So the job hunt is over, I will be woking here.
Cambridge is a long way from here, I'm going to have to pay two rents and for train tickets home on my day off. All of this would be fine for me if it didn't mean that I have to live away from the one I love for 6 months. It's not all bad, the food is right up my alley and the chef is good guy, and seem to really like me. He apparently called off the two applicants following me so he could offer me the job right away. I also like Cambridge, a lot -- it is so much more me than Birmingham and blessedly free of scummers. Just why oh why can't anything be simple?
Cambridge is a long way from here, I'm going to have to pay two rents and for train tickets home on my day off. All of this would be fine for me if it didn't mean that I have to live away from the one I love for 6 months. It's not all bad, the food is right up my alley and the chef is good guy, and seem to really like me. He apparently called off the two applicants following me so he could offer me the job right away. I also like Cambridge, a lot -- it is so much more me than Birmingham and blessedly free of scummers. Just why oh why can't anything be simple?
Wow... look for jobs outside of Birmingham and bam! (proves that this place is still a culinary wasteland.)
I've been looking at live in jobs around London and in the country (also in Cambridge), posted my CV on Cater.com and my phone hasn't stopped ringing. I have one job offer already, but it's a hotel that's rebuilding it's restaurant. I have a trial at a 3 AA rosette place in Buckinghamshire on wensday, probably another one or two in Cambridge at the end of the week.
Of course the problem of all of this is that I have to be away from the lady 5 nights a week, but I suppose you have to do, what you have to do...
Speaking of which, I feel the wheels of history turning, don't fuck it up, America.
I've been looking at live in jobs around London and in the country (also in Cambridge), posted my CV on Cater.com and my phone hasn't stopped ringing. I have one job offer already, but it's a hotel that's rebuilding it's restaurant. I have a trial at a 3 AA rosette place in Buckinghamshire on wensday, probably another one or two in Cambridge at the end of the week.
Of course the problem of all of this is that I have to be away from the lady 5 nights a week, but I suppose you have to do, what you have to do...
Speaking of which, I feel the wheels of history turning, don't fuck it up, America.
I left my job last week.
Normally when I leave a shit job I feel light, free of a burden that I know I did't really need anyways. This time it's different, I can't help but feel that I might have made a mistake. Worry and guilt plauge my mind, as I try to figure out what the difference is. I think I know what it is.
You/Her (depending on the pespective of the reader)
When it's me alone no one else has to suffer, it's fine, I even in enjoy my suffering (but you all knew that). When someone else has to suffer with you, when they have already suffered through a year of me being unable to get paid work (for whatever reason), I am not eager to be in any sort of like situation again soon. Birmingham is not exactly the cultural center it would like to be, on top of already troubled economic times, finding a suitible job may be difficult. It's keeping me up nights.
I am reminded of France, except in France I had friends to call, so lonlieness on top of guilt. I know it's temporary, i just wish I could snap my fingers and make it all right, isn't that all anyone ever wants?
Times like this make me think, and think and think. My head is wound like an expensive watch. All conflict and doubt. I've been a vagabond too long, I want a life, as complete as it was, but that's not enough, not by a longshot. I feel it's time I take my place in the world, make my mark, whatever that is. I'm not content to just float by anymore I want to do something, something worthwhile. I just need to face in that direction... any direction
I'm also missn' America somthin' fierce right now...
Normally when I leave a shit job I feel light, free of a burden that I know I did't really need anyways. This time it's different, I can't help but feel that I might have made a mistake. Worry and guilt plauge my mind, as I try to figure out what the difference is. I think I know what it is.
You/Her (depending on the pespective of the reader)
When it's me alone no one else has to suffer, it's fine, I even in enjoy my suffering (but you all knew that). When someone else has to suffer with you, when they have already suffered through a year of me being unable to get paid work (for whatever reason), I am not eager to be in any sort of like situation again soon. Birmingham is not exactly the cultural center it would like to be, on top of already troubled economic times, finding a suitible job may be difficult. It's keeping me up nights.
I am reminded of France, except in France I had friends to call, so lonlieness on top of guilt. I know it's temporary, i just wish I could snap my fingers and make it all right, isn't that all anyone ever wants?
Times like this make me think, and think and think. My head is wound like an expensive watch. All conflict and doubt. I've been a vagabond too long, I want a life, as complete as it was, but that's not enough, not by a longshot. I feel it's time I take my place in the world, make my mark, whatever that is. I'm not content to just float by anymore I want to do something, something worthwhile. I just need to face in that direction... any direction
I'm also missn' America somthin' fierce right now...
Apparently I've been in unintentional hiding.
I think I'm going to find a new job. I don't want to be meh about work, I waned to be excited, about the ingredients, about the food, and I'm willing to take some risks to achieve it.
Other than that, not much to report, my life outside of work has been fairly domestic lately, buying things for the house, havng the odd beer at the pub. The most interesting thing to happen recently was a house party with the local ska band (yes they still have that here) and that was a lot of fun.
I think I'm going to find a new job. I don't want to be meh about work, I waned to be excited, about the ingredients, about the food, and I'm willing to take some risks to achieve it.
Other than that, not much to report, my life outside of work has been fairly domestic lately, buying things for the house, havng the odd beer at the pub. The most interesting thing to happen recently was a house party with the local ska band (yes they still have that here) and that was a lot of fun.
£1300 !!!!!
It feels so good to be paid, to have my own money for the first time in a year. Anyone who says money doesn't matter has never been without it, or has no pride either way they can go fuck themselves.
