I'm really struggling here. The sheer relentlessness of the engueulements is like a tidal wave; they come so thick and fast, I can't believe they're happening myself - and I'm the one standing there, trying to breathe through my mouth so I don't smell the garlic on Chef's breath as he explains, once again, how I'm stupid.
So Friday began badly when I left my handbag on the ground by the car when I drove off to work from Avignon. I realised a couple of minutes later but, by the time I'd turned round and gone back, the bag was gone. I left notes on the cars nearby but really gave up all hope.
When I got to work 45 minutes late I told them I'd been mugged and my bag stolen, I couldn't face going through the 'Ha!' routine again, so I loaded up the van and set off for the shop.
I walked in carrying two trays of little dishes of mussels, prawns and something else in a yellow sauce, one on top of the other. Mme Chef took the top one off me as soon as I walked through the door, saying "I'll put this in the window straight away". On top of the second tray was the fiche explaining what was in it and what it was called, which Mme Chef had seen as she took the tray off me.
Then a customer walked in as she was putting the dishes out and said, "Ooh that looks nice, what is it?"
Then Chef appeared in front of me and pulled me to the back of the shop. "Why haven't you told Mme Chef what's in the dishes? Now we're in the embarrassing position of not being able to tell a customer about a dish and it's YOUR FAULT!"
He didn't want to hear me saying that Mme Chef had already seen the the fiche and that it was there, RIGHT FUCKING THERE IN FRONT OF HIS FUCKING NOSE. Jeezus. If he'd taken the time he spent bollocking me and instead had glanced at the fiche - it had about six words on it - he could have taken two paces forwards and told the customer what was in the dishes.
But no. Engueulements are more important. "It's a question of communication, Monsieur Chris, you are the link between the kitchen and the shop, you are the one we rely on, it's up to you to transmit the information between us to ensure the smooth running of this place, to ensure that our customers who are the ones who put the food on our plates, who pay us - even if it's not very much (later in the day I delivered a pizza, a pain surprise and two boxes of sausage rolls to a customer - along with the bill for €107) - so we rely on you to keep them informed."
IT'S RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOUR FUCKING FACE YOU STUPID IDIOT. If you leaned forward your nose would touch the piece of paper. If I had a third hand I'd pass it on to you right now. If you hadn't dragged me to the back of the shop I could have told the customer myself.
Still.
Then he arrived at the kitchen at lunchtime in a really, really foul mood and screamed at everyone about how they weren't obeying "The rules". And I mean really screamed, worse than anything he's done before. Perhaps he just isn't getting laid enough or something. I hope so. Either that or someone's replaced his lithium tablets with acid.
Hydrochloric, I hope.
The chef from the posh at Le Pontet where I did the trial I liked so much last Friday left a message on my batphone saying his young plongeuse has decided to stay on so he couldn't offer me the job but would be in touch if he needed someone in November. So I rang him up this evening and asked if that meant his plongeuse wouldn't stay in November. He said no, she wouldn't as it would be part-time, busy for a few days with groups and then nothing for a few days. I told him I'd be available then and will call him in a couple of weeks.
Which may save my bacon, I hope. The accountant at the current kitchen called me on Friday, inviting me to pop round and sign a work contract - which, in itself is weird. Chef had pooh-poohed the idea originally as being fit only for idiots and weaklings. Perhaps he's now decided he needs me so wants to tie me down with a contract. Well, I'll be dragging that process out as long as possible so I can leave at one minute's notice.
Wish me luck.
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