Instead I became a chef.

How did this happen?

It was easy. I started washing dishes at the local pub restaurant so I could save money to get some time in the recording studio. It wasn’t long before my lazy, uncooperative and perpetually stoned band-mates were superseded by the foul-mouthed, psychopathic and perpetually entertaining cast of characters that dwelled inside that kitchen.

It was a world that was a strange and tasty mash of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys and Hook’s Pirate Crew. There was so much sex, drugs, alcohol, profanity and mayhem oozing from every corner it was a wonder that any food was cooked at all.

I was home.

A friend told me that there was a job going so I rang the number. I was transferred from the bar to the kitchen after being told to ask for ‘Matt’.

“Kitchen, Natalie speaking.”

“Good afternoon, I was wondering if I could speak to Chef Matt.”

“About?”

“About a possible trial for the kitchen hand position.”

“MATT! PHONE! DISHPIG!”

Muffled silence.

“Yo! Matt speaking.”

“Good afternoon, my name is ******* ****, I was ringing about the kitchen hand position…”

“Right. It’s simple. You come in. You work your arse off. It’s shit and it’s nasty but you get to go home and not think about it after. Best job in the world.

“Ok, Woul…”

“Just don’t WASTE MY FUCKING TIME! Seriously. If you don’t want to work nights, fuck off. If you don’t want to work weekends, fuck off. If you’re going to whine that it’s hot and smelly and damp and you never see your girlfriend/mates/mum/fucking dog/cat gay lover/priest or Jesus or fucking WHATEVER, then fuck off. How’s that sound?

“Sounds good to me Chef. When can I come in for a trial?”

“Fuck. I need you tonight. How soon can you get here?”

Then came the age of the ‘Celebrity’ Chef.

It started as a slow dribble. Once, the only chef with a name anyone cared to remember was Escoffier. One day Bocuse turned the culinary world on its head. The next, Marco Pierre-White became the Jagger of the kitchen. Now, everywhere you look there is someone on television tossing something into a pan, a chef has his name in every goddamn pepper-grinder