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"

THE PLUNGER TALK

I'm just an average man with an average life
I work from 9 to 5, hey hell I pay the price
All I want is to be left alone in my average home
But why do I always feel like I'm in the twilight zone

 

I’m in a nice condo in Leith right now.  It’s small but everything is new and the TV is massive.  Walls are thin but I haven’t been kept awake by any sort of amourous grappling from the couple I live with.  The most contentious issue though in any of these arrangements is the bathroom.  Good bathroom etiquette is critical.  And there is no more crucial element in the bathroom than the toilet.

I’ve never been a big "hey-look-at-me-I'm-going- to-take-a-poop" guy.  I firmly believe that the act of launching a Cleveland Steamer should be done with as few people as possible aware of the event.  Some like to celebrate the act and even provide a post-mortem.  I don’t.  Not interested in discussions of this sort.  But sometimes it needs addressing.  When I moved into this place – and there was just the two of them living here – there wasn’t even a toilet brush in the john.  And they’d lived there for 4 months.  No brush.  No air freshener.  And most of all – no plunger.

How is it even possible to not have a bog brush.  How do you clean the bowl?  I sure as hell wouldn’t  be stickin’ my hand in there and scrubbing it with a sponge.  So one of my first acts when moving in was to buy a brush.  59p at ASDA.  Easy.  And obviously it enables you to leave things in a pristine state once you’re “done” there.  No one likes a skiddy bowl (although I have since learned that some here are okay with that – which is upsetting).  I just placed it in the bathroom with a can of air freshener and said nothing.  And nothing was said.

A plunger on the other hand is all together different issue.  The toilet brush solves superficial problems.  The plunger….goes much deeper.  And it’s not like I’d use one every day or week or month.  But goddamn, when you need a plunger…you need a plunger!  And there ain’t no substitution.  So I asked the roomies if there was one strategically hidden somewhere.  “No”.  End of discussion.  Alrighty then.  So I did what no one likes to do and that’s go and buy a plunger.  It’s not a dignified purchase.  “Hi.  I’m buying this because my toilet may or may not be clogged.  I’ll leave it to you to guess why.”  Anyway, it’s there and I feel better even if no one else does.

On another note, bathrooms here are just mental.  This condo building we’re in is only about 12 years old.  And yet to start the shower you have to pull a string that hangs from the ceiling.  Pull a fucking string to turn it on.  And pull a fucking string to turn it off.  Are you for real?  I would expect something of the sort at a UNICEF camp in Haiti - but never in the First World.  <-- although that label as it applies to the UK does seem a bit dubious at times.  Then there's the tap for the sink - jets of hot water shoot out one side of the faucet and jets of cold water shoot out of the other side.  So when washing your hands you're simultaneously scalding and freezing them - and spraying water all over your crotch.  

Honestly... 

HOGMANAY HOOTENANY

I'm not a man or machine

I'm just something in between 

It seemed like a bad idea at the time.  And it was going to be rough from the start - this much was known.  First New Year's Eve in Edinburgh and I had the night off to enjoy the much-hyped Hogmanay (the Scottish aren't very concerned with giving things "pretty" names).  A variety of events all across the city, but the centre-piece was a street party piss-up with about 100,000 people.  Sounds great - except for the 8:30am start at work the next day. Shite.  No need to panic though.  I'm a mature, sensible man approaching 40, who - according to those assholes in the medical community - may or may not have a drinking problem.  I can keep it real, just take it easy and shut it down early.  No 2:30am massage parlour hunts tonight.  Roomies are over in Fife with family - I'll be running on my own.  This could work.

Then Aussie Mike called.  "You're in town from London.  Great.  Yeah, cool let's meet up.  And you want to kick things off by celebrating the Australian New Year?  Sounds fun.  When?  At 1:00 in the afternoon?"  Shit.  This was definitely going to test the plan.  But I figured as long as I paced myself and took a break in the afternoon I should be fine.  HA!  Anyway, we meet up at the Brewdog pub on Cowgate in the Old Town area and plant ourselves in the unbelievably comfy couches at the end the bar -

It's about 12:45 now and I'm still a bit hungover from the night before (yes, I know - not the smartest move) and Mike is very hungover.  He's on this Australian based tour that came up for Hogmanay for two nights.  Staying in a shitty hostel across the street.  He's kind of like me - in his 30's, used to be an architect, but now works front of house in restaurants which is where we met.  We're catching up and before you know it we've sunk four pints each in about 2 hours.  The plan is going out the window now but I don't care anymore because I feel fucking great.  It's hard to resist as well because this place was packed and everyone was right into the swing of things.  So we decide to head out - for a break - but to see a bit more of the city and yes, pound some more beers.  We head over to the New Town side and hit what is maybe my favourite drinking hole - The Balmoral Bar.  Good pints of Shiehallion on tap and a very upscale vibe.

The place is rammed but we do manage to score a table and another extremely comfy couch.  Pretty soon we're joined by a married couple looking to share the table.  No probs.  We get talking and they're up from York.  The guy lived in Liverpool for 20 years and I can't help think that I was singing Gordon Lightfoot songs with this dude in The Philharmonic Pub back in September 2007.  But I don't say anything.  So we go our separate ways and Mikey and I hit one more place before heading back to our respective pads and freshening up.

