Miles Collins

The Early Years….My First Day in a Hotel Kitchen

This is the story of a commis chef, set in a four star hotel some time in the 1980’s, I have changed the name of the two leading parts to ‘I’ (me) and ‘Chef’ (Chef)

I was destined to be a commis (trainee) chef, I ticked all of the right boxes; young, skinny, stupid and couldn’t cook. The Humber Royal Hotel was the premier hotel in Grimsby and I was desperate to work there. This was still the time of business lunches and big chefs hats, we charged twenty quid (UK pounds sterling) for Dover Sole, served chateaubriand (whole beef fillet) carved at the table and cooked chocolate souffles.

Chef took a gamble employing me, I was an unknown commodity, he had a reputation to uphold and I was there to destroy it. He gave me a job because I begged him to, he must have seen something, unlike another Head Chef who said I wasn’t cut out to work split shifts (twenty odd years on I am working thirteen in a row-bad call, Paul) I was desperate to prove him right, the food and beverage manager; Stalin in a black jacket and skirt warmed to me like a lanced boil. I eventually won her over with four years of unpaid overtime.

I walked into the kitchen with my brand new set of knives in spotless canvess knife bag. Chef took one look and told me 95% of them were ‘crap’. I was dumbfounded, my collection of plastic handled ‘laser’ knives would never need sharpening I told him, he repiled with an almighty silence, just eyes and eyebrows. He was good at that, it was a standard look that became a part of me in the same way that breathing does.

First job was to put my hat on, it was made of concrete lined paper with a large white band at the bottom and ribbed upper end for comfort and pleasure. There was no pleasure in wearing a hat designed in 1756, it weighed more than me, the adhesive never stuck, the ends curled up with the sweat it induced from my forehead before collapsing like a souffle every time you hit it on the underside of the extraction canopy. 

Ratatouille was the first job, ‘Do you know what it is?’ asked chef, ‘Not really’ said I, already feeling out of my depth at the sight of an aubergine. Chef wanted to test my knife skills, he could have saved time and just asked me because I didn’t have any and after one red bell pepper that became quite apparent.

I was put on the veg section. The ‘Entremetier’ as it is known in France or, less romantically ’Spud (potato) Basher’ as it is known in England was the starting point for any young wannabee. Thankfully the potato rumbler broke down just before I started so I managed to wear my brand new college grade vegetable peeler out in a fortnight. Those were the days, carrots came in a bag, unwashed, unpeeled and uncut. Sprouts had to be peeled and the stem criss crossed with a pairing knife, potatoes were turned into barrel shapes and this would all be for two hundred and fifty people.

Chef terrified me, He was in his thirties, I wasn’t. He could cook exceptionally well, I couldn’t. His hat never moved, he managed to look cool in his, I didn’t. Chef cooked the main courses and the vegetable section backed onto his stoves. That meant he could see everything I did or didn’t do and that meant I was directly in the line of fire. He turned bollockings into an art form, I took taking them into an art form, you could sense one coming like a hurricane on a Carribean weather report. You hoped and prayed that you wouldn’t be on the receiving end, but inevitably you (I) were. 

Back then you started and finished every sentence with ‘Yes, Chef’, it became engrained on my brain like Heather Locklear, it was a mark of respect, nobody addressed him by his real name, even the drinkers in the hotel bar called him chef and I still would to this day.

So began my first foray into learning how to cook professionally before being sent to catering college to pass an exam.