No Room For Veal

I was only six months in, working as an apprentice chef at Rocco’s, a family-run catering outfit based in the suburbs of Greater London; Esher Common to be exact. The Esher site was a multi-story production and storage outpost and the place where most of the culinary magic happened.

Mid-July; daytime.

The sun was high, and the winds were still over the stony shoreline of Brighton Beach. I smelled the air and listened to the crashing waves in front of me. Peaceful, I thought, took one last drag, and stubbed out my cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.

Our staff had gathered at the client’s site, The Lock, a boxy event space in the arches under the promenade, for a planning meeting ahead of a couple of events they had on the horizon. The first was a birthday celebration in a few days, and the other was the annual Bank Holiday Ball.

Claire was already there, perched on a stool, nursing an Americano. She looked after the business side of things and was perhaps one of the best things to ever happen to Rocco’s. She had beauty and brains and was quite a likable character.

The Head Chef, Pierre, had just stepped in, an hour after the briefing was scheduled to start. His long-sleeved, crisp white dress shirt opened mid-chest and was adorned with a loose paisley print neckerchief. The cuffs were turned up, and the shirt tucked into his trousers.

“Okay, Fabien. Paolo. You have already the menu for the birthday party, yes?” Chef Pierre asked. His accent was thick as a pumpkin.

Ugh. It’s Fabian and Pablo. Nincompoop.

He waved his stubby fingers in the air, beckoning us to speak.

“Yes, Chef,” I said. “We were thinking of spinach and prosciutto stuffed veal rolls, with some greens. And a light garnish—maybe lemon—for the main?”

I said “we,” but the veal was more Pablo’s idea.

Since that Hannibal Lecter guy likened the exquisite delicacy of veal to the taste of human flesh, I was no longer a fan; period. But the prosciutto stuffed veal rolls required an inherent degree of talent, with equal portions of patience. And in that case, Pablo was your guy. He was the one with the most talent. I was just his humble sidekick. Nearly half the kitchen wished they had his skills, Chef Pierre included. But shhh; he’d never admit it.

Pablo was only twenty-four and had swapped the Brazilian sun for the rain and the chills of Britain. To better his talent, he would say. He landed at Rocco’s a month before I arrived and was considered senior to me and Ella Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff, the entitled one. Together, Chef Pierre dubbed us, his three Apprentis de Chefs. Fancy title, right?

“Nuh! We will not be doing that!” Chef Pierre interjected.

His face was set like the rain that was about to be kicked from the sky.

“—but Chef; the couple is from Nice and often travel to Italy with the family, for the cuisine. They haven’t been able to travel much since the pandemic. I thought it would be good to surprise them with something special,’ said Pablo.

That’s it, Pablo, sock it to him. I gave him a reassuring glance. A nod of approval soon followed.

“And for dessert — we will make sweetcorn panna cotta with fresh blueberry compote. I’ve already spoken to Claire, and there’s enough Chianti Classico in the store,” Pablo continued.

“Exactly,” Chef Pierre said. “They’re French. And we will not be making butchered young cows stuffed with anything.”

Chef Pierre raised his eyebrows. His wonky left eye glared at us with such degeneracy. He could have easily sliced us into thin strips of prosciutto if he blinked.

“But Chef—” I pleaded.

“Shut it, Fabien. Paolo, I expected better.”

Hmm, better?

“Chef!”

“Nuh. Instead, we will be making chicken cordon bleu. The other stuff is okay.”

Chef Pierre then turned to Ella what’s-her-face and thanked her for the cordon bleu suggestion. He gave her a cheeky grin and waved the rest of us off.

Of all the dishes imaginable, Chef Pierre chose chicken fucking cordon bleu? I wasn’t okay with that. No matter how you dressed it up, it was just chicken and melty cheese. Not even French. But I guess if Chef was happy with stuffing skinned chicken with blocks of cheddar and ham, then I was happy.

