I was going to be a rock-star.
Instead I became a chef.
How did this happen?
It was easy. I started washing dishes at the local pub restaurant so I could save money to get some time in the recording studio. It wasn’t long before my lazy, uncooperative and perpetually stoned band-mates were superseded by the foul-mouthed, psychopathic and perpetually entertaining cast of characters that dwelled inside that kitchen.
It was a world that was a strange and tasty mash of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys and Hook’s Pirate Crew. There was so much sex, drugs, alcohol, profanity and mayhem oozing from every corner it was a wonder that any food was cooked at all.
I was home.
A friend told me that there was a job going so I rang the number. I was transferred from the bar to the kitchen after being told to ask for ‘Matt’.
“Kitchen, Natalie speaking.”
“Good afternoon, I was wondering if I could speak to Chef Matt.”
“About?”
“About a possible trial for the kitchen hand position.”
“MATT! PHONE! DISHPIG!”
Muffled silence.
“Yo! Matt speaking.”
“Good afternoon, my name is ******* ****, I was ringing about the kitchen hand position…”
“Right. It’s simple. You come in. You work your arse off. It’s shit and it’s nasty but you get to go home and not think about it after. Best job in the world.
“Ok, Woul…”
“Just don’t WASTE MY FUCKING TIME! Seriously. If you don’t want to work nights, fuck off. If you don’t want to work weekends, fuck off. If you’re going to whine that it’s hot and smelly and damp and you never see your girlfriend/mates/mum/fucking dog/cat gay lover/priest or Jesus or fucking WHATEVER, then fuck off. How’s that sound?
“Sounds good to me Chef. When can I come in for a trial?”
“Fuck. I need you tonight. How soon can you get here?”
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