My Life As A Chef
I am a chef. I have difficulty saying that. I'm already picturing you thinking about me working long hours for no money in a grubby basement kitchen. Sweaty, angry, tired, untrustworthy, uncivilised, not socially trained, just about managing ridiculous alcohol or drug addiction and unable to string a sentence together without punctuating every other word with fuck.
'I am a chef' is what I say to excuse all this unruly unmannered behaviour - it became my identity. I worked for massive restaurants, really big ones. This is what always comes after 'I am a chef'. It helps with my fear of you judging me. Running a busy service in the top kitchen is hard to understand.
There is so much pressure to make sure every plate is perfect; I am inspecting everything looking for something to be wrong, not admiring what is amazing. Amazing is the standard. Someone is checking my checking. Thirty adults hot, tired, exhausted all under a microscope, all pushed on time.
You never lose your shit. You lose it, then everyone goes down. It's a passive-aggressive paradise, it's a wet dream of one-upmanship. There is a constant stream of runners too scared to say anything except "yes chef".
If you're not good enough, you're told. Not angrily or aggressively, and definitely without shouting, but sincerely straight to your face, in front of everybody - the more people, the better is - "you're just not good enough and you never will be".
It's a dictatorship, and I am the dictator. But it's exciting, brutally exciting. It's a competitive environment, yet you must work as a team. When you don't, oh my god it's hard. Nonetheless, there is a calm in that chaos. All of us on the edge of a void but never falling. You cannot. Because someone will catch you - and there's always someone else. Although these people aren't your friends, you need them so much, more than anything.
The service is a naughty orgasm of adrenaline and power, and it's addictive. Unfortunately, so is heroin. Like service, this was something I had to do every day. The way I used heroin undermined anything I ever achieved. I once had a little article about me published in Esquire magazine - they had Leonardo Di Caprio on the cover! - which made me even smugger when buying my copy.
To this day I never tell anyone about it, scared that if they search my name, the first article that comes up is from my local paper when I was jailed for the supply of class A drugs. This crippling dependency led me throwing all away and going to treatment in the west country. Treatment isn't one of the options on a spa break. It is the latest word for rehab after Amy Winehouse made the name so passé and bad for business that if they hadn't made a radical change, they would have closed.
After a two-year hiatus from cooking, I started to get that itch and craving back. I knew something was happening when I kept having 'moments' watching Chefs Table - I'm still triggered when I hear the opening music. The legend street Jesus would love it 'ah, Chris, Chris, did you feel that? Did you? Uhm.' Whilst looking to the heavens almost foaming at the mouth and close to convulsions, goose-bumps, pointing at his erect ginger arm hair. A few pop-ups ensued that brought up all those feelings that my body was missing: the pressure, the control, the tiredness, feeling permitted to talk to people like shit, not eating for twelve hours and convincing myself this makes me stronger than you.
Deliriousness, excitement, there's a lovely hum of nervous energy flowing around. Then the adoration when customers, friends and family tell me that the food is great, but within minutes I convince myself they are all lying. I know this is all unhealthy, but there is a huge comfort for me too. This need has now developed into working with a friend at a new café project.
The café is the kind of place you dream of with your partner in bed on a Sunday morning. It's in an old fire station with big oak benches and cobbled floors. Great large blackboards adorn the walls covered with the specials. We cater for everyone. Keto, vegans, vegetarians, kids, VIPs (this is the restaurant trades complimentary way of saying OAPs until someone kicks off at why they aren't very important, 'isn't every one very important?'). Gluten-free? We got you. Our vegan dishes are literally food-porn goodness: no alternative, only fresh, healthy filth.
The food supplies are ninety per cent from what would normally go to landfill from shops, and the only meat on our menu come from supermarkets with excess stock due to an overorder. To me, it's as ethical as it can get, although the man Bill would ask 'Chris can you explain which bit of killing an animal is ethical?' He has a point.
Although this doesn't sit well with me as I do eat meat. Not often because I believe it's a luxury, a treat, rather than something that should be carelessly consumed daily. It feels more than selfish to eat meat three meals a day; we should respect and celebrate more the fact that what we are eating what once was alive and breathing. We consume meat without even thinking about what animals go through to make it affordable. For example, when I try bacon, sometimes I can see that shiny oil colouring it, a glisten like fish skin. That's adrenaline, so I know the animal was scared on its way into the abattoir. Not cool.
