Experience at Work: The Day It Started (Even If I Was not Aware of It At the Time)

April 1st, 1998. I remember it being a Thursday, but it did not feel very special. With my hands stuffed deep in my coat pockets, I waited for a sign outside the Park Guest House when I arrived in town early that morning on the early bus. I had arrived fifteen minutes early in an effort to appear focused, polished, and perhaps even a little impressive. That was basically my entire arsenal when I was fifteen years old.

Heart pounding, I rang the ring and was greeted by Catherine Afrin, who had interviewed me a few weeks before with Roddy. For that interview, I had put on my finest tie and white shirt, and I had a national record of accomplishment under my arm—which, to be honest, felt completely pointless. I did not have a resume because I did not have anything important to include. No pretentious claims of "passion and dependability," because, let us be honest, I most likely wasn't. I was only a child. But that is something—I was curious.

A Door Crack

When the thought of finding a job began to bother me, I was in my seventh month of college. It seems to be the mature thing to do. I brought it up to Mike Smith, and he informed me that there might be a commis chef position available at the Park Guest House based on some whispered kitchen rumors. I called them. I was invited inside. I was also surprised that the interview did not feel scary.

I was not fumbling over words or perspiring through my shirt for once.

I only dimly recall the kitchen tour: the buzz of refrigerators, the calm chaos of a well-organized kitchen, the stainless steel surfaces, and a piece of baked shortbread that I attempted to politely bite while my tie slowly choked me.

I heard nothing for a few days. Mike was then informed by Joan "Tuilcean" Morrison, a waitress at the Park, that I would most likely receive a call shortly. She was correct. I was hired.

The Crab Claws' baptism

So there I was, wearing a white chef's jacket, an apron, blue checkered pants, and anxiety that had been handed down from the Ark. My very first job? Crab claw shelling. by hand. It seemed to go on forever. I had just finished one batch when another came in. I hear myself questioning whether I made a mistake as my recollection of that day comes to an end.

It did not get any easier in the days that followed.
Throughout the day, I prepared, gradually adjusted to the routine of the kitchen, and then began serving. I detested the heat, the shouting, the adrenaline, and the constant checks. It was too much to take in. I hid back at the dish pit in the hopes of going unnoticed. I convinced myself that this was not going to be my future.

The Unusual Work Experience

We had to select a "work experience" placement from a generic list when we were in school. Just pick something, with no actual debate or assistance. My selections were the Caberfeidh Hotel and Woolworth's, most likely because I like purchasing confections there. In some way, I arrived at the Caberfeidh.

I met Digby Chick star James Mackenzie at a reception. He had a plan: dinner service after a little preparation. He exuded passion and energy, which I did not yet possess. However, James was called away to another hotel before lunchtime, leaving me with a chef who appeared to have lost his zeal sometime in the late 1980s.

I watched the time, kept my head down, followed instructions, and did not ask any questions. It was a hollow feeling. It was followed by the heartbreaking realization that I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.

A Watershed—Because of Mary

A few weeks later, I found myself back in the Park kitchen. Another hectic evening is on the horizon, along with another prep day. I was tucked away once more, still holding onto the hope of leaving—until one of the cooks, Mary, walked into the pot wash, took me by the arm, and declared, "You are not going to learn anything here." I was dragged into service by her.

Something inside of me broke open at that moment.

I began to notice the rhythm, the flow, the teamwork, and not just the orders and the commotion coming from the kitchen. In order to make my knife abilities feel less like guesswork and more like second nature, I focused, asked questions, and practiced. I gained knowledge of flavor. Regarding patience. Regarding time. I gained knowledge about what it means to serve in a brigade.

I almost quit that work, yet it served as the basis for all that came after.

From the Point of Boiling to Actual Life

A Facebook video of Gordon Ramsay giving a tour of his restaurant—celebrating 21 years on Royal Hospital Road—recently brought this thought back to me. I had recently eaten there with my wife. After undergoing a £2 million renovation, the kitchen is now completely open-plan, allowing you to see every station from every angle. Sleek. Exposed. unreservedly luxurious.