The Printer






In the end, I just resented the kitchen printer. I suppose it was the cumulative effect of it putting us in the shit. I just got sick of it. When I say it, what I really mean is Her. For some reason, I always associated the printer with being female. Not in any kind of misogynistic way, but I just did. She really started to piss me off every time she piped up. 

I'm well aware though, that the noise she made, her talking, her voice, was the whole point of me being there. She was telling me that customers wanted to be fed the food I would prepare. If she wasn’t talking, what was the point? Forget the chef, she was the one who ran the kitchen. She spoke and we jumped. And yes, she had the final word. I learned that the hard way, early doors. I was in her command and she knew I knew it. 

Irrational as it may be, I grew to hate her. She was so unpredictable. It was impossible to guess what she was going to say next. She just sat there, barking the orders to everyone and there was nothing we could do about it.

She knew when you were in deep. Of course she knew you were sinking, she put you there. On and on sometimes, sentence after sentence. Order after order. But it was double trouble. Not only did you have to listen to her, you had to look at what she said, on paper. In black and white. Sometimes she said so much, I looked at it and it made no sense because there was too much information. That was when I hated her the most.

When she’s wasn't talking it was worse. Her silence holding back the tide. The weight of the water building, ready to wash me away into the abyss as soon as she was good and ready. Then, boom, like a monotone Chas and Dave. Rabbit. Rabbit. Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit Why didn' she give it a rest. 

But maybe I didn't hate her. Maybe I was getting it wrong and didn't realise it. I blamed her but maybe I was angry with myself. I was angry with her and it was ridiculous. She wasn't real. She didn't exist. She was a printer. It was a printer. I suddenly had clarity. It was me. I was to blame. I didn't want to be there. Nothing would change that. It was too hard. Escape plan needed. Exit stage left.......

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Middle Aged Hissy-Fits and Sausage Fingers

Image
As I walk through the supermarket aisles hunter-gathering my weekly shop, I often find myself in the children's section, looking to find a replacement for whatever my three year old son Dylan has decided to stash away and hide behind whichever piece of furniture is in favour that week. Tooth brushes have been popular of late and we are now up to at least six of them missing in action. I suppose when I find them I may be able to save a little on my shopping but hopefully will also find my wedding ring which I'm sure I left on the sink in the bathroom while washing my hands a few months ago? I'm one of those tidy people you see. Neat. Clean. Organized. A place for everything and everything in its place as the saying goes. Having a three year old son and another one a little under nine months, as you might imagine, sort of messes with my shit. If you have experience of this I'm sure you can and do empathise with me given that the little fuckers have absolutel
Read more

In the shit #2

Image
 If I was on top of my prep, I mean, if I had everything done before service started, it was a little bit worse in a way. It meant I had time to think. To go outside into the fresh air. That's when the nerves set in. I would think about what it could be like at a little after eight, when the checks had really built up. I would convince myself that this is what it WOULD be like and the thought of going back in, was well, not my idea of fun. The other times, when my prep wasn't done before service started, was bizarrely a little easier. Mentally, it was a double edged sword. Before service, I had only the time to think about my tasks. The one I was busy with and the next couple coming up. There were a thousand thoughts going through my mind in these times, ignited and fired off by my synapses. Planning, prioritizing. I was deeply in the moment.  But there was the other side. For a minute, just a short minute as service started, just as the first check was called,
Read more

Godfathers of British Cooking

Image
The time has come for me to speak a little about the Roux brothers. Albert and Michel. Two legendary French born chefs and restaurateurs who have spent the last fifty years positively influencing cooking and restaurants in the UK like no others before or since. They have an incomparable status in the hospitality industry and are considered to be instrumental in changing the face of British cooking and cuisine in a time when our food offering was as bad as a rotting mattress. I first learned about them when I entered the industry in 2006, all naive and without much knowledge of who the big-wigs were but I slowly learned about key figures and how their influence had shaped modern gastronomy. I knew of course about Gordon Ramsay, because he was ubiquitous at the time with his Mr Shouty persona and TV presence and also of Heston Blumenthal with his snail porridge and egg and bacon ice-cream, but I knew little else of the chefy world. So as I read and studied and discovered Marco
Read more