FLASHBACK: CALIENTE. CALIENTE. CALIENTE.

Man, this place is hoppin'
Dancin', singin', talkin', rockin' this town

Nobody down

Two things.  

First, if there's one particular annoyance that will drive me out of the UK it's the weather.  It's an even bigger problem than the children.  Second, the British - despite being an English-speaking, First World country - do weird things.  Weird things like drink ridiculous amounts of tea....and get excited about football.....and go on holiday to places you and I would never think of going.  Like Dubai.  Or Cape Town.  

Having said that, I am starting to sort-of understand the bizarre holiday destination thing.  It is purely and simply to get some warm, sunny weather.  And as painfully unambitious as that sounds it actually makes a lot of sense now even though I've never really been a sun and sand guy.  But this country has changed me.  Because you can only take so much weather that can charitably be described as "dull and shitty".

Now the Brits are in fact famous for being complete twats when they travel.  It seems regardless of where they go in Europe or the Med they're never really satisfied unless they can get a "Full English Breakfast" or a plate of pale, soggy chips and a pint of Stella.  More evidence that they're not there for the culture or cuisine, but the weather.  And a good, proper sunburn too.  I, on the otherhand, as a self-satisfied Canadian, have my sights set higher.  
 
So, looking back to late September of last year; I've been getting my ass absolutely kicked at Pollen Street Social for almost six months and beared witness to the worst summer weather imaginable in London.  Need some sun.  Need some culture.  Need to get the hell away from here.  Off to Barcelona.

Heard many good things about the city prior to arriving.  Great wine and food there but also excited that it wouldn't just be about getting smashed and pigging out (although they were #1 and #2 on the to-do list).  Not disappointed on arrival as the weather was still blazing hot (30C+ every day).  Dove head-first into the tapas scene although there was an adjustment phase for the gut.  Most restaurants don't open for dinner until 8:00 and even then they'll usually be save for tourists until about 10:00.  So I had to "carefully monitor" the alcohol intake in combination with heatstroke to avoid passing out on the street.  But it's worth the wait as they can really bang out some simple, delicious food (although not in the speediest fashion).  Best thing I had was toasted bread with mashed avocado and anchovies.  Never would have guessed on the flavour combination but I could honestly eat that everyday (pictured in video below).  Didn't hit the club scene (too old and pervy) but there was no shortage of getting pissed up on cheap and delicious Spanish wine and beer.  And I became a big fan of the little, free pinxtos that come with a bevy.  
 
Alright, enough yabble.  A video montage of pics set to a throbbing trance soundtrack can do a better of job portraying the city than my words can. 




Barcelona is a properly brilliant city and I highly recommend visiting if you get the chance (get there before 2014 when the Separatist movement will be in full swing).  Friendly people and so much to see and do.  It would definitely be the next "dream" stop on the chefing tour.  And they, like the majority of continental Europe (even Germany), seem to be enjoying life much more than we are here in the UK.  Mind you most of them are just about bankrupt now too...


P.S.  This is a Catalan DJ and his pretty groovy track.

 

TWO PINTS OF LAGER AND A PACKET OF CRISPS

I picked up my bag, I went lookin' for a place to hide
Then I saw Carmen and the Devil walkin' side by side
I said, "Hey Carmen, come on let's go downtown"
She said, "I gotta' go but my friend can stick around"

It's a big, exciting world out there - so much to see and do and explore.  And this is a big part of my decision to embark on the whole chef career thing.  But I have to admit (and anyone who knows me won't be surprised by this), I'm probably at my happiest just sitting on a coach, with several cold beers, a huge bag of Ched-a-corn, facing a massive TV.  I just love it.  And with this current setup, who wouldn't?

Sadly though, we have fuck all in the way of channels here (by North American standards anyway) and no DVR, so nothing can be recorded.  But it is a great spot to spend a good 8 hours or so.  Having said all that, the point of this post is to provide a little look at the city of Edinburgh.  Even though I'm usually knackered after the 5 days/80 hours of life in the kitchen, I can occasionally drag my ass out of the house and attempt to re-integrate with the civilized world.  And this generally involves me, a few newspapers & magazines, and pints.  So here are a few of the watering holes I like in this fine city...

Underdogs is a pretty low-key, unassuming place -

They don't have a great selection of beers - and no draught - but it's decor I think is very cool.  It's just a whole bunch of old couches and chairs spread around a couple of large rooms.  It's like you're drinking in a used furniture store - which I find pretty groovy -

It's a good place to read.  You'd totally be at home wearing a cardigan and holding a pipe.  And their pork scratchings are "ace" (yes, that's just pretty much deep-fried pig skin) -

For something a bit more lively (sometimes a bit too lively), and if you can handle all the old people there, The Cafe Royal is one the classic pubs with a lot of history and that distinct "British" feel.

It's in a bit of a touristy spot in New Town so it can get rammed pretty quickly but the great selection of pints makes up for it.  Some Old Engine Oil with of course, crisps -

But if you're looking to chat up some fit birds, this is not the place.  For that the better place would be Element (although I've never talked to a woman once there).  It's on Rose St. which is a lovely pedestrian street that runs through New Town.  Bit more of a bar/lounge type place.  I didn't bother to snap the inside as I usually sit outside regardless of the weather -

The other notable thing about this place are the George-Costanza-approved doors on the bathroom stalls -

This next one is sort of becoming my local - The Roseleaf.  It is literally across the street from where I live.  I can get there in 30 seconds.  And you can't beat that proximity.  Most British washrooms are disgusting so it's actually quite feasible to come home and use my own which is just swell.

Like, I could almost take this photo from my couch.

