Paris Talk Over Grey Chinese Food

Landing My First Job as a Commis Chef During the Recession

It started with a sunny walk to my first chef job, followed by a network of jaundiced corridors and pitch-stained pub carpet. Into a blur of faded black polyester and blank, white faces.

I was an out-of-work aspiring musician sleeping on a friends sofa in the middle of the 2008 recession, now suddenly a commis chef. Sales jobs were over, high streets were boarded up, and doorways had become bedrooms. I’d hitchhiked into the food industry, thanks to a pub refurb and a friend at the bar who sneakily placed my CV on top of the pile.

“They just hire the first one at the top of the pile,” she told me. I felt lucky for the leg up.

Inside the Kitchen: First Impressions

The meeting started. Everyone sat in sticky plastic chairs facing the restaurant manager—very tall, big sod-off eyebrows, and polished shoes—who began talking about the refurb plan in an arrested, eye-rolling tone.

I remember a very pale woman with goat green eyes and bright red hair, in chef whites and a tiny hat reminiscent of a WWII garrison cap. She would later become my head chef—and, for a time, my partner.

From across the room, she studied me. I looked up to meet her gaze, and she turned away. In hindsight, she looked uneasy. She later admitted she had been worried about another woman in the kitchen, and that perhaps I would be tough to work with—maybe because of my appearance at the time…

The Head Chef Who Faked a Black Eye

The owners brought in an external hire—a large roundish man who loudly boasted about his new head chef salary. Desperate for approval, he bounced around like a wet Labrador. One day, he showed up with a black eye and a dramatic tale, but as the fryer smoke rose and heat built in the kitchen, the bar manager pointed out:

“It’s makeup—his black eye is sweating off.”

A couple of months later, the head chef disappeared.

The red-haired chef took over the kitchen—without the title or pay rise. I was promoted to sous chef. Also no pay rise. No ifs, no buts or you’re out, our contracts and management binding us to the greasy hot plate.

The Best-Run Kitchen I’ve Ever Worked In

There were no big fights, no accidents—besides me tipping a mug of tea down myself when I was trying to be cool in front of Red.

The KP would wash dishes and talk about her Jewish faith and about being a lesbian. She would shout at me on occasion for not liking the music of Pink. She would follow Red around, glaring at me.

On shift there was an assistant chef, a Gollum lookalike. He would swig the kitchen vodka reserved for sauces, and then drunkenly follow female staff home late at night. I let management know about the vodka, and he was gone. Back then, and even when I was so young, I knew that that would more likely be resolved by management than reporting the stalking.

I served fish and chips to Ronnie Corbett and his agent,
“Best food I’ve ever had!” he said, which gave us all a laugh but I was proud.

Pub Life Behind the Kitchen Doors

The kitchen manager was the owner’s wife. Organised in the kitchen but heartbroken by her husband’s affairs with bar staff, she’d often be found open mouth crying at the bar, lost in George Michael playing loud in the background. And would then come in the next morning, stoney faced, and say something about failing musicians…

Their twin sons—identical in looks, matching in clothes—crept silently through the corridors like characters from The Shining. Mini versions of the boss, always walking side by side. Never slowing for anyone.

After Hours

Red would BBQ meat at her house the day after a night of clubbing, or we’d stay up late picking at grey Chinese food. Her room was filled with her works of art—big, film-noir monochrome carvings. Warped faces of old movie stars, gawping at me in their sunglasses perched on muscle cars. She always wanted my honest opinion on her latest piece.

We’d go to different pubs—further up the road from work and more private—on our days off, where no one would know us. We’d drink cheap pints, and talk about eventually escaping it all—moving to Paris, chasing something beyond the fryer fat and late night deck scrubbing.