Chef Life: Service, please!

We were in Spain for 9 days, and even though I had nothing to do but lay around in the sun, I was dreaming about my new job as a chef. The other night, I sent Tom into hysterics. He was awake and heard me say in my sleep, "I have to plate up the beetroot. I have to plate up the beetroot." I think it's pretty clear service consumes me at the moment.

Service is the most exciting yet stressful part of the job. It's a game of organisation, timing, teamwork, and skill. Good chefs will ride the service beast into submission, but if uncontrolled for a second, it can easily destroy the kitchen.

It's the one part of the job that is the most foreign to me. I know I can identify and pair flavours. I know I can cook. But I am mystified at how a restaurant transforms 100 covers into an orderly flow. About an hour before service begins, we start setting our mise en place which translates to "everything in place". The work surface is wiped down. Various squeeze bottles holding dressings, oils and vinegars take their position on the sideline. Crockery is stacked. Tubs of hot water which hold clean spoons and knives are at the ready.

At the Victoria, there are three sections --larder, sauce, and pastry. Larder does all the hot and cold starters. Sauce controls the mains. Pastry is pretty self explanatory. There are three to four refrigerated cases under each section. In the cases, ingredients are held neatly in a plastic container or gastropan covered with cling film. And for easy organisation, each shelf holds all the ingredients for one dish.

I learned all these basics on the fly. My first ever service was a complete mind fuck. I could feel it was time to rock and roll when they turned on the lamps under the pass. Everything started to get hot. I was helping Scotch Egg on the larder, and as the orders began to roll in, he would explain what each dish was and how to make it. I was trying to commit as much to memory as possible. Just when I felt I had grasped one dish, a whole new tray would be pulled out with something different.

Clams on the top shelf in the first case --chorizo in the hot pan, then the clams, stock goes in, then the beans, then the tomatoes. Quenelle the salmon rillette for the asparagus. Salads in the far right case -mixed leaf, rocket, and gem in the bottom drawer. Steak salad is always mixed leaf with house dressing. Rocket and parmesan gets the balsamic. Chiffonade the gem for the prawn cocktail sandwich, but not for the burger. Make sure to dress the beet root and mache salad lightly. Plate the salads neatly and high. Don't drip on the plate. Fry the scotch eggs for 4 minutes. Always make sure the broth is hot, but don't ever boil it.

It went on and on. The rhythm of incoming checks was like catching a set of waves with increasing frequency and amplitude. Once one check was down, the next one came in until we were met with a constant stream of orders. It crescendoed to a high pace, and I felt the point at which everything could go wrong, but luckily, Scotch Egg held down the section and we rode to a smooth finish.

Soon the space between checks levelled out, and we had some breathing room. Unlike my 20-something co-workers, my 30-something brained was trying to avoid a seizure. It was saturated with numerous processes and methods; straining to remember what went in the "do" category and what belonged in the "don't" category. As I tried to maintain my focus, I seriously considered whether you can teach an old dog new tricks. And this was just lunch on a weekday. I couldn't even imagine the level of intensity on a Friday or Saturday dinner service.

Scotch Egg asked if I was all right. Unknowingly, I must have been walking around with a dazed expression, my hair looking like I had just trekked through the Congo, my eyes red and sweaty. "You look scared." Scotch Egg laughed and then imitated the look on my face. I laughed back at him, but really not sure if that was indeed the truth. I returned home later that evening, somewhat physically broken but with my mind still buzzing. I was never happier to see a bed.