My empty soul, my hypercritical mind assure me everything will go wrong. I’ll go wrong. My inner voice seemed to be that of a whiney teenager.
I’m 60+ years old. Until a few weeks ago I was a KP (Kitchen Porter) and ‘potwash’ – the lowest form of life in the professional kitchen. It was great. I worked with some lovely people in some heated moments. Now I have to complete my Masters degree, spend time with my wife, be a regular human being, a ‘civilian’. Being a potwash, a KP, saved me from a sticky end.
I’ve been a journalist, an editor, a TV captioner. I had been a book editor in London and a managing editor in Australia. I had owned and run a bakery. Meeting old friends and colleagues as I occasionally did by phone or email, has been ‘challenging’ to say the least.
My bakery in ‘Yorkshire’s food capital’ had closed for good a few years before and I was shorn of all confidence. I was terrified about going into work with a group of top-of-their-game professionals. I was scared even of putting my foot out of my front door. I was scared of other people. In my late 50s. Scared of people. My grandfather Murphy would have snorted in derision.
Difficult for a frail male ego that is. Mine that is.
I’ve still not baked a loaf of bread or made a scone or a flan or a quiche or a pie that I’m proud of or feel anything for since the place closed down. My motherdoughs are in the fridge with a thick black ethanol liquor on their surfaces. I could bring them back to life. It could bring me back to life.
It’s just washing pots
So anyway, I began my life as what the French call a ‘Plongeur’ on a hot, humid night in July. I was in my late fifties, fresh from a crashing failure, overweight, skint and taking no joy in anything.
Here’s what went through my head on my first day.
I know I’ll drop those dishes and glasses, smash them, not be fast enough, not be fit enough. I know I’ll hold the team up on one of the busiest nights of the year. I am old and slow and overweight. I just happen to know some really good people who are short-staffed.
I’m worried about what to wear: it’s pot wash. It’s just washing pots.
I’m worried about what to say: no one will see me. It’s just washing pots.
I’m worried about fucking up: it’s just washing plates and pots and glasses.
I’m worried about everything: I’ve worked in kitchens for years. It’s just washing pots.
I had a business, it failed. The death of my bakery left me in a lot of debt. It left me with no energy and also with the certain realisation that it was my fault entirely.
Don’t believe my hype
I made good bread. Good pastries. I know I did. I think I did. I probably didn’t. I probably made horrible food.
“Chase your dream. Open that bakery. You only live once! It’s your passion!” said my friends. Said other chefs and professionals. I fell in love with the ‘You got this’ vibe.
But, but, but! Looking back, I was like the people I saw on TV saying, “Mum told me I was a great cook so I opened a restaurant”. The people who sane people yell, “Noooooo, don’t!” at the TV about.
“You fucking idiot”, my grandfather Murphy would have said.
First night jitters
My first night was a busy one, it was university graduation day for a city with two universities. Proud families with brilliant children looking into bright futures, out of their special meals. Rites of passage. Important moments in life. I don’t want to let anybody down.
As I walked in to work for the first time, I bullied myself in my lately unsupportive manner. My empty soul, my hypercritical mind assure me everything will go wrong. I’ll go wrong. My inner voice seemed to be that of a whiney teenager.
So, of course I didn’t want to go in. I was sick with foreboding. I’m a 55 year old crumb. It’s just a pot wash job.
I will hide in my house, away from my wife, away from the work, the people. Let the furies go elsewhere. Maybe I could die here tonight if I wished hard enough? I am wishing hard enough.
But I’ve made an agreement. Those pots and plates and glasses need washing. The good, gracious people at my favourite restaurant where I used to eat when I had money, where I would take my wife, those good, gracious people are expecting me to turn up, do a shift, wash some crockery and cutlery, and go home.
After the work is done. I’ll walk home through the night to my wife and my dog and my home and I’ll hide until tomorrow night.
I breathed slowly in and out. I looked up at the city-blighted night sky. I fought back tears. I opened the door to work.
(more of this soon)
