This is a true life kitchen account from a kitchen hand I may or may not know. It has quite a lot of writing so if you can’t read very well it is probably not for you… it is a good read though I feel. Some name have been changed to protect the innocent and make this sound a bit more like a new Australian soapie/porno. Siiiiiiick…. G
PS that “G” thing that goes on at the end of the writing that is in italics sometimes at the start of other peoples shit. That’s me. My name starts with G. And sometimes A and sometimes F… story for another time though…
This is tale of a young boys’ venture into adulthood, or some similar bullshit. Filled with glorious anecdotes, and memories… Or once again, some similar bullshit. Here we go.
I was just a fresh faced kid when i walked in the front doors of the Ramsay St Pub, innocent, a go getter. But soon it got the better of me, the treacherous depths of a kitchen. See, the kitchen is like a beautiful women, both ferocious and soft natured. It can drop you on your knees, and spank the shit out of you, but at the same time stroke your cheek and tell you everything is beautiful.
I started work one sunny Thursday afternoon (a shift I later found out, I wouldn’t be paid for). My brother had recently got a job there, and told me all about the intricate tapestry of the kitchen. So similarly I wanted to be a part of the family.
I received a phone call about half an hour before they wanted me to work, because some dropkick dish pig forgot (he’s gone now, thank fuck). As i wandered in fresh faced, and ready for anything I met several faces to soon become familiar and soon to leave. That first shift was similar to having sex for the first time, everything rushed and awkward as fuck. Strictly no eye contact, and a friendly goodbye as you’re kicked out the door.
I met my first head chef Reginald, a funny looking Englishman, who was quick to temper but fair. I also met the other two chefs, Michael, a short but mean Canadian, and Vincent (I’ll talk about Vincent later).
They were to become not only chefs but friends, as gay as that sounds. Fuck it, I loved those guys.
Amongst the crew, there was also one apprentice, a couple of larders and my brother. We were all close, but I watched them leave one by one.
I learnt quickly to stay out of the chefs way, and to kiss their asses when they asked. It was a tedious task, but I believe I pulled it off. Learning the kitchen back to front was a task I took on quite early, and it seemed to gain praise from the boss.
It was about three weeks in, and my sixth shift that I first learnt who Rodger and Luci were. See, they were the bosses, similar to mafia king pins. They controlled the foot men, and stood back in the shadows. I fell instantly in love with Rodger, his laugh is enough to mesmerise anyone. His dulcet tones were enough to put a smile on anyones face. Jesus, now it looks like I’m infatuated with the man… I’m not going to deny it.
Amongst the chefs, Vincent was the one I grew closest too. He’s docile, and loving. But fuck can he be infuriating. It’s apparently “his way or the highway”, but fuck that shit, his way can get licked. I do have to thank him though, for the all godly name he gave me. Because there were two Liams, the English Liam and myself, a nick name had to be devised.
One night, Jason had the bright idea to call me Jimmy. A name which has stuck, and often caused confusion amongst the front of house staff, ‘cause they’re a little slow… unlike us kitchen folk.
I happily plodded by week to week, scrubbing dishes, kissing ass, and just generally carving shit up. Righteous I know.
As the months went by the staff changed drastically. There was the addition of new apprentices and chefs, as well as the loss of the entire staff, except for myself.
One new apprentice which happened to catch my attention was Blonde Bush. The rough nut mother fucker from Coffs harbour. She’s a hard bitch and not one to be crossed, but I wouldn’t trade her. She just looks so cute when she’s mad. Heh, yeah I know, I’m cute as fuck.
Everything was peachy and about to get better when one night, during the greatest storm Ramsay St had ever seen, a tall, gorgeous looking man worked the pans. I believe it was a Tuesday night, the sky looked as if it were going to swallow the pub whole and regurgitate it all over the neighbouring paddocks. Ahh, the storm of 78′. He kind of skulked around, sticking to the shadows, casting occasional glances across the kitchen. He was a rugged, long haired, mischievous looking rapscallion, and took it upon himself to silence the thundering gods. Within two steps he was down the back stairs, screaming words of fury towards the black plume in the sky, and with the clap of two almighty hands sent the storm fleeing from sight. I can already guess you think this is bullshit, and you’d be right, But fuck it’d be a cool story.
It wasn’t until the next night that he came out of his shell, exposing the raw, hairy, pink underbelly of his soul. He was a gentle man, with a vulgar mind and an acid tongue, quick witted and smart as fuck. He was Sarah
He was the man they based the bible around, but preferred anonymity, modest, and cute as a button. Without him the Ramsay St Pub would be a dull cesspool of poor spellers, and Coffs Harbour trash.
I can still remember the first time he really spoke to me, the first lesson he blessed upon my eager ears, “up the bum no babies”. God was he a sweet talker. We grew to become friends more then master and slave, well at least I’d like to think so. I couldn’t have asked for a better Cheffrey.
Over the near on two years I’ve been there, i’ve been granted more and more responsibility, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love working amongst friends, and making food for the faceless masses that pass through the doors of our humble little pub. Unbeknownst to the patrons that sit at the bar, or in the restaurant, the kitchen is filled with filthy mouthed, bright eyed workers eager to please. All over indulgent in poisonous substances, we get along just fine.
Without the Kitchen my pockets would be empty, and my skill set minuscule. I couldn’t work anywhere else, and I don’t want too. Fuck Mcdonalds and fuck Video Ezy, that shits for pussies. If you’ve ever thought of working in a kitchen, do yourself a favour and do it. You won’t regret it.
See, wasn’t too bad now was it? That was my rushed recount of my time so far at the Ramsay St Hotel, I guess I hope you liked it. If not, whatever man. Eat a dick.
2 responses to “A Pigs Tail… or ‘A Dish-pigs Tale’… yeah. That’s heaps better”
i like how you tell me to eat a dick. yes. nom nom nom
aah yes. laser guided penis. straight to your mouth…