In a small world before…
“Fucking hell, you’re having a really good day Haz, no we call him Hagrid… get us some cold drinks, give us numbers for covers tonight, and why can’t service just do their job and make sure they have sauces ready before they run food”. Blah blah blah, the constant clack and snipe of talk, criticism and debauched conversation are masked in the plain view of spices, gas stoves, and greased floors, it’s 1:30 pm mid-service. Temperatures griddle and sear, concealed and broken by the thin veneer of sweat coating rouged faces and torn dockets that lie in near sight of a disorganised warm steel counter. Who was the first person to ask why Chef’s choose to do such a stressful job? For all I know, that individual certainly never worked in a kitchen; it’s a magnificent thing. Braised and stewing on a Tuesday afternoon service, a potent musk of testosterone rises from the pot, to be served with a confit of Spring vegetables and finished with a middle finger to my face. Service, please.
Unwritten on any menu, is a set word of mouth course that every waiter has no choice but to try. Under no pretence, it has to be swallowed, right in front of the kitchen for them all to pay witness. As a starter of Leek & Cheddar tartlet served with a 63º egg and rocket is being enjoyed on table 11, to be followed by a Loch Duart pan-fried salmon risotto, it is my turn to pick up my fork and quickly tuck into my salty humble pie without guests realising. “Come on you big slut… phwoooooar look at you go” carrying encumbered wooden slabs and sunk plates onto the side, before immediately closing the door to mute the dissonance of foul mouths and stressed tone. Nothing comes a la carte, this shallow fry is a right of passage. Only then will I have a spot to sit around the fire, to be protected and sheltered under the cover of the cave, billowing its sighs of smoke.
Escaping reality, this space exists and is castaway in it’s own world; away from the tables of punters enjoying a recommended Malbec, poaching the world’s issues from their privileged position. It is it’s own island, away from the flombayed pleasantries, sweetened niceties and dressed up values of a place removed. Tousled surfaces, white jackets stained and unbuttoned laying bare a cleaved carcass on the side of the counter. It is a carnival of the animals, who can taste blood and weakness. Golding’s Piggy asked the question of whether “we’re Humans? Or animals? Or savages?”, for four hours these men are all. A momentary escape to the pleasurable hot deserted island where they can be let their id scream and dance in the worst shadow of each other's company, before returning to their families for tea when the mains are garnished, compliments have been digested and the final plates have been called away.
In a world now…
Written four months ago, and it could not feel any further away, mulling the letter of notice which signed my immediate redundancy. Completely justified, with no apology or sweetened aperitif needed as the facts were already on the bill, this is a tale of the times which could not feel any less flat and bland. What will be missed is that concentrated pocket of space, a focal for a highly concentrated level of energy and interaction that was incomparable to the stillness of the village that surrounded it. A walled cauldron of creativity paired with a primal camaraderie, that induced an acute thermal red cluster above the five heads and griddles working on at all times, around a contoured sea of washed blue and green. Though knowing before I started waiting here, this job wasn’t to be forever, it still made it ever apparent that we need others to react and bounce off. A common goal driven to perfect a service gelled a kitchen cohort to making them one of the best (although maybe TripAdvisor reviews describing ‘the tall man with disturbing smile’ made my waiting skills one of the worst). I am sure in the immediate future, people will struggle without the cohesive recipe of these workplace environments, as new forms of communication will evolve beyond the comfort of the cave, perhaps for the better. All said, when the kitchens do open be sure to give your compliments to the chef, it’s only polite.