hold back the tears and let them lose in the cobweb-filled staff toilet like a f***ing degenerate, crying over a compliment because it was the closing thing to being happy in months.'Thank you chef' doesn't end my mother's misery and help her deal with my little sister's whoring ways. 'Thank you chef' doesn't make my dad grow some balls and start taking charge of his life. 'Thank you chef' didn't help your brother stop being a junky and lifted your family from poverty. It doesn't f***ing help any of us in the grand scheme of things, for heaven's sake, so you tell me, Gordon. Whatever you tell me, I'll listen.
My body is calling for maintenance nightly when I hit the sack. I need to eat more, put in a little more weight training, need a little massage to sort out the neck and the lower back. My home life, it's a f***ing disaster, like all cooks. The closing thing I have to a father is the menacing figure prancing around at the pass, barking commands and bollockings when needed. He won't have the time to listen to my shit, because all the other cooks around me are in the same shit. Some have come from council houses, some are recovering addicts, one has been in jail. There's only one guy who has a still happily-married parents, and he's the Cordon Bleu-graduating white boy who helps on the larder section.
Sometimes I look out the tiny window and I can see people walking around the streets, enjoying the sunlight, while I'm here, questioning my dedication to this art as I rotate stock in the cool room, getting frost bitten, but the fear of the chef stops me from stepping outside to warm up. When a waitress walks in to clear plates, I sometimes would look up just in time to see a beautiful room full of happily-fed and merrily drunk people. They actually look happy, like, what the f***? How can anyone be as happy as our diners are? I have a f***ing deadbeat father living on the other side of the planet, calling me up for money once every six months. Friends, women, any kind of company, I can only dream about. The closest thing to feeling any kind of joy I get is those rare moments when I walk through the dining room near the end of service to get some coffee for everyone, and there will be a few diners, left, idly sampling those little petite fours that we've painstakingly ensured are all perfectly round, identical and just plain delicious. Then, one of them will stop the conversation they're having with their company, look up from their food and say, 'thank you chef. this is delicious', and making the previous 14-hours of sweat and tears kind of worthwhile.
My question is, how did you deal with it? How the f*** did you deal with all the bullshit, Gordon? Because 'thank you chef' is nice and all. Very nice in fact, that sometimes I have to hold back the tears and let them lose in the cobweb-filled staff toilet like a f***ing degenerate, crying over a compliment because it was the closing thing to being happy in months.'Thank you chef' doesn't end my mother's misery and help her deal with my little sister's whoring ways. 'Thank you chef' doesn't make my dad grow some balls and start taking charge of his life. 'Thank you chef' didn't help your brother stop being a junky and lifted your family from poverty. It doesn't f***ing help any of us in the grand scheme of things, for heaven's sake, so you tell me, Gordon. Whatever you tell me, I'll listen.
