Yeah, I wish I had a film of yesterday's events too. Still, don't worry, it'll be a great scene in the film-of-the-book: I'm played by Brad Pitt (as he looked in 12 Monkeys); Chef by Alan Rickman as in Robin Hood; Mrs Chef by one of those mad scouser b&(*()^%s in Brookside - mad staring eyes, wild hair, that sort of thing - and Marie by Isabella Rosellini or Sophie Marceau.
I drove into work with my letter of resignation sitting on the passenger seat; the plan was to hand it over in the afternoon during a quiet, reasoned conversation during which I'd explain that I don't like driving the delivery van half the day, that I want to do more gastronomic cooking, and that whilst I know I don't have to give any notice according to my contract, I'm doing the honourable thing here by giving Chef a week's advance warning that I'm off.
It all started falling apart when I got into the kitchen and started loading the van; there were interminable extra bits to cram in and there was barely room for all that I needed, especially as the S-C kept coming up with more boxes to 'Pack carefully, mind you' and Chef called from the shop asking for a couple of boxes of the prawns I'd carried back from there the day before but which he now decides he needs after all.
But that was OK; what really started to piss me off was that the S-C kept calling me 'François' - even when I'd told him that my name is still Chris as it has been all my life. François is the other chef who started working at the same time as me and who quit on Thursday, the second person to go since I started on September 13; the first one was one of the stagaires, the work experience students who only lasted a week. François crashed and burned after a huge row with Chef during which he, apparently, threatened the boss with a knife. Sounds cool.
Anyway. Into the van and up to the first delivery, the shop. Today I have the usual two deliveries in Nimes, the delivery in Vauvert and then back to the kitchen to pick up three further, big deliveries for the centre of Nimes. All the deliveries must be finished by noon when everyone wants to eat, of course, so time is tight and there's no room for mucking about.
It's not going too badly until Chef spots that one of the boxes I'm carrying is dripping; the S-C has packed those heavy prawns on top of a delicate carton of jus d'agneau. So, everything has to stop while Chef lectures me on how this has happened before, how it's my duty to inspect every single box I put into the van to ensure that this doesn't happen, how the business is now ruined and we're all going to be put out onto the street because of my stupidity. I do try asking him if he could do the bollocking later on, sorry, I know this is a mistake but I'm in a real hurry now. But this is not a bollocking, it turns out, this is part of my formation, my on-the-job education into how to be a better cook. When I protest that listening to this now, right now, is going to make all the deliveries late he shakes his head in exasperation and starts again at the beginning.
OK. I promised myself on Thursday evening, after a day of such stupid bollockings, that if he did it one more time I was going to just walk out on him, but I don't. Where do I get the strength to stay? I've no idea; the courage of the stupid, I guess.
So I've got half the delivery carried in when he tells me that the dozen large delicate porcelain plates of charcuterie scattered across the walk-in fridge have to go back to the kitchen before I do the rest of the deliveries. Good grief. So I start tucking them into delivery crates and carry them out to the van.
I come back in to the fridge to find Chef has placed two plates on a large oven grill and is putting them into a cardboard box. But, he warns me, be careful because they will slide around like this, and he demonstrates how they can move.
Ah, right, I say and look around to see if there's anything I can use in the fridge to wedge them in.
What are you doing? he asks, look at me when I'm talking to you.
Sorry, I say, I was just looking for something to wedge them in with.
There is nothing in here like that he shouts, look at me when I'm talking to you! This is important, this is how you learn!
So I look at him while he says hmm, perhaps we could put some film around them to hold them on to the grill, so I pick up the box and start to back out of the fridge. Where are you going? he says.
I'm going to find some film, I say. But I haven't finished talking! he shouts. Look at me while I'm talking to you!
Chef, I say, I'm sorry but I'm in a real hurry today, I've still got to finish unloading the van, I've got to get these plates in, you want them wrapped in film now, and I've got all those deliveries for midday too, I really don't have time to listen right now, can we do this later on please?
By now we're both outside the fridge in the middle of the shop. All four members staff are standing round watching, as are two customers. It is ten to nine in the morning.
But Chef, I protest, you know how we're busy today, if we discuss all this now then I'm going to be late with those deliveries and you're going to be bollocking me later on today for that, too.
IF YOU'RE GOING TO GO ON LIKE THIS THEN WE CANNOT WORK TOGETHER! he screams at me.
FINE! I shout back. I put the box of plates down on the ground and pull the keys to the van out of my pocket and offer them to him.
Here you go, I say, I resign.
OH no, he says, not like this, we're not going to go on like this! and he throws his hands up as if I'm pointing a gun at him.
I am fucking sick and tired of all this shit! I shout back at him, and throw the keys on the ground at his feet and storm out. He and his wife both shout at me to come back while the customers look on in bewilderment. I am sick and tired of this fucking job! I shout as I go through the doors.
And then I'm out on the pavement and I'm free! Hurrah!
And then I realise that, while this may have been a cool moment, I've done it six kilometres away from the kitchen where my car is parked. Oh well, a brisk walk will be good exercise.
Two minutes later my batphone rings; it's Mrs Chef and she's asking me to come back, I misunderstood, Chef wasn't bollocking me he was just explaining to me how to do things, don't leave us in the lurch like this with all these deliveries, come back now.
Ha! YOU LOSE! I want to shout down the phone at her, YOU need me more than I need you! YOU LOSE!
But I don't. I say that there was nothing to explain, that I'm sick and tired of these stupid no-reason bollockings every day, I'm not coming back.
She protests, but I say no, that's it and I hang up on her while she's still talking.
I'm so proud of me. And I note that, as always, this was my fault, I'm the one who misunderstood him, I'm the one who's made the error, it's up to me to come back and apologise and learn the error of my ways.
Fuck that.
I do wonder what I would have done if Chef himself had rung up and said Sorry, didn't mean to get carried away there, let's start over. But then he's not that sort of person, he never makes mistakes and nothing is his fault.
So it takes me 35 minutes to get back to the kitchen; It's a lovely bright-blue sunny day and it's a pleasant walk through Nimes so I quite enjoy it. I do worry a little about what will happen if Chef drives past me in the van and stops - I'm assuming that he's gone on to do the deliveries himself. As it happens, I get a stone in my shoe and have just bent down behind a large wheelybin when I see the delivery van go by and he doesn't see me.
So then I worry that he's going to be at the kitchen waiting for me, but as I turn the corner I see the van heading on out of town and away from the kitchen, so I'm safe.
Back at the kitchen I tell the S-C that I'm leaving; he could care less, it seems. Yeah, Chef has a problem with anger management, with controlling his 'nervosité' - it's because his missus bollocks him all the time, the S-C reckons. She bollocks him, he bollocks us.
I collect my jeans and pullover and my slip-on cook's shoes and say goodbye to the S-C; he wishes me luck and that's it, I'm out of here for good.
And it does feel good.
I drive down the motorway to see Daisy and Wendy, thinking how the past hour or so has been like some sort of out-of-body experience; all the time I was standing in the fridge and the shop, shouting back at that bastard, I was willing myself to go on, to have the nuts not to back down; at the moment when I pulled the keys out of my pocket and offered them to him, I fully expected Chef to take them off me. I was really surprised that he didn't, that he threw his hands up in horror - was he really surprised that I'd done that? Did he think either that I liked working there? Or just that I was too frightened to pull the trigger?
It was a split-second thing; either the keys went back in my pocket and I took another bollocking, or they went on the floor. Out-of-body me was willing me to hurl them to the ground, and luckily I did.
Phew.
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