The Final Week

Gordon Ramsay didn’t turn up to call me a “silly bloody tit” even once.

And so it happened that I actually got through a whole bloody season.

It’s been done before, could never be looked at as a feat on the magnitude of, say, Everest but… actually no! Bugger it. I’m putting my neck out here… it’s a pretty big deal Sir Hillary (I googled it. That’s the first guy on the moon. Actual facts here people).

I nearly walked out, quite a few pots were chucked against the kitchen wall, hosts were shouted at, ribs were broken and meals were forgotten. Slopes were skied, beers were downed, all-nighters backed up with all-nighters and Gordon Ramsay didn’t turn up to call me a “silly bloody tit” even once.

So would I do it again? Hell no. Would I suggest anyone else do it? Hell yea. But don’t come crying to me when you’ve got egg in your hair, ski’s up your arse and more STD’s than a TOWIE returner.

And so it is that last night I completed my 101st and final service in a kitchen vastly unequipped to cook a fry-up – let alone serve the quality dishes deserving of the wealthy , expectant, 18 guests it served or to help out a chef who was vastly incapable of “getting-away-with-it” following a little white lie.

(Does it count as a “white-lie” when somebody says they’ve been head chef of a 90 seater Gastro pub, when in actual fact, he was a waiter there? Naaaaa.)

Alright so perhaps it was a bit cheeky, and just maybe I bit off a little more than I could chew. Potentially there were some fairly dodgy moments, in particular the first week of guests,  Christmas week, when I realised the Turkey wouldn’t fit in the oven and I’d never actually seen anyone cook for this amount on such a special day without (thinking of the Mother) stretching the prep throughout an entire week or more. But those challenges were overcome and this pub waiter who occasionally likes to cook a posh dinner for the ladies, managed to get to the end.

And this final week was a real good laugh. I’ve been able to push my food much closer to what my intentions had been initially. That being, before I realised I was screwed and I might not be able to do this, and Heston’s Triple Cooked Chips, eleven-different-elements-on-a-dish, and Michelin starred food were, frankly, somewhat unrealistic. More recently I’ve allowed myself to play around with more complex meals: bettering my techniques, my time-management, my plating, my on-the-go cleanliness and my invention.

So as we say goodbye our final guests, I can reflect on a job well done and a white lie overcome. I’ve made some mates for life, I’ve had an experience I’ll never forget, I’ve improved as “chef” and a person and I’ve learnt something: never, ever, do another ski season where they tell you the guests are getting a three-course meal with options… and there are eighteen of them. Unless, of course, you can cook. Or bullshit: heavily. Heavily, heavily bullshit.

And now for the deep-clean.

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