Truth be told, Chef Pierre lost his mojo a couple of years before that. Rumor has it that his wife left his philandering ways for her nail technician — a Thai woman, tall and fair with skin made of silk, I was told. Since then, he’s been searching for happiness at the bottom of the next bottle of Glann Ar Mor. Okay, that is French. In the end, Chief Pierre became a slothful soul and lost his powers of invention. 

I walked over to Pablo and bumped shoulders.

“Hey, don’t worry, Mon,” I said. “I’m sure you’re gonna fix it up nice.”

“I have to. I can’t afford to mess this up, not now.”

Thursday, event day

My night was fitful. I managed to pry my eyes open when the alarm sounded but stayed in bed until I was late, another one of my unshakable toxic traits.

I quickly got dressed, grabbed my kit, and boarded the Thameslink service to Brighton. Thankfully, I caught the last train for the hour. I would have made it to work in time for the briefing had my travel not been limited by the complications of modern-day commuting and earthly physics.

Chef Pierre was already in, busy chatting away with Ella, ignoring everyone else who had gathered in the center of the kitchen, awaiting his edicts, that is, directions.

“Bon. So, this is the menu,” Chef Pierre said, tossing out the stack of menu cards.

I gave the menu a quick whiz. As suspected, nothing had changed.

Chef Pierre instructed the wait staff to take their lead from Claire. The sous chefs and our group of apprentices fell directly under his supreme thumb.

“Boys. I want the mains plated and ready for me before they go out, okay?”

Boys. That was Pablo and me, if ever you were wondering.

“Yes, Chef,” Pablo replied.

We chopped, skinned, peeled, prodded, and poked for the more significant part of the day. 

It was now an hour to service, and my anxiety was ballooning. I needed a quick break, a minute or two to reset my nerves. I gave Pablo a shoulder tap.

“Hey. I’m stepping out back for a bit. Cool?”

“I got this, Man, but be quick,” Pablo said, unwrapping the stack of plates needed for the main course.

I smiled, snuck out the back, and shared a quick spliff with the dish guy. My eyes rolled back on the first pull as I meditated on my misgivings. I said a little prayer, threw some thanks to the heavens, and begged the universe to bring a swift end to the day before I gave in to the sleep that was beckoning.

Bzzt.

A timely distraction sounded from my mobile and my most trusted timepiece and companion for those dire hours in the trenches with Chef Pierre.

“Great news from the bank!” the text said, and then in another line “Let’s catch up ASAP!” I made a mental note to reply later and was about to pop the phone back into my pocket when I heard him. 

Getting high on haute cuisine — vaulted plates

“C’est quoi ça?!” Chef Pierre demanded.

His voice filled the kitchen with a thunderous roar.

“You imbecile!” Chef continued.

I ditched my share of the contraband in the bushes and hurried back to the kitchen, tripping over the door jamb that almost took out both my bony knees as I came crashing on the floor. By God’s grace, I was able to stand, but my ego was still on the floor. As soon as I recovered, I watched in awe as Chef hurled a single-plated main dish across his station.

Splat!

The plate and the dressing hit the wall first. The piping hot cordon bleu followed suit.

A few inches more to the left and the chicken would have connected with Pablo’s forehead — dished and served with all its accompaniments.

Pablo stood motionless and pale-faced.

I could tell Pablo’s heart sank as he watched his hard work reduced to a hot mess on the floor beside him. He never had to say anything; I knew precisely what was coursing through his mind.

“Oie!” I shouted as my neck veins stiffened and my face twisted into a hot mess, too.

The bass in my voice ripped through the kitchen like an unsuspected undercurrent and carried with it months of cultivating rage.

“What the rass yuh do that for? Like, what the actual fuck Pierre?!”

At this point, something colder than ice surged through my veins.

“Vous,”’ he replied. “Vous.”

“Vous what, Pierre?!”

I polished my utter defiance with a bit of Franglais and now, I had his complete attention.

