That
sort of place. Gastro. Where chef Jean-Rémy Joly is regarded, by his peers, as
one of the best in the region. Look
here for his suprème de faisan, pheasant supreme.There is a difference between being told you're rubbish at this job because you're rubbish at this job, and being told you're rubbish at this job because it makes the person saying it feel better.
We all know that, or so I thought, but it turns out that some of the people who feel better after spouting such nonsense don't know it.
In fact, they feel so much better for these ritual bollockings that they make things up about which to bollock you.
So on Friday I was engullé (I do love that French word: engueller, to bollock someone, to mouth off about them. Comes from the word 'guelle' meaning throat - i.e. to en-throat someone. Lovely) for taking more than five minutes to drive 25 kilometres; for putting too much vinaigrette on my tomatoes at lunch (the tomatoes I was eating myself, note, not the tomatoes I was serving to someone else); for cutting potatoes into exactly the same size and shape chunks demonstrated by the sous-chef; and for leaving at the end of the day before the chef himself.
I was tempted, when he demanded to know where I was off in such a hurry, to tell him the truth. But I'm keeping my powder dry for the time being.
In fact I was off for a trial evening as plongeur/aide cuisine at the Table des Agassins (oh don't start, I know, I've seen the site - they're French and it's cute) at Le Pontet, just outside Avignon. Two minutes up the road from where Marie lives, in fact, and therefore dead handy in many respects.
But I wasn't going to tell him that.
So, off to the Agassins where the cars parked in front of the hotel range from top-of-the-range S-Class Mercedes (the big ones that Voom! by on French motorways) to Ferraris and Porsches. Yes, that sort of hotel and restaurant: gibier du saison, heavily-worked fresh foie gras (Bob!), dôme de chocolat, pigeon something, a wine list which comes plastic-coated to make it easier to remove the dribble.
That
sort of place. Gastro. Where chef Jean-Rémy Joly is regarded, by his peers, as
one of the best in the region. Look
here for his suprème de faisan, pheasant supreme.
Anyway; park your rotten BMW round the back where no one can see it, says the chap in the black chef's outfit who turns out to be David, the seconde de cuisine and a very decent chap, even if his chef's whites are black with white piping. Change over there and follow me into the kitchen.
Chef shows me round: this goes here, that goes there, and the other stuff goes (here we plunge through the bowels of the boiler room) here in the economat. This is where the tins and jars are stored, and straight away I think I'm going to like him because he has laid in a large supply of Savora mustard. Yum, my kind of guy (I've loved Savora since I first ate it at the age of about 13 during my first stay with the Boisson family in Nice).
And on to the plonge, another good word. A plongeur is either a diver (as in scuba, deep sea, what have you) or a washer-up; the effects are much the same - you get soaking wet and go round the bend. Ahem.
Usual deal, he says professionally speaking: two giant metal sinks already filled with pots, two giant plastic soak bowls already filled with plates, a couple of metal tables, an automatic dishwasher, a few scraps of cloth, the remnants of a green pan scourer and a few whisps of a metal scourer. Par for the course. This is the produit, this is the javel, make sure you give the silverware a good polish when you dry it and tasty morsels of meat left over go into this ice-cream container for the maitre-d's shitsus.
And oh, says Chef: very sorry about this but the management say I can't pay you for tonight as it's a trial - I understand if you want to go now. I stay. And oh, he says, the position isn't actually vacant - the young girl doing it at the moment won't make her mind up if she wants to stay, so I'll let you know. OK?
Hmm. OK.
So. Fill the sinks with the hottest water going and off we start. Stopping only four hours later when it's all finished. I sweat buckets, really buckets; the maitre-d' tells me to open the window and that cools things by a good two degrees.
It's soak in boiling water, scrub with the metal (but not the seconde's precious new Tefal pans), onto the racks, through the machine, out the other side for a good wipe and polish and then wander round the kitchen for 10 minutes wondering where the hell they go.
Right.
At the end it's out with the disinfectant hosepipe (oh yes, not just ordinary water in the hosepipes of French kitchens you know), hose the floor down, raclette up the mess left by the previous plongeuse behind the cupboards and articles on the floor, and rest.
So, 11.30 and only me, Chef and the maitre-d' are left. Sorry I was so slow, I say. Not at all, he says, I expect the plonge to be finished between 2330 and midnight, you've finished at 2330 and, to boot, you've done a good job. In fact, he adds, you've done such a good job I've been going through the stacks of plates in the kitchen to add in the ones the current plongeuse hasn't cleaned properly so you could re-do them.
And, he adds, I'm going to pressure her to make her mind up and go so I can give you the job.
And oh, he adds, as he walks me back to my car, sorry again I wasn't able to pay you for tonight but you know management. Here, he says, take this - and he pulls 20 euros out of his own pocket and gives it to me.
I like this man. Not only is he kind and generous, he didn't come in once during the evening and shout at me for washing up the wrong way, or for putting too much vinaigrette on my tomatoes. I'd like to work for him - fingers crossed that nana ups-sticks and lets me have the job.
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