And what better to go with a few beers than some live music!  This guy sits in the same spot playing the exact same song over and over late at night in New Town.  But I think it's brilliant -

And I did tip him a fiver for recording the video (it almost blew away!).

So there you go - a little slice of Edinburgh.  Time for a beer....


P.S. - The title of this post is taken from the name of a so-so British sitcom.  Don't bother downloading...

THANK YOU FOR NOT DISCUSSING THE OUTSIDE WORLD

Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by
You never get to stop and open your eyes

Back to life. Back to reality.  Alright, so....first week at work is over and I survived.  I gave the rundown of the freaks and losers I work with and the lack of quality in front of house.  So the newest challenge as that the head chef is now on holidays for two weeks.  This is a bit of a pain in the ass as you kind of want to get used to the chef's style as soon as possible.  But this absence would be an indicator of things to come as someone was always on vacation - which is not what you want when you're in the shit for staff...

His replacement is the pastry chef from the Michelin Star restaurant.  He's actually a pretty chilled out dude and easy to get along with.  And he looks a lot like Alec Baldwin.  The problem - and you knew this was coming - is that he sounds like Alec Baldwin too.  Very deep, hoarse voice, which - combined with a Glaswegian accent and incessant kitchen noise and clatter - is almost impossible for me to understand during a busy service.  At least they've kept things sane for this period - I've been left on sides (a bit of a "bitch" role actually) and the other dudes are all on their original sections.  It's one of the only times we'll have a full brigade.

But it's also dawning on me that I may have been hired so quickly because..well...nobody wants to work here.  And it's not because the food is shit or you can't learn anything or you get screamed at all day.  The issue is that this place is NO FUN.  We're working long hours - I'm on about 75-85 a week right now.  That's no break too.  Taking a piss, running to the shop for a Diet Pepsi - that's your break.  And I've worked these hours before.  And in more stressful kitchens with chefs who were bigger nutters.  But in those places we still had a bit of fun, a few laughs, deep-fried a chocolate bar or two, got out for some pints.  This place - nothing.  And with any workplace, the atmosphere is all down to the people.  I talked about Andy the Mong earlier and he is one of the senior chefs but sadly devoid of any personality.  And I can't stand this fucker.  One of these douches who thinks jokes involving a punchline of "Blame Canada" is still funny.  And ditto goes for all that with the other senior chef, his bride-to-be.  I work mostly though with Glasgow Johnny - who has a big thing of snot in his nose 24/7 and the harshest Scottish accent ever - and Irish Chris - who is a bit more comprehensible and actually seems to have something approaching a sense of humour.  And then there's our prep chef, Polish Tomas.  Gianni the Italian and Chris's girlfriend Sarah (yes, they live and work together like this - can you imagine?) are on the larder section.

Okay, yeah.  I'm on sides and it's busy and this is the little corner I work in where I can't hear a goddamn thing -

This shot is taken from the pass and I'm directly ahead where the Rationale oven is, in the corner.  Notably - right beside it is the Josper grill.   These things are top-notch quality and used to cook all the meats.  It's like an indoor bbq.  But they get ridiculously hot - like 600 degrees hot and they are dangerous.  I have so many burns from this thing it's mental - including on my hip - twice in the same spot!  Don't ask.  So anyway, I'm down here working sides and it's a bit of a joke.  There's fat chips, and spinach a la creme, and pomme boulangere, and organic carrots, and frites (which are actually frozen McCain Superfries - represent!), and onions rings.  And it's all a piece of piss.   In theory.  But when you can't hear a fucking thing - it's a complete catastrophe.

I finally have a talk with the chef - Ricky - and we figure out a way to facilitate communication.  It's success - unfortunately - is reliant on the chefs in larder (that's cold starters in British) not monging out during service.  They just have to put a piece of paper (the ticket) in a little container so I can run over and pick it up.  It's not hard, but sadly and maybe surprisingly for you (not me), the success rate fell below 100%.  But my second suggestion was the real stroke of genius - how about calling the table number when mains/sides are away?  Unbelievably, nobody was doing this.  But this lack of common sense and an adherence to British kitchen tradition (which uses lots of French too) might be why the UK - to paraphrase a popular football expression - is not on the ascendancy.

But anyway - I'm still having problems.  The little side dish bowls in particular.  In the picture above - there's a big metal canopy hanging down where the vents are that suck away all the grease and smoke (and is it weird that working a greasy/oily fryer has started giving me nosebleeds?  Yes, it is).  So it's busy and I'm in the shit again and runnning from the pass back to my section I grab one of these bowls that we keep on to top of the oven so they stay warm.  As I lift it in the air and turn the corner I manage to smash it against the metal canopy above and crack it in two (which was lucky - if it had shattered sending ceramic everywhere I/we would have been fucked).  I've got half a bowl in my hand and Gianni - who's pitching in - informs me that the other half has flown into a big bucket of chicken stock on the floor.  Fortunately we're the only two that notice this as things are really kicking off at this point in service.  But it sums up perfectly how life has been going in this kitchen.

The head chef comes back from holiday.  And he's a nice guy (but a bit of a twat at times too ) - and the same age as me.  When he left he had all these red sores and welts on his face and I thought - "Dude could really use a vacation to heal up".  They had been going balls-out since the opening and it was understandable that that the guy was looking a little haggard.  But he came back and - nope - still looked like a bucket of smashed crabs.