“Yuh so fucking ungrateful!” I continued my rant. “Imagine, we here working on your chicken cordon-fucking-BLUE, all day. And the best you can do is fling the fucking plate at the man’s head? Pierre. Yuh never here. Late all the time. Teach us shit, yet you expect pumpkin pie?”

My fury gave voice to Pablo’s will as I stood up to Chef. For us both.

Ella covered her mouth with both hands as she tried to stifle a scream. Chef Pierre’s behavior was shocking, even by her standards. I imagined, to her, mine must have been simply appalling. But if the truth was ever like a loaded gun, this was the trigger.

I reigned in my Jamaican sass, just in time to see Claire’s face pop from behind the swing door; her mouth open like a bass.

“Get out! Get out now!” Pierre shouted. “Leave my fucking kitchen….”

“Cheups.” I pulled air through my gritted teeth, making the longest hiss imaginable.

My apron and hat were already off, on the floor, somewhere. I didn’t care where.

I almost lost the entire surface of my pupils as I rolled my eyes returning his salty looks.

The rest of the kitchen staff froze. The only noticeable sounds were the splashes of water from the overflowing sink and the few pots next to Pablo that had now started grumbling.

“You’re done, Fabien. You’re done!” His breadfruit fingers pointed to the door.

“Idiot. And it’s FABIAN.”

I was two words short of telling him to stick his job up his arse, as they say in Britain. Instead, I maintained my indignant stare and marched to where Claire stood.

The next day

Chef turned up to work shitfaced and back into his dusty old corduroys. So much for the crisp whites and that tadpole printed neck thing.

I saw that his pot belly was about to burst, so I kicked him a waste bucket. His upper body folded at the waist as he struggled to stand. He puked until the balls of his eyes exploded into pure redness, intoxicating the kitchen with the most putrid scent imaginable, spilling drips of puke onto his oversized coat that hung loosely across his back.

If you ask anyone, they will tell you it’s not uncommon for chefs to go berserk on the odd occasion when the service time was missed or  the vegetables were  not still al dente as commissioned. But no one deserved the utter disdain that Pablo endured. 

Well, there you have it — altered plates

I later learned that Pablo had altered Pierre’s plating arrangements. Knowing Pablo, he probably felt the dish looked flat and unimaginative. And as I suspected, Pablo injected a little life into the dish; some colors, height and texture to the lone chicken and the sprig of green against a dollop of that god-awful mush Pierre swore was the best thing since sweet potato chips.

The truth was that Pierre’s incompetence had become taxing, and it was no longer a secret. Why he lasted there so long, no one knew. But “everything does not have to make sense,” I heard someone say. And often, when you get that feeling, it just might be time to move on.

Pierre hauled himself to the prep table, dead in the center of the kitchen, where we all gathered again for the end-of-day briefing that should have taken place yesterday.

I stood next to my boy Pablo; my head was down, eyes fixated on the shiny surface of the table in front of me. I listened as Pierre cleared his throat and cringed at the thought of the smack that was about to escape his unbathed tongue.

“So, yesterday was okay,” Pierre said. “The couple was happy with the meal and the service. And send their regards.”

Pierre’s eyes were everywhere except where they were meant to be.

“I’ll await suggestions on the ball from vous by later today. That is all.”

He turned and then left the kitchen.

Was it shame? Guilt? Total indifference? I was confused.

It was 8 PM, and the night sky had placed a cloak of darkness over Esher Common. While the rest of the town slept, Pablo and I were busy organizing the ingredients for the upcoming ball.

“Bro. This packing thing is too much,” Pablo whined.

“I know. Plus, it’s just us two,’ I replied. “But we can do it, Mon. Let’s hurry.”

“We should be at the Notting Hill Carnival this weekend… YESSS,” Pablo remarked.

I watched in utter shame as Pablo broke into something like a dance. His body moved like an awkward robot that had lost a couple of screws in the knees and waist.

