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There's a Gangster in the Kitchen
The culinary adventures
of Jeff the Chef |
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gourmet
articles stories
from the kitchen |
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The adventures of Jeff the chef - Fictitious kitchen stories
based on plausible events...
April 2002
My name's Jeff, Jeff the Chef and this is my story…
 I
felt the color drain from my face. The sous chef wanted to talk
to me, and of all places he wanted to talk to me in the walk-in
refrigerator to "look at something"; I knew that I was in trouble…
This story is set in London, the year 1984 - big hair and small
food, the Nouvelle Cuisine era. I was the new kid in the kitchen.
I was just like the rookie kids that I work with now - full
of energy, eager, desperate to learn, oh, and green. The story
that I am about to tell is of my learning experience - albeit
a painful one.
Hunnter Gunnter headed the kitchen, he was an imposing figure
with a title to match, executive chef and director of food and
beverage - in other words "the big cheese'. If he were French
we would have referred to him as Le Grand Fromage but he was
German and none of us knew the Germanic version, so we stayed
with the English tag.
Huunter liked me; I was young, fresh and keen. Every chef's
dream, plus I indulged him with plenty of arse kissing, not
a bad career tactic for a young kid, at least that is what you
might think - but not in that kitchen. Huunter Guunter may have
been the chef, the figurehead so to speak but in reality his
sous chef Tarquin was the man.
He was born as Tarquin Battley, however no one would ever call
him that. If you liked life he was T-Bone, and in T-Bone's world
he was king of the kitchen -the Governor, British slang for
the man in charge of the mob - the chief gangster.
T-Bone had been watching me. I think he actually liked me, he
saw my potential. He saw my energy and on that fateful day he
saw just a little too much pecking of the chef's bum. On the
day in question T-Bone decided it was time for me to understand
how the kitchen really worked.
I felt the color drain from my face. The Governor wanted to
talk to me, and of all places he wanted to talk to me in the
walk-in refrigerator to "look at something"; I knew that I was
in trouble. As I walked towards the fridge I saw Leonard, T-Bone's
"Lieutenant" standing by the mayonnaise bucket. I could not
figure out what the problem might be there could not be a problem
with the mayo, I had made it, it was "very good ya" the chef
had said.
I entered the fridge, the door closed.
T-Bone glared at me, and spoke "Jeff, you've got to stay out
of the chef's trousers - stop kissing his arse, I run the kitchen.
You need to understand that"
Lieutenant Leonard chipped in "you need to show T-Bone respect,
he is the Governor - the man. When T-Bone decides you're OK,
he will tell Hunnter, and then you'll get ahead, promoted -
T-Bone will allow you the chance to succeed. Do you understand?"
I was about to discover the reality of kitchen life. An environment
not suitable for the faint hearted, if you got treated badly
you deal with it, there was no running to management, no complaining,
that was not the way business was done - you learnt to roll
with the punches and sometimes take a few. And why? Because
if you were hard enough to hang in there, some day you would
be the one doing the terrifying.
Thinking back I believe I smirked, and shook my head; I thought
he was above these games, I thought I had protection, I thought
I was the chef's boy, blessed and earmarked for greater things.
I was wrong. In the dim light of the fridge I saw T-Bone reaching
for an object, from that point on the experience was a blur.
T-Bone gave me a good beating with his weapon of choice - a
cold, metallic, flexible wet bat, silvery on one side and orange
on the other. He beat me forever, but in reality it was over
in seconds. I felt more pain to my pride than my anatomy. Lieutenant
Leonard dipped my head in to the "oh so tasty" mayo bucket -
just for good measure. My assailants left me in the ice-cold
torture chamber.
Once my head stopped spinning I regained my composure, wiped
myself down, picked up my hat and exited the fridge - praying
I would go unnoticed.
I moved at high speed to the changing rooms, I needed to rinse
the mayonnaise from my hair. Gazing at myself in the mirror
with the exception of some large silvery speckles - debris from
T-Bones tool of destruction my pounding had left me pretty much
unblemished…
So the moral of this story is if you would prefer to not get
beaten with a side of salmon and end up with egg on your face
even if it is a very tasty emulsified concoction, learn the
politics of your kitchen. And remember that kissing the chef's
arse may not always be the finest career move…
April 2002
Written by: Jeremy Emmerson
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