I was now officially transferred to garnish which was my intended station all along.  This (POV from sides) is right in the middle of black plancher plates and I'll tell ya' biy - it gets hot there -

A new guy has been hired too and he's taking over sides - Sharif (although I've taken to calling him Omar - get it?).  Not only does he seem competent and approaching normalcy, but I can actually understand what he's on about (so naturally I was devastated when he quit after only one week - it was a rough service where the chef called him a "FAT CUNT!" and kicked him off the section.  And that was it for him.).  But I got my own problems on garnish.  I'm doing soups, and pastas, and all sorts of garnishes for the meat dishes.  I already know it's going to be ugly.  My rule of thumb is that any section that has do to the same pasta dishes as starters AND mains will go down regularly.  I don't know why, it just does.  My life is also dominated by pototoes.  I am responsible for mashed potato, pomme mousseline, pomme sarladaise, duck fat potatoes, sauteed potatoes - and now that Sharif has quit - pomme boulangere again.  Exciting stuff.  To add to the silliness, Sharif has not been replaced and Chris is on vacation.  So we're really in the shit for staff and I am left with Mong-boy and Booger to turn to for support.

And oh yeah, at the end of every week (we're closed Sunday, Monday) I get to climb a ladder at about midnight on Saturday and use a highly toxic oven cleaner to scrub the previously-mentioned canopies....

Living the dream....

Post Script - It looks like that potential mouth herpes thing I may have had was just a scare (to the disappointment of some, I'm sure).  Either that or the £20 I spent on ointments and adhesive patches at Boots worked.  But in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter a whole lot.  Because perception is everything.  And when you've tasted some incredibly hot cock-a-leekie soup before sending it to the pass and a little dripped down on your bottom lip and left you with a huge "V-shaped" welt and subsequent red mark for the next week and a half - you're not hittin' the clubs armed with chat-up lines anytime soon.  And fuckin' hell did it ever hurt...

FLASHBACK: 6' 1", ATHLETIC AND TONED, POST-GRADUATE, WANTS CHILDREN

The full moon is callin', the fever is hot
And the wicked wind whispers and moans
You got your demons and you got desires
But I got a few of my own 


Well the one good thing about taking so long to get this blog going is that I can revisit events from the past to fill in those periods when absolutely nothing is happening in my life.  Which is quite often in the week-in, week-out monotony of the kitchen world.  And I will get back to that world.  But I figured it's Feb. 13th, and I'm sitting in the comfy, black, leather couches by the windows of The Newsroom -

...having a few pints and since Valentine's Day is tomorrow, why not write about my internet dating experiences from last summer.  You know, try to inject some spice into this thing and take the "blah" out of blog (having said that, don't get your hopes up).

So let's go back to June 2011.  I'm in London and working at Pollen Street Social.  And it's mental.  No exaggeration, this is one of the UK's biggest restaurant openings of the year and it's an amazing experience but it's also unbelievably stressful.  I'm working up to 18 hours a day (non-stop) and regularly getting 3 to 4 hours of sleep a night.  If you ever told me I'd be doing this I wouldn't believe you.  It's good for your career but murder on your social life.  So after contemplating it for a while, I decided to slip into the world of online dating in an effort to re-connect with civilization.

But it ain't cheap.  £30 a month.  Yes, sex does in fact sell.  But I scouted things out first and there seemed to be plenty of quality clunge on Dating Direct so hopefully it would pay off.  Got off to a rough start though.  Spent a few hours trolling the site and found about 7 or 8 fit birds worth hitting up - which I did.  And not lame little winks or whatever but proper "Hey Baby...." emails.  And...zero.  Zilch.  Nothing.  Complete silence.  At this point I realized internet dating was not a whole lot different than the real world.  But I pushed on determined to find love (or whatever).  Even though the transparancy of the whole experience was a little off-putting.  You know who's viewed your profile and who's favourited you and vice versa and I prefer the whole pervy-lurky thing and being all hiding in the shadows.  But you get used to it.

Despite the slew of initial rejections/indifferences or whatever you want to call them, things start picking up for The Kevmeister (not my username but I did refer to myself as such in my profile - which I think was a pretty witty).  Being in London there's a pretty big member count but it's a little depressing too when almost every single woman writes the same crap.  Her friends think she's great.  She likes a drink in a pub.  She loves a night on the town but also enjoys an evening on the couch watching a movie.  The lack of originality is painful!  As Groundskeeper Willie once said - "Back to the Loch with you Nessie!" (although once I actually got together with some of the women on the site it was interesting to hear how most guys wouldn't even read the profiles).

Anyhoo, the winks started pouring in and the emails started piling up and pretty soon there were a few fish in the barrel.  Now going into this, I was up front with the ladies about the hours I worked and sometimes it would be five days before I could respond.  But luckily for me, most of the girls were desperate enough that they could wait around....  And this illustrated another aspect of the internet dating world.  I mean, normally if you meet someone in a bar or through friends or at a function - you hit it off and could very well get together in a few days.  But with this, the back and forth usually resulted in weeks passing from the introduction to the act of actually going out (well, at least for me).  

So who did I meet?

Sarah (English, 36)

This was my first real connection and she approached me based on the sombrero I wore in my profile pic (it was a real attention grabber).  Her pics were a little shrouded in mystery and I couldn't get a great sense of what she looked like but she seemed alright.  More importantly, she was a lawyer.  And you know what lawyers do?  They make lawyer money.  And that was attractive. But there was more to the woman than that.  We start writing to each other and holy shit - we are getting on like a house on fire.  To the point where it seemed plausible we'd be married in the next six months.  

