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, I knew that there was a pre-prescribed amount of time that I would have to slog it out, battle on and do my best to not get in any further. I would be occupied.....
Physically there was only the present. The now, when I had to perform. Like an athlete or a warrior in the heat of battle. No thought of the past or the future. No memories of how tired I was yesterday. No thoughts of how I would ache like an old man in the morning. I had no choice other than to perform as well as possible because it was down to me. Only me. I had to do it because the flip side, someone helping me, would mean only one thing. I was in the shit.
When I was in the shit I tried to hide it. Quiet. Head down, arse up. Below the radar. But they knew. They saw the signs. They recognised it. They waited before they stepped in. Before they asked the question. That question. If they did I was rumbled.
"You gonna be ready chef?".
I always knew before the event if I would be there. Late start. Function. Hangover. Row with the missus. These were clear indicators that it would happen. Then it was a waiting game. Not a case of if, but when...........
Service starting was like the unkind words spoken in anger. "Check on, two covers........" You can't stop it and you can't take it back. It was done. It had been said for the first time but far from the last. "Check on four covers, no starters............. Check on six covers......... Check on, check on, check on."
Memories are sometimes lost in the heat of service. The big events remain. Usually the ones where it takes a downturn. The frown-makers. The voice raisers. Other chefs remember these. The minutiae don't hang around after service. They evaporate. Something well prepared. Something well cooked. No-one will remember, it's your job. But fuck up and you're talk of the town.........
So it never ends. The customers have gone home. The kitchen is clean and my frown has un-tightened. But I'm still there, I'm still in the shit. My mind is fertile with the past and full of what delights the future will bring. My imagination makes the future real. It’s like a time machine to oblivion. Oh joy.