One exciting thing about the street party is that you can bring in your own booze.  I decided I'd rock the plastic pop bottle filled with the cheapest amber rum I could find and mix with a splash of diet coke.  So I load up back at home and yes, have a few more beers while watching Overeem smash Lesnar at UFC 141.  Head back up to the hostel on Cowgate and we hit an absolute shithole of a place to prime before heading out.  Our crew now consists of a few Australian birds and a Dutch guy and they all seem pretty cool.  I'm getting along quite well with one of the girls and I've targeted her as my New Year's snog.  So we get to the event and it's pretty much mayhem -

It's not long before Mike and I are separated from the pack (and never to see them again).  But we make new friends along the way.  Like this guy (right) who had everyone drinking from his wine bag -

But it wasn't wine.  And in hindsight really wished I hadn't suckled from it.  And then there were these two girls who wanted me to take a photo of them.  I was happy to oblige -

And for some reason I decided that my "thing" for the evening would be to kiss my Diet Pepsi bottle of rum and DC for every pic -

You can see how well that turned out.

So naturally what had been a great day/evening ends up finishing on a total "FAIL" note.  Having lost the girls and any chance of a make-out, I then get separated from Mike as we head to the DJ stage about 11:30.  And to make matters worse, he has the last dregs of my booze.  I wade into the crowd and end up in one shoving match after another.  Most of them with women.  At this point bitterness is taking over and really all that's left is to wait for the big event -

...and stand there filming it like a loser.  Once that was done it was time to hightail it home to get to bed (and avoid getting my ass kicked).  All in all it was a great event and glad I got to experience it.  Finished the night off suitably by lying over the edge of my bed eating spam fritters drenched in mustard off a plastic tray on the floor.

And work the next day....piece of cake.

FAILURE TO LAUNCH

I say the fish don't fry in the kitchen
Beans don't burn on the grill
It took a whole lot of tryin'
Just to get up that hill 


So here I am.  Almost exactly two years to the day that I set off from Canada to embark on a path of self-discovery and get my groove back.  Quit the job.  Said goodbye to family and friends.  And gave away most of my UFC DVDs.  The journey had begun and I was going to document my new life on-line for the world to see.  Yeah, right.  But better late than never (maybe) and I'll give it the old college try and see if we can't come up with something that's.....something.  Now before I veer off and launch into a diatribe on the failures of the McGuinty government, let's make this easy and address a few questions, pamphlet-style...

1.  Why a blog?  And why now? Especially since people probably stopped giving a shit about 18 months ago.


Fair enough, fair enough.  The intent was always there from get-go.  I mean, what better way to keep friends and well-wishers up-to-date on my escapades than through a simple and easy-to-run weblog?  How hard can that be?  It's not hard.  It's not. But my life-long stumbling blocks arrived in the form of my love of procrastination and the fact that drinking in front of the TV trumps just about anything.  Eventually though, ambition (and shame) did rear it's head.  I figured a blog may be helpful to someone considering a career-change, or a youngster looking to the culinary world as a vocation.  I could provide guidance or hope or - most probably - help friends kill time while at work.  Nevertheless, I figured a chronicle of The OCCW could have a permanence in cyberspace.  An electronic time capsule if you will.  I've been looking at blogs for  while now and considering how horrifically boring most of them are, I figured I couldn't do any worse.  

And truthfully, I've run out women to facebook-stalk so it was time to channel energies elsewere...


2.  Why a chef?  Is it because you like pigging out you fat bastard?

I get asked this question most often by people here in the UK.  Why would you leave the safe cocoon of white-collared, medical-benefits-entitled, forty-hour-work-week life for the harsh, low-paying, retarted-donkey world of kitchens.  I do think about this a lot.  Why did I want to become a chef.  And I have to go way back.  I remember meeting with my Grade 8 guidance counselor Mr. Shepard about career aspirations (this was mandatory and not because I was 12 and confused about my "life plan").  He asked me what I wanted to be and I said "chef".  I recall too that he mentioned another classmate wanted to be a chef which made me second-guess my choice - I did quite well academically and this other kid was a loser.  

But still, what got me thinking "chef" at that point?  My mother's always been a fantastic cook and made me appreciate what food was, especially in comparison to the slop I ate at some friend's homes.  And I'm sure there is - as with many in the kitchen profession - some root in Freud's "Oral Fixation".  I love eating.  I love drinking.  And I love clamping on to a boob when I get the rare chance.  But ultimately, I have figured out (only just recently) that two people put me on this path.


The first was Jack Tripper.  "Three's Company" was the shit at this time and dude was the coolest guy around (RIP John Ritter).  And not uncoincidentally, also a chef - 

During this same time, after school - when my friends and I weren't beating the shit out of each by practicing pro-wrestling moves - I would come home to the tube and this Canadian Legend.  A huge cleaver.  Barely-decipherable English.  And there wasn't a whole lot that distinguished one dish from the next.  But dammit, it was cool - 







"Wok the heck".  Brilliant.  So that's it.  Introspection done!  One thing to note here is how television influenced a major component of my life.  This is actually a running theme through everything.  And then many years later Gordon Ramsay came along and said, "Make something of your life you fat, flabby twat!".  And here I am.  

Although all I ever tell people is some bullshit about art meeting science...



3.  What can I expect from The OCCW?

The vision behind "Where's Your Head At?" is to provide insight into the kitchen profession: the atmosphere, the people, the food, the life.  And then to weave personal stories through this diary: my travels, new cultural experiences, romances, interesting people, sexual escapades, and....

You know what?  Maybe I should be honest with myself.  This is going to be a forum for me to talk shit about people I work with and the TV shows I love, with a few drinking stories thrown in.

And in an effort to create buzz and draw a half million followers so I can sell some ads, I've created a promo which I guarantee is far more exciting than what it promotes -





Basement Jaxx - "Where's Your Head At?"

This is a kick-ass tune and was also sort of mental theme song for me when I was packing up and moving to the UK. Hence, it seemed fitting to become the title as well.


There.  Blog started.  Fuckin' hell, I'm wiped.