But all good things must come to an end and we decide to finally meet in person.  A few drinks in a pub - easy enough.  A little pub in Notting Hill on neutral ground on a Monday evening.  As mentioned previously, I've been logging massive hours with little sleep so even though I tidied myself up I still looked only slightly less haggard than a Nick Nolte mug shot.  Get into the pub  and yep - she showed.  Thankfully, the pics did not do her justice and she's a good-lookin' girl.  I introduce myself, sit down and that's pretty much the high point of the date.  All the witty repartee, the good-natured banter that we exchanged on-line could have been two other people.  Our time together was pleasant but it had all the sexual tension of a post office job interview.  Yikes.  We wrap things up after a few (making this what would turn out to be my shortest date) and I walk her to her bike.  On the way she has a cigarette - that she rolls herself (this, I gots to say was a bit off-putting - although it's quite plausible she didn't care what I thought at that point).  And we get to her bike and WTF!  I wish I had a photo of this.  It's like one of those gigantic, industrial tricycles for mentally-challenged adults but a two-wheeler version.  And it's yellow and hideous and I'm embarrassed to be standing beside this thing in public.  Anyway, we say our goodbyes and I'm trying to reconcile how things could be so good on-line but crap in person.  Yeah, welcome to internet dating.  We exchange a few pleasantries on-line after that and disappear from each others "favourites".


Lesson learned.


Judith (English, claims to be 41)

This was a bit of weird one.  As I mentioned, there's a lot of transparency with the dating web site and I could see this woman kept checking out my profile.  Which was a bit odd if you saw her photo (which I wish I could post but wouldn't be ethical).  She had nothing written in her profile just her pic. And the best way to describe her look - have you ever seen that show "The Real Housewives of Orange County"?  She could fit right in.  As the old one.  The big blonde hair, the fake tan, and the little dog in the photo.  But man alive, 41 was looking like a bit of a stretch.  She would look dynamite for 51 but......  Anyway, she eventually messages me and she's a very interesting woman.  A film producer, has done a lot of travel, and lives in a condo in Notting Hill (money!).  So we chat a bit and I've learned not to blow my load in the emails (sorry) and save something for the face-to-face.  But before this she wants to go old school and have a chat on the phone.  It was a bit awkward - primarily because I can barely understand British people over a crap cell phone connection but it went alright.


And we decide to meet for a drink.  She wants to do Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon which to me seems like a bad idea because it will be busy.  And as it turns out, this Sunday is probably the hottest day of the year.  And I'm on the shitty Tube taking the District line from Putney and this thing runs outdoors most of the way and there's no AC and no windows and the sun is blazing in to the packed car and my shirt is plastered to my back.  Great.


Once I get outside I manage to fan myself and dry off a bit.  I get to the park and it's packed and I have no idea where this place we're supposed to meet is.  I get a call from her and even though she lives about a ten minute walk away she decided to drive and - surprise! - can't find a parking space.  So change of plans and she now picks me at the side of the road.  Disappojnted that she drives a green Ford Explorer but she has family out in the boonies so I guess it's a practical decision.  Her dog accessory is also in the back and it's one of the more awkward intros I'll have but she seems nice enough.


The plan now is to hit her 'hood and have a few drinks there which should have been the plan all along.  We get out of her car and I have the chance to properly check her out.  The big blonde hair is happening.  The fake tan is going on.  And I'm pretty sure those big boobs she's thrusting around are fake too (she's showing a lot of cleavage and, yeah they gotta' be fake).  She's also dressed in black, spandex work-out gear and running shoes (a bit odd) but still looks stylish.  What I can't get over though is how old she looks.  She's got a nice body but anyone walking by would think I was having lunch with my young aunt.  We're on a quiet side street on the sidewalk having drinks and it's a really nice afternoon.  And the conversation is good too.  She's been a film producer for a while and being a former cinephile myself it's nice to talk movies with someone who has that background.  Her dog is with us which attracts no shortage of passersby (and other dogs) and provides the only real awkwardness of the date when she leans over to pet her dog and catches me grabbing some big eyefuls of that cleavage (just making sure on the fakeness).

It's been nice but ultimately I have no interest in boning this chick - not even from a cougar perspective and we shut things down. And then the bill arrives.  Even though I'm dirt poor I insist on picking up the check.  Fucking idiot.  Three beers and three glasses of wine - £50!  I put this on my Canadian credit card and it came to $85.  Shit.  Now I did want to see this woman again and get some sort of payback.  Anyway she insists on driving me home but her car has run out of gas.  So we walk to her place, have a nice hug and end it.  I'm not optimistic about seeing her again but the weird thing is she would text me every day for about the next week.  And then she went to France for a week and then nothing...

$85.....

Lesson learned.


There were then a couple of dates that were more-or-less forgettable.  One with an Israeli psychotherapist who's primary attractive quality was a shared love of Seinfeld.  Her choice of a noisy pub with a band was not-conducive to first date chit-chat although all she really wanted to talk about was her family and how much she wanted to be in a relationship.  Oy vey.  And another with my first foray into dating a chick with kids.  Her pics caught my eye because she seemed to have this "Latino Jennifer Love Hewitt" thing going on (which would later be revealed to be quite misleading).  But she was always out and going to concerts and stuff and seemed like she knew how to have fun.  Unfortunately, she happened to be attending these events with her 15 year old daughter who was also like, her best friend.  And to make matters worse she showed up on our date wearing a fedora.  Oh man.  The best thing to come out this though was her choice of venue.  One of the best drinking holes in London - Gordon's Wine Bar -

Jamie (American, 30)

British people are fine and all that but I do find it is easier to talk to and relate to Canucks and Yanks.  Jamie was going to be my first experience with a self-described "curvy" girl.  It was interesting to note that her pics only contained shots of her face - but it was a pretty face.  I initially got in touch with her due to a comment she made about her dog that I won't go into here.  Didn't seem like we would meet up though.  My schedule and her schedule and cancellations conspired against and I figured it was dead in the water.  But things finally worked out and we gave it a go.