But even with our noblest intentions, we had to compromise. So we order sausages and bacon because we're serving breakfast after all, and opening a café that hasn't got a breakfast menu in a deprived seaside town is commercial suicide.
As we get more established with what we are doing, I must remind myself that getting involved in this community business was partly about giving back. Deep down, though, I was seeking that buzz of service. It's a difficult balancing act between wanting to provide excellent, accessible food to everyone and knowing I'm far too good for this. The boxes that needed ticking in me aren't quite there yet.
Not knowing what the stock will be day to day can be inspiring and frustrating at the same time. I thought I would showcase all my creative talent, but so far has resulted in me bastardising the ideas of much better chefs I worked with or googling sexy things to do with runner beans - which usually leads me into a rabbit hole of the best knots to use in a noose.
It's hard doing everything myself, even the washing up. It's also lonely. I miss the constant chat and bullshit, the little silly things, 'Service!', 'Oui chef, I can take it', 'I bet you can Pedro but could you please take this to table forty-two first'. That back and forth to keep your mind ticking over. Being alone is sapping. And loneliness is really affecting me.
One day, whilst queuing behind an elderly man at the fish and chip shop, I almost burst in tears at the thought of him going back to an empty house and eat alone. Luckily, the only thing that stopped a tear actually rolling down my cheek was thinking that probably he had someone waiting for him to share dinner.
I'm not as motivated either without an audience to perform for or, without a bag of heroin at the end of each day. Or maybe I'm just not used to the personal aspect of a café or offering something for everyone. It's different from a restaurant, where you're lucky to get a table, and you order a menu that's been expertly created for pleasure. But it can also be enjoyable to be somewhere everyone is welcome until I'm stuck in my tiny kitchen. There are similarities, anyway. One minute I'm stood around anxiously panicking about how we will go through the day, the next the place is full for lunch, and I'm panicking making sure everyone gets their delicious meals in time.
Sometimes it gets so tempting to cut corners telling myself no one here would notice, tempting because I know I could get away with it. Four breakfasts are never four breakfasts, one keto, one vegan, one veggie, one full. Different tongs and trays to avoid cross-contamination. One asks for eggs in the vegan breakfast - really, eggs? Isn't having eggs with a vegan breakfast just a veggie breakfast? Amateurs.
Sally from upstairs wants her usual and a piece of cake to take away - 'who the fuck is Sally?'. Three VIPs seat with their kimchi toasties discussing how interesting the flavours are, proclaiming they thought kimchi was the daughter of that couple who runs that beautiful little Korean restaurant. They’re struggling to hear themselves as little Noah screams from his highchair because a baked bean has inadvertently touched his sourdough toast. Yes, even middle-class children on plant-based diets got bored of avocado on toast and returned to beans on toast.
Susan would like to ask how you made her cashew tzatziki with her pickled courgette bap. She thinks it's the tastiest vegan meal she's ever had - of course she does, she's eaten nothing but grains for the last twelve months!
The guys on six find the confit chicken and maple syrup waffles amazing - I know. Do you know how? Because I made them. Gemma wants something keto but extra fatty, maybe mozzarella because she didn't lose any weight last week. I think mozzarella? Can you see that anywhere on the menu? I'm good but I'm not a fucking magician. Why don't you nip down the seafront and milk a donkey then we'll make some cheese. However I ask her if goat's cheese is okay, I've got some nice smoked stuff here.
It can be unnecessarily stressful keeping everyone happy, but it can also be very rewarding and flattering. It's more stressful trying to stay humble and make sure we keep going, as we're doing better than anticipated and building something sustainable and different.
Two years ago, I lost everything. It's a process that rewarded me with a life I never really had. Now to finish this washing up grumbling to me about being in Esquire once, I'll leave you with our motto. Love what you do.
Written by Chris Wade
I'm 37 from newbury. I've been cooking professionally for 20 years mainly in London. I now live in the beautifully quaint Weston Super Mare with my fiance.