Day off today, and the various aches and pains expanding across my body after a full weekends service germanely aske me why it is I do what I do. There are, as I know, easier ways to make a living than daily subjecting oneself to what Anthony Bourdain correctly describes as the "full mind / body press" of life in a professional kitchen.
Yes, I'm back doing that again, did I not mention? Oh, I did. It's hard to keep track.
There's a scald mark on the inside of my left forearm where a pheasant breast hit a glowing pan containing just a little too much wine a little bit too hard, forty on the board and I was in a rush; a deep mark across my left thumbnail where I looked up when someone said something whilst I was chiffonading parsley; the blister on my right index finger where I grabbed a glowing pan from under a grill with a towel a little too threadbare a fortnight ago has just healed. All told, I'm doing quite well.
it's hectic in a kitchen, sweat, steam, knives, fire. All rather boys-owny macho which is, I suppose partially why I enjoy it so much. It is a little childish, I confess, and it's hard work. Line cooking is a very different skill from normal cooking, it's all about the fast and precise assembly ingredients, every dish of king prawns with pancetta which leaves the pass has to look the same as every other one.
Or else someone might, god forbid, find that a piece of SHELL has escaped the harrassed chefs attention and is still attached to his prawn, at which point there are two courses of action he could take. He could remove the piece of shell and leave it on the side of his plate and not mention it. Prawns are, after all a shelled creature, it's not like finding a centipede in your lettuce, it isn't still alive and it isn't in any way going to cause you any harm. Or, and this is the left-field alternative he could complain vociferously and loudly, going on about how this piece of shell has ruined his evening somehow and demand all his drinks comped by the house.
Which would you do reader, bearing in mind that a crew of exhausted chefs who've just done ninety covers in an hour and are in dire need of strong liquor, nerves frazzled by heat and clutching very large knives are a mere few yards away?
No of course I wouldn't have stabbed him, but it was a close run thing, for a second.
Yes, I'm back doing that again, did I not mention? Oh, I did. It's hard to keep track.
There's a scald mark on the inside of my left forearm where a pheasant breast hit a glowing pan containing just a little too much wine a little bit too hard, forty on the board and I was in a rush; a deep mark across my left thumbnail where I looked up when someone said something whilst I was chiffonading parsley; the blister on my right index finger where I grabbed a glowing pan from under a grill with a towel a little too threadbare a fortnight ago has just healed. All told, I'm doing quite well.
it's hectic in a kitchen, sweat, steam, knives, fire. All rather boys-owny macho which is, I suppose partially why I enjoy it so much. It is a little childish, I confess, and it's hard work. Line cooking is a very different skill from normal cooking, it's all about the fast and precise assembly ingredients, every dish of king prawns with pancetta which leaves the pass has to look the same as every other one.
Or else someone might, god forbid, find that a piece of SHELL has escaped the harrassed chefs attention and is still attached to his prawn, at which point there are two courses of action he could take. He could remove the piece of shell and leave it on the side of his plate and not mention it. Prawns are, after all a shelled creature, it's not like finding a centipede in your lettuce, it isn't still alive and it isn't in any way going to cause you any harm. Or, and this is the left-field alternative he could complain vociferously and loudly, going on about how this piece of shell has ruined his evening somehow and demand all his drinks comped by the house.
Which would you do reader, bearing in mind that a crew of exhausted chefs who've just done ninety covers in an hour and are in dire need of strong liquor, nerves frazzled by heat and clutching very large knives are a mere few yards away?
No of course I wouldn't have stabbed him, but it was a close run thing, for a second.
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