Although timing could have been a bit better.  I agreed to come to her neck of the woods - Camden Town - which is probably my favourite part of London.  It's interesting to note at this point the riots that engulfed the city last summer have just started kicking off in Tottenham and trouble has been spreading across the city.  So she shows up and she's a big girl.  Not in a big blob sort of way, but she's got a very, very big chest and the hips and ass to match.  Curvy as advertised!  And in heels she's a little taller than me so I'm feeling a bit like the woman.  But she's definitely good-looking.  And she's showing all this off too.  She's wearing a one-piece dress that's to the shape of her body and man - there is no shortage of cleavage going on.  These things are begging to pop out.  I think the great Dave Chappelle says it best at the end of this clip - 





But I've never really been a "big boobs" guy.  And she's sittin' there and I'm thinking, "If this would perhaps develop into some sort of a relationship there's no way I could tit-fuck this girl.  My contribution to the act would be comically disproportionate".  That's rude.  I know.  So boobs aside, she's a super-cool gal but it doesn't take me long to realize she's very Type A and well, I'm not.  She was from Philly and lived in NYC and worked on Law and Order and moved to London to become European Sales Manager for something or other (her background is in photography) and now she's the photo editor for a well-known London publication and her softball team just won the UK championships and she knows just about everybody.  Don't get me wrong, she's not boasting about all this - it's all coming out in the natural course of conversation.  But I'm struggling to come up with more than three interesting things I've done in the last decade.  We're actually getting along really well though.

We change locations and head to another bar and things deteriorate somewhat - although it's no fault of ours.  As mentioned, the riots in London had started and it was starting to pick up in the north (I lived in the south which is a lot less.....well let's just say it's more "white").  Film footage comes on the TV of a massive fire not too, too far away - I think this is the one we were watching - 





which gets her upset and the tears start to come.  Shit.  Let's wrap this up.  I walk her home which she is grateful for and she grabs me and plants a big kiss right on my lips.  Again I'm feeling very much like the woman.  So I start making my way to the Tube and now the streets outside of the pubs we were just in are filled with police in riot gear and hoodies are assembling down the block and the subway station is closed.  Shit.  Now I'm not too worried if I have to hand out a few beatdowns but I am quite a ways from home and don't like to be stranded.  Fortunately the next Tube station down the road is open and I got the hell out of there.

A text or two more.  That was it.


Daphne (Canadian/Greek, 38)

The night after I met Jamie I was supposed to go out with Daphne.   But after escaping the riots in Camden (turns out one of the pubs we were in had it's windows smashed out) I headed straight down to Soho and to the sanctuary of The Salisbury and got pretty smashed.  So I was royally hung the next day and the thought of interacting with people was not exciting.  Fortunately the riots were making their way south and things kicked off in Clapham Junction which is not too far from where we were going to meet so I pulled a bitch move and cancelled.  But now she wanted to talk on the phone.  Oh good.  How lonely are these chicks?  So we chat and she was born in Canada and moved to Greece as a kid but has no silly accent.  And we decide to meet up later in the week which we do.


She was actually one of the first women to contact me but I took ages to get back to her (because of work and not because I was scared) and once I did she had moved on to another guy.  This didn't work out so she was having another go at The Kevmeister.  As well with her, the pics didn't give the greatest idea of what she looked like but there were "no kids", "no curves", and "no wrinkles".  The stranger thing though was her emails.  They were very formal with excellent spelling and good grammar.  And very polite - almost like she was applying for a job (and maybe in some ways she was, huh!).  It's a Saturday night and the weather is surprisingly nice which helps because we're sitting at an outdoor pub patio.  And this girl turns out to be quite a babe.  Got a bit of a 40's pin-up style thing going on too.  What catches me off guard though is that in complete contrast to her emails, she's actually a bit of a bitch.  Which I'm liking.  The smoking, not so much.  Anyway, the evening goes well and we are getting on.  And I get the sense that from her lack of direction in career and life and a few stories about her family back in Greece that her family is a bit wealthy.  That's interesting.  We call it a night and I walk her home and have a polite good-bye.  Don't hear from her again until about a week later and wants to know if I'm up for another date.  I don't get back to her right away and the next day I get fucking smashed at a Pollen Street company event.  I'm talking lying on the floor of a bathroom stall and puking in public type of smashed.  And I forget to get back to her.  And then I remember and it's been a couple days and I've also decided I'm moving to Edinburgh so I don't bother.  I kind of regret that.




So that's it for the London internet-dating experience.  Wasn't exactly an orgy was it?  Well, I still did a hell of a lot better than Joe Beresford...


Now here's The Boss...

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT

When I was young I thought of growing old

Of what my life would mean to me

Would I have followed down my chosen road?

Or only wished what I could be?

Go ahead, Mr. Wendel. 

Heard a saying not too long ago - "If you don't do it before you're 40, you probably never will."  Well, I turn 40 tomorrow and that's depressing.  Since I turned 24, February 7th (Aquarians rule!) is my least favourite day of the year and this one is particularly upsetting.  40!  Fuck Off!  Like, how did this happen?  Who's okay with 40?  Old people - sure.  But for the young (at heart) and beautiful, it's so not cool.  And sure, this is an opportunity to feel sorry for myself - and naturally I will - but I'll try not to dwell on it too much and bring you, the reader (aka: valuable advertising dollars) down as well.