“Pablo, ah, beg! Leave the gyrating to us Caribbean folks,’ I said. “Dancing is not your thing.” We exchanged a couple of laughs and then got on with the packing.

Throughout the evening, we worked as hard as possible to prep and package the food for the Bank Holiday Ball set for Monday back in Brighton.

It was now 11:15 pm; my phone reminded me with a familiar buzz.

“Your train will be here soon,’ I told Pablo. ‘Go ahead, Man, and I’ll finish up.”

It was a trek back into the city, and the last train for the night was fast approaching.

“You sure, bro?” Pablo asked. “I already fucked up once. I can’t afford to lose this job, Man.”

“Come on, Pablo. You either leave now or catch the night bus to North London.”

The journey back to London by bus would have been long and unsavory, especially on a holiday weekend like this.

Pablo tore off his apron and stuffed it and the other bits in his bag, and he was through the door in seconds.

Moments later, BANG!

A loud thud just outside the door stole my attention. I called for Pablo, but there was no answer, so I walked over and eased the door open.

“Pablo! Pablo! Just go, Mon!” I shouted.

But the cause of the racket wasn’t Pablo; it was Pierre.

Fuck! My thoughts mouthed to form a silent shout.

What was he doing here? “His shift ended eons ago,” I thought, closing the door behind me after squeezing myself through.

Looking at his unbalanced steps, I could tell Pierre was drunk.

Pierre was wearing a gray tracksuit and a dark pair of trainers. His ears were plugged, and the hood of his shirt was up.

I watched as Pierre slid through the unlatched door and downstairs into the staff break room.

I gave a stealthy pursuit, still clutching a roll of cling film; my confused brain neglected to instruct my hand to get rid of it.

My silly hands must have pressed too hard against the swing door, and it plopped open, flooding the room with light from the passageway.

“What are you doing here?!” Pierre barked.

He yanked the earphones from his ears and gave me a cold-eye stare.

“Your shift ended 8 hours ago,” I replied with an equal measure of contempt.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

The ramble from my phone interrupted our stare down.

“Yea, Mon,” I said. “We’re just wrapping up now.”

It was the frozen storage guys; they were running late. I now had plenty more time.

I ran back upstairs, quickly labeled the foodstuff for the ball, and the extra meat, cleaned the counters and meat saw, and gave the floor a quick mop with a bit of vinegar.

The remaining trash, I double bagged and dumped in the food waste skip out back.

“Mate. Can you give me a lift to the station? At this hour, Uber doesn’t come to this side,” I asked the frozen storage guy as he loaded the last crate onto the truck. I figured a minicab from the train station at Esher Common to Croydon wouldn’t be too expensive.

“Sure. No worries, Man,” he replied.

I swung my backpack across my shoulders and hopped into the cabin.

Saturday and the freezer is full

It was now Saturday, and way too early to be awake.

I found myself back at The Locke, with the gang putting things in place for the ball, our client’s last hurrah for the summer. I made a cup of coffee and drowned it with some sweetened condensed milk. I took a good whiff and allowed the scent of imported instant to permeate my nostril.

I sifted through a mountain of paper Pierre had neglected to file and shook my head. Maybe this would be my new normal — I could get used to this.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

“Hello?”

“Is this Fabien?”

“NO. Fabian,” I corrected her, distancing myself from whatever French connection I had left.

“Oh, apologies, my dear. This is Ronda, calling from Brixton Bank. About your recent application?”

Yikes.

“Yes, oh, hi Ronda”

I smirked.

“Fabian. We would like to make you an offer.”

“Fantastic.”

“Can you come in next Tuesday?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. I’ll see you at nine?”

Now, if only I could get Pierre’s big head out of the way. 

‘Fabian.’

A soft voice called out to me. It was Ella. “Claire wants to know If you guys have decided on the main for the ball?”

Shit. Did I?

“Yes,” I replied. “Veal Piccata. The veal is in the frozen storage containers in Esher. They were shipped just before the fire.”