Speaking of fuck. The restaurant I'm working at is a high volume 300 covers a night kinda place, the trouble is fuckall happens untill 8, then all at once, they start to sit and Sous chef Helen calls out from the pass, "Assume the position!" and the next thing you know you are buried in checks, swearing at the polish food runner who keeps asking for that mixed salad when you are in the middle of starters for tables 901, 903 and 803, all of which have between 10 and 20 people seated and I'm having to do double work because my commis has a hangover and is doing one plate to my five. I scream at him and he looks at me like I've grown a second head. Meantime that scummy fuck from the hot side is sneering because I've fallen behind and he likes to make other peoples buisness his own, so I stop plating, go over to his section, look him in the eyes, "Do you ever shut the fuck up?!" I return to my station and finish my plates as the waiters snigger and point at him, scum of the earth they call him.
I have missed all of it. It's who I am.
It feels so good to be paid, to have my own money for the first time in a year. Anyone who says money doesn't matter has never been without it, or has no pride either way they can go fuck themselves.
Speaking of fuck. The restaurant I'm working at is a high volume 300 covers a night kinda place, the trouble is fuckall happens untill 8, then all at once, they start to sit and Sous chef Helen calls out from the pass, "Assume the position!" and the next thing you know you are buried in checks, swearing at the polish food runner who keeps asking for that mixed salad when you are in the middle of starters for tables 901, 903 and 803, all of which have between 10 and 20 people seated and I'm having to do double work because my commis has a hangover and is doing one plate to my five. I scream at him and he looks at me like I've grown a second head. Meantime that scummy fuck from the hot side is sneering because I've fallen behind and he likes to make other peoples buisness his own, so I stop plating, go over to his section, look him in the eyes, "Do you ever shut the fuck up?!" I return to my station and finish my plates as the waiters snigger and point at him, scum of the earth they call him.
I have missed all of it. It's who I am.
I need money money money...
I get paid next week, thank god!
I drank a lot of ate yesterday and ate at a bad French restaurant, not a bad way to spend a day off...
I get paid next week, thank god!
I drank a lot of ate yesterday and ate at a bad French restaurant, not a bad way to spend a day off...
Ugh knackered.
This used to be easier, a year of idless and l'ennui francais sure gives the work ethic a knock. I'm sure I'll get used to 5 nights a week, three of them 14 hour doubles again, but for now, I just need the rest. I'm staying at this restaurant through christmas (for the bonuses) then taking my two weeks paid vacation in january and I will use that time to find another job. This is the kind of place that could kill the industry for me. The chef is talented, but jaded, very jaded. He thinks there are no good cooks in the world (except for himself of course), and is upset when people don't know intuitively what he wants. "oh, sorry chef, did you not want the plate to look like that? What did you want it to look like?" ( has made a beetroot salad, a pretty one, with an orderly french style presentation)
"well I don't want something that looks as horrible as that"
He then walked back to the pass having given me no indication of what he wanted. The man thinks he's Gordan Ramsey, but he's not. Gordan Ramsey is a chef I respect, he understands that as head chef you must be policeman, mentor and teacher all at the same time. I have no time for a chef who has no time for me. I'm a good chef, a very good chef, but I'm not a mind reader.
I was given the night off tonight, because it's slow and my salary is higher than most, so I have three days to rest. So I can go back and kick his ass (metaphoricly). I want to become a cook he trusts and respects, so that when I leave I can do it dramaticly and maybe kick him out of his complacency.
The food really isn't good enough to put up with this shit.
Thank god for kombulai, my little commis chef from laos. He keeps me endlessly entertained, "when I live in laos, I used to go always to thailand after midnight for massage with happy ending, you know happy ending?"
or
"this one time I put thermometer inside this woman pussy, 43 degrees!"
or
"Hey dickhead, you bum boy?"
Characters like him are one of the reasons that I love this industry so.
I feel like this today:
This used to be easier, a year of idless and l'ennui francais sure gives the work ethic a knock. I'm sure I'll get used to 5 nights a week, three of them 14 hour doubles again, but for now, I just need the rest. I'm staying at this restaurant through christmas (for the bonuses) then taking my two weeks paid vacation in january and I will use that time to find another job. This is the kind of place that could kill the industry for me. The chef is talented, but jaded, very jaded. He thinks there are no good cooks in the world (except for himself of course), and is upset when people don't know intuitively what he wants. "oh, sorry chef, did you not want the plate to look like that? What did you want it to look like?" ( has made a beetroot salad, a pretty one, with an orderly french style presentation)
"well I don't want something that looks as horrible as that"
He then walked back to the pass having given me no indication of what he wanted. The man thinks he's Gordan Ramsey, but he's not. Gordan Ramsey is a chef I respect, he understands that as head chef you must be policeman, mentor and teacher all at the same time. I have no time for a chef who has no time for me. I'm a good chef, a very good chef, but I'm not a mind reader.
I was given the night off tonight, because it's slow and my salary is higher than most, so I have three days to rest. So I can go back and kick his ass (metaphoricly). I want to become a cook he trusts and respects, so that when I leave I can do it dramaticly and maybe kick him out of his complacency.
The food really isn't good enough to put up with this shit.
Thank god for kombulai, my little commis chef from laos. He keeps me endlessly entertained, "when I live in laos, I used to go always to thailand after midnight for massage with happy ending, you know happy ending?"
or
"this one time I put thermometer inside this woman pussy, 43 degrees!"
or
"Hey dickhead, you bum boy?"
Characters like him are one of the reasons that I love this industry so.
I feel like this today:
He never fails to suprise me, even five years after his death.
Last night I bought a pastel of a naked lady for a pint and some cpnversation...
There are things about this place that please me, and most of them are in the neighborhood called Mosley, it's full of artists, musicians and weirdos (some of them with dreadlocks and pitt bulls, just like home, the sort you love to hate).
It's going to be an interesting year, I can tell....