Seriously, it wasn't that long ago when I was chasing Robin Talbot around at Sunningdale Public School (landed her too - result!) and looking forward to the day when I could grow a moustache (eventually did cultivate a beauty - result!).  And now here I am, roughly 30 years later, with no moustache and a disturbing amount of grey chest hair.  The timing of the latter, which couldn't be worse.  I've never had great chest hair - it wasn't pathetic but it was far from Hasselhoff pedigree.  I took a manscaping cue from Don "The Predator" Frye who would buzz his down (not shaved) and figured that might work for me.  Even things out.  I was doing that for a few years.  Got tired of it and stopped trimming about two months ago - and Sweet Maria - bad timing.  There's a lot of grey going on now.  And these things tend to work their way down.  In the meantime, I'll worry about heart attacks and the size of my prostate.

And unlike Mr. Wendel, nobody calls me "Mister" either.  But that's okay because unless there's some Brownie at my door selling me shit Girl Guide cookies, I really don't want anyone implying some sort of elder status. Which is kind of easy here in the UK because everyone looks old and thinks I'm 30.  Although my llifestyle may play into that as well.  I now work in a job that has the professional status and financial drawing power in line with what a 19 year-old would be doing.  And not to go completely off the rails here but I got my first UK credit card the other day.  The credit limit?  Are you ready for this?  £260.  That's about $400 CAD.  How humiliating is that?  That's the credit limit of a pedophile who's declared bankruptcy multiple times.

And since I'm just going to moan about being old and poor now...  Yes, this is an exciting new life and all that crap.  But hands down the toughest thing about it all is living with other people.  Having flatmates as they say here.  Which is common but I hate it.  "Hell" - to quote Jean-Paul Sartre - "is other people".  Especially after being on your own for a decade.  Bathroom door always open.  No pants, no problem.  But aside from the loss of those liberties, it's the annoyance of the habits of others that we all know become the straws on that unlucky camel's back.  The couple I live with are decent people and we're all pretty civilized.  But there's some things I just can't handle.  The woman of the house has this bizarre ritual of hanging a plastic shopping bag off the kitchen door handle to put garbage in when she cooks.  It makes no sense on paper but I've attached a photo of our kitchen to give you an idea of why this is even more freakish than it sounds -

The silver thing is the bin.  The burlap Tesco bag is for the recycling (which I had to put there - the lack of recycling in Scotland is disgusting).  You can't see the stove and counter but trust me - it's closer to the garbage can than that orange Sainsbury bag is.  I took this photo when I got home from work one night which was about 1:00am so it's not like it's chucked in the bin after use.

Want to know what's inside?

A whole bunch of chicken bones and veg scraps (and a few things which could have been recycled!).  And here's the killer - it was still hanging there when I got home the next night.  Minging!

No, this is not the life of your average 40 year old.





Post Script - It's a couple of weeks later and I've just finished a grueling week at work (and I will get back to yapping about my job).  I finally have two days off to chill and engage with the civilized world.  I wake up Sunday...noonish...go to the bathroom and look in the mirror only to see a huge red sore in the corner of my mouth.  This is terrifying.  More than anything, my biggest fear about working in a kitchen is oral herpes (genital, not so much).  In the heat of battle it's pretty frenetic and you're always scrambling for a spoon and you're not too sure about where it was and you're not too sure about how well it was cleaned and you're not too sure about what the people you work with have living in their blood.  And I've dodged the bullets so far.  But if this turns out to be my biggest fear....goddamn.  I'm 40 and poor.  And if I'm now condemned to a life of lip sores I will surely die all alone.  I will die all alone just like that dude from Degrassi...

THE MONG SHOW

Hey good-lookin'
Watcha' got cookin? 


Not entirely sure what I was thinking.  Finished the two-month contract at The Glasshouse Hotel before heading back to Canada for a visit and then planned to look for work on my return.  By dumb luck a job became available at The Honours which is a somewhat new (eight months) brasserie that has one of Scotland's top chefs behind it (Martin Wishart owns it but doesn't actually work there).  It's not Michelin Star but the food is good, the buzz is positive, and it is busy.  So I figured I'd give it a try.

The recruitment process in the chefing industry is a bit odd compared to others.  You apply with a CV like normal person but you then go in for a "trial".  This generally involves spending a day or so in the kitchen doing little jobs and getting a sense of the "culture".  It gives them a chance to look you over and you can check out the operation.  The chef is usually on his best behaviour so you don't really get a sense of how much of a lunatic he is.  It happens quickly and if they like you they will usually offer you the job on the spot.  And as a person who speaks English and showers regularly it's generally not difficult for me to impress (I know it sounds silly but this does go a long way in the UK kitchen world).

So it's the week before I head home and I go for a trial on the Saturday.  It's an upscale place, very stylish - and the menu prices reflect it.  Here's the web site to give you a sense -

 The Honours

Now I don't consider myself a sexist pig BUT, there's a certain expectation of attractiveness one anticipates in the staff when one is patronizing such an establishment.  I head in for my trial and I'm told to meet the hostess....and Holy Cow.  If you Googled "munter" and clicked Images, I'm sure she'd pop up first.  I was hoping she was filling in for the regular hostess who was off doing a calendar shoot in The Maldives ...but as it turns out - she is always there, always.


