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!)