He was hot, way too hot. Dehydration had started to kick in and his brain wasn’t functioning properly. Too much caffeine, not enough food. He had forgotten his number one rule, STAY HYDRATED. His choice of triple espresso had now caused him to shake, he had heart palpitations and he was also regretting his choice of underwear. Too loose fitting, he thought as his balls rubbed up against the insides of his legs causing some serious chafing. He could already feel himself doing the subconscious John Wayne walk to try and save himself from this pain, but it was too late and he knew it. Even his favourite post service trick of sitting into a bowl of iced water wouldn’t help. Prevention was always better than cure. Anyway he was too busy to care about that right now, it was Saturday, 8:15pm and he had a full restaurant to deal with.

Cooking was not an issue for him, many weekends had been spent rocking the pans like a pro. He liked to cook instead of running the pass, it made him feel like he was in total control and could see the whole kitchen from his little six burner. Apart from the obvious red raw pain causing him discomfort in the trouser area, this had been a good night, so far, so good. They had around 150 covers booked, that’s with every table turned at least once, pretty standard as this was one of the best restaurants in town. It wasn’t fine dining, more brassiere style, fast paced with a buzzing atmosphere. Fresh food, no bullshit. On the menu that evening were such classics as Fillet of beef wellington, Grilled sole with pommes mousseline, Pear Tart Tatin with vanilla marscapone. His personal favourite was the Shin of Veal ‘Ossobuco’ served on a risotto Milanese finished with fresh lemon zest and parsley. He loved that fucking dish, they would braise the meat for 3/4 hours in red wine, tomatoes and stock with a huge mirepoix of vegetables. After he would strain the cooking liquid, cook it and because of the marrow in the bone of the meat it would jellify so he could drop a few spoonfuls of this jelly stock into his risotto, just as it came up to al dente for that extra explosive punch of flavour. Then a knob of butter, some chiffonade fresh parsley and a fistful of Parmesan. Risotto into a hot bowl, sit the meat on top then a drizzle of good quality olive oil and a grating of fresh lemon zest and you’re good to go. No bullshit remember?

This Osso needs to go now he thought, where are the wait staff? He rang the bell again, this time almost too hard so it only made a thunk noise. Finally some service arrived.

“Which table chef?” Asks the waiter

“24, now” he grumbled back. He felt like the first now didn’t pack enough punch. “NOW!” he shouted causing the waiter to jump slightly but he was immune to the chef’s angry tone and prickish immaturity.

“Going chef” responded the waiter as he motioned ever so slightly to a half plated Sea Bream that was going to a different table.

“Not the Bream, the Osso, take the fucking Osso!” Chef said as he could feel his temple twitching and his nether regions burning.

“Which table?” the waiter asked innocently

“Look it’s two fucking Osso, table 24 ok? I’ve told you now take it it’s fucking dying under these lights, it’s crusting over like my mum’s unfuckable vagina now just take the fucking food!”

“Ok chef, it’s only been a minute” the waiter said, immune to the hostility, he knew that the chef was a service dickhead, all pumped up on caffeine and adrenaline, no point to argue with this sweaty idiot. “Looks great chef, thank you!” He knew this would get a reaction as he started to leave the pass.

“Wanker” the now incandescent chef at the cook line said after him. His sauces were reducing gently but his blood was boiling. “I stand here all day cooking this stuff and no one comes to take it to the table? You’re all to busy taking fucking orders, I’m stood here ringing that bell like a sweaty Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

It didn’t matter, the waiter had left, he was shouting at nobody. Even the other cooks had stopped listening. The customers were served two beautiful plates of food, everyone was happy, except one. There was no doubting that this chef had a problem that was more than just being a dickhead.

It hurt him to have that conversation. That waiter was just a normal guy with a normal life and the same problems as him. The other side of that kitchen door he was probably having his own shit show to deal with. Usually an incredulous customer taking their own bad mood out on him. You know the type, probably had an argument in the car on the way down and now he’s itching for a fight about something as his wife sits there silent and embarrassed wondering why she married this prick in the first place. You can always judge the character of a person by how they speak to a waiter. Now he has the chef on his case too? Fuck this.

He never meant to be like this, maybe it was a combination of the heat, hunger, tiredness and stress. He’d been struggling for some time, drinking more than normal, not sleeping, coming home late at night stinking of kitchen to a silent house where everyone was asleep only to wake up before everybody in the morning and leave the house without having a single conversation. His wife also worked full time, she had a harder job than he did and still managed to do all of the school runs, look after the kids every night and weekend on her own. He felt guilty that he basically made her a single parent. Even when he did see his family he would sometimes just sit there staring blankly at a wall not listening to anything his family said to him, staying silent in a perpetual daydream reliving the previous day in his mind, the things he said, the negative feedback he had about food he took so much pride in. Wallowing in self doubt about his abilities and asking himself how he became this guy. This complete asshole. He didn’t deserve anyone, he wasn’t a good husband, he wasn’t a good father, he felt like he was a total waste of space.

He’d seen many chefs come and go in his time, some of them just disappeared into thin air. One day they were at work, next day they were gone. It was usually always drug and alcohol related, a standard way to burn off the excess stress from a busy shift. For some it was one shift too many, one hangover too much one early morning start after a skin-full that they couldn’t raise themselves for. Sometimes he would hear stories about where they ended up, most of them never went back into kitchens some would find jobs and get back on track, some would never be heard from again. It was those that he was worried about. Worried that the stress of the job and the alcohol and substance abuse had finally taken its toll, worried that the catering industry had chewed them up and spat them back out, worried that one day it would happen to him, maybe one day after work he would sit into the icy water and never get out. Maybe the shock of the freezing temperature would cause him to stop breathing and he would finally cease to be and leave this fucking life for good. What hurt him the most was that he wasn’t to bothered about that. If that was his way to go from this world then he welcomed it. One day his lifeless body would be found, butt naked next to an upturned washing up bowl, surrounded by tepid water and he didn’t care. He really didn’t give a fuck.

Something had to change.

To be continued…