Anyway, I decide to overlook this, press on, and meet the chef.  I've just been getting used to the Edinburgh accents but this guy from Glasgow and fuck me - does it takes things up a notch.  Imagine getting the hang of understanding Jean Chretien and then having to switch to Rene Levesque.  So it's a late afternoon stage as I had to work in the morning and they were very quick to get me in (I sent my CV on the Friday night and they contacted me half an hour later).  And I soon realize why as every busy kitchen is always in the shit for staff. This place is no exception.   I get sent downstairs to a prep kitchen where Johnny - another Glaswegian - will show me the ropes.  He's a young guy and seems nice - although back in primary school we probably would have referred to him as a "charity case".  But again I can't understand a thing this fucker is saying and have to keep asking him to repeat himself.  To the point of awkwardness.  Not what you want to happen on what is essentially a job interview.  

I spend a few hours prepping downstairs and the head chef comes down and has a chat with me.  He's a cool guy and loves that I've worked with Jason Atherton (probably because he now knows I can handle a good bollocking).  We talk salary and hours and when can I start.  I mention I'm heading to Canada for a bit but will available as soon as I'm back.  And he wants me to let him him know what I think by calling him (I don't have his number) or emailing him (I don't have that either).  And I can leave if I want.  I've only been there about four hours and this is unprecedented for a trial.  I haven't seen any of the service which is critical so I suggest I come upstairs for a bit which I do and service seems relatively sane (again, on best behaviour).  It starts to get busy so I decide to head out and thank him and it's a bit noisy and he does that "phone thing" with his hand - and I can't hear him so I don't know if I'm to call him or he's calling me.  

It's a few days later and I still don't hear from him which means he meant for me to call which I'm dreading.  Cellphone reception quality (like most tech things in the UK) is shocking and combined with the accents means I usually can't understand a thing.  So I call and he's on the kitchen phone and fuck me - I can understand maybe 50% of what he's on about.  I give the usual spiel about "good chef, exciting menu, quality brigade, I'd like to work there".  He re-hashes the terms and then it just becomes a pile of garbled shit after that.  It clears and at the very end of the convo he asks me to email him again and I get that the address is his name with the restaurant suffix.  But I don't know what he wants me to email and whether I have this job or not.  

Ultimately I have the job and I can head back to Canada knowing I've got something set up (even though I was looking forward to doing nothing when I got back to Scotland).  

So back to my original point.  Arrive in Edinburgh on the Monday morning (overnight flight, no sleep, lots of booze) and start work on the Wednesday.  HUGE mistake.  I'm struggling with the jetlag and get two hours sleep the night before my first day on the job.  But I get there at 8:00am looking like a bag of barf but ready to go.  First days, in fact first weeks in kitchens suck.  You end up standing around like a douche and getting in people's way and not knowing where anything is or how anything is done.  Sounds like fun, right?  Turns out the guy I initially worked with is on holiday and I'm paired up an Irish dude who is a bit easier to understand but still a struggle.  In fact he reminded me a lot of this comedian - 


Dylan Moran


But a bit more slurrier and drunker sounding.  And he's the best of the lot.  The worst is the saucier - the guy who does all the meats and - obviously - sauces.  These guys are usually the studs of the kitchen and take charge of things during service.  But this skinny, buck-toothed freak is - as god is my witness - the most unintelligible human being on the planet.  He's not even Scottish.  He's from Bournemouth (the south coast of England)  and mumbles like no person I've ever met.  Conversations with him - if you could call them that - are painful at best.  And considering he is critical to the kitchen's performance - a problem, for me at least.  To add to the oddity, his girlfriend is the sous-chef.  As the French say, "The heart wants what the heart wants" - and the fact he could get any girl at all is....whatever  (maybe he's into "The Game"?).  But no one would say he is punching above his weight.  She's Scottish and looks like it's been a while since she's seen any sun.  And almost as long since she's seen shampoo.  At least I can kind of understand her.  There's also Tomas the Polish prep chef.  I can probably understand him better than anyone because he speaks in three word sentences and points a lot.  The most interesting thing about him is that even though he's a young guy he's got a Jos Leduc beard.  If you don't know who that is - 

  
Which is a bit unusual for anyone outside of rural Quebec.  And there's also Gianni who's from Italy.  Nice guy but his English is shit.  It's an easy-going group of people but I feel like I'm in a foreign country here.  

Any hopes I have of wowing them with my Michelin Star background go up in flames within minutes of my first service.  I'm doing "sides" which is the section that dishes out the frites and carrots and pomme boulangere and spinach, etc. that accompany the mains.  It doesn't get much easier than that.  Well, very first check I have two sides - spinach and carrots.  It's called away and I then make the enormous mistake of asking Marbles McMumbleMouth where they are placed at the pass.  I think he says "under the grill" which I guess makes sense - keeps them warm.  No.  After 30 seconds they are burnt black and the table is ready to go but my dishes aren't.  At this point the chef kicks off with "COME ON BIG MAN, LET'S GO!" .  I'll tell you right now - it's never a good thing when a chef calls you "big man".  So I spring into action to get the sides up again.  Polish Tomas, who is supposed to be observing me is now prancing and fannying around and getting in my way like a fucking cunt.  I quickly grab a bowl, and naturally it flies out of my hand and smashes on the floor.  Everyone is now looking at me because yes - it's the first check.  The first 10 minutes.  And I've gone down....on sides.  Fuck Off, Man!  

Anyway, I survive the first week.  If there's one thing I've learned it's that they go a little easier on you at the start.  Truth be told, it's a good kitchen and good food but they're lucky to have me.


Having said all that, the biggest disappointment here - and I'm veering into sexist pig territory again - is front of house.  You know -  servers, bartenders, managers.  I'm not going to make apologies.  I work minimum 75 hours a week and have little interaction with the outside world while doing so.  When I do - it's on the bus going to work first thing in the morning or on the bus going home late at night.  I look like crap and probably stink of veal stock.  The kitchen brigade is usually a male dominated freakshow at the best of times so the opportunity to engage with some attractive female servers goes a long way to keeping a chef sane.  Even some of the scrungier London pubs I worked in had at least one or two fit birds that you looked forward to leering at each day.  But this place - fuckin' hell, bro.  I don't think there's a homelier group of waitresses around outside of a St. Catherines Swiss Chalet.  It's gutting.  And I don't get it.  Who's in charge of the hiring?  I gotta' say, a chef likes to work with nice tomatoes but he also likes to work with "nice tomatoes"*.


And lastly, for now.  This life is not glamourous - it's tough.  The things you think are challenging are.  But it's the little things that weigh you down too.  Here's the staff bathroom - 

Note the brownish bar of soap that has been provided to wash your hands.  But if it's busy you can always use the alternative - 

Fuck. Me.

* - props to Ernest Borgnine (dude is 95!)

THE PRODIGAL SON (SORT OF)

Takin' em to the place, on Sunset it's a trip 
Where the AC's cold and the girls still strip


It's always good to come home.

But getting there is a pain in the ass.  I've never been a fan of airplanes and airports and thus have never been a good flier.  This may have roots in a flight I took to Calgary in 1986 when I was stuck in a middle seat (I always have to be able to see out the window) and hit some hardcore turbulence.  A secondary incident occurred when Rob Galipeau took me into the Air Canada VIP lounge before a trip to Miami and I got just drunk enough that I nearly passed out from dehydration before we even left the gate.  In light of these incidents and many others, I would always get to the airport well in advance of my flight - to make sure everything was squared away - and just sit there and do absolutely nothing but wait - David Puddy style...

This started to change recently.  A few years ago, my flight out of Boston was delayed and since it was only a one hour flight I figured I could handle a few drinks.  Mosied over to the bar where I ended up getting pretty drunk with a guy from Texas (and this guy - quite memorably - would douse his clam chowda' with ridiculous amounts of Tobasco sauce).  And it was there at Logan I discovered that airport drinking is fun.  

Been engaging in it a bit more on these London-Toronto flights and it does make traveling a little less shitty.  Last month, on the trip home - and thanks to a four hour flight delay at Heathrow - I ended up boozing with a Welsh guy who makes silver jewellery and was on his way to Australia (kind of looked like that singer from Great Big Sea - if he was a crack addict).  You end up talking about the weirdest things but naturally we got around to women.  He wanted to know what they were like in Edinburgh and said I was just thankful they didn't all look like Susan Boyle (no offence to Susan and her talents).  So then, right out the blue he asks if I've read "The Game" by Neil Strauss.  I hadn't heard of it specifically but I was aware of that type of "thing" (it's all about pick-up artists and strategies).  He tells me to read it and it will change my life (I must have looked like a real loser).  In the past I would have thought "whatever", but lately I've been getting into horoscopes and shit like that.  It's primarily thanks to Frank Pilkington.  He's "The Oracle" in the British Sun and for the past few months his weekly lowdown for Aquarius has been bang on (and I know you're thinking these things are written vaguely so anyone can relate to them but I read other signs as a test and they are rubbish).  So I figure maybe I should read this book.  I'm not supposed to be in this bar drinking with this guy right now - I should be on a plane.  But events beyond my control brought me here and this is a sign.  I am now the not-so-proud owner of this book and I will let you know if divine intervention was at play and my life changed (interesting how these things geared towards sex are never on sale either - $36!).

Finally get on the plane and I'm pretty loosy-goosey.  Now I've commented on this to others, but it needs repeating - based on the demographic of the passengers, you would swear these Air Canada flights from London to Toronto (and vice-versa) were heading to Mumbai or Calcutta instead.  I have no problem traveling with people of an Indian background - they annoy me no more than any other type of passenger.  Well, except for one thing.  The meals.  The specialty dinners and those with dietary concerns are always distributed first so with such a predominantly Indian group (vegetarians and whatever) this goes on for about 20 minutes before you see that cart roll by and know it will be at least another 20 minutes before I get my tray of slop (not that I love airplane food but the little ritual helps break up the monotony of the flight).  Having said all that, the guy beside me is actually a tubby Russian wearing camouflage army pants (oh, yes) and a bandana tied around his head Aunt Jemima-style (yes, indeed)....

Back in Canada - greatest country in the world.  And back in Oakville - there is no better place to grow up.  A bit different this time though.  Parents moved to a condo by the lake in the summer and it's a bit of a weird vibe.  They left the home I grew up in years ago but there's always been a sort of continuity with where home base is.  But I'm now seeing this place for the first time and it registers that my family are doing things and life is going on without me (which is quite traumatic when you're a first-born son).  Not to mention that "buffer-zones" have been diminished and the inflatable mattress I sleep on barely fits in the room.  But the place does in fact rock.

So yeah, visit the old haunts.  See friends. Watch some hockey which I sorely miss.  And just enjoy the politeness and courtesy we Canadians are famous for (it's not just a stereotype, it's totally true).  What strikes me too about being back is how much more optimistic we are in Canada.  And youthful.  This was noticeable in London but even more so in Edinburgh.  There's just old people everywhere and they're always getting in the way with their canes and shit.  Move along, Betty...


And another trip means another photo montage.  I admittedly have become somewhat obsessed with Windows Moviemaker.  Pics are just that much cooler with music.  Stampeders rule!

 

Aside:  It seems whenever I travel now, there's a trance song I'll end up listening to over and over while on vacay.  This was it for the January 2012 journey home.  A bit pop-ier than my usual stuff but still an absolute belter.

Vincent de Jager - "Things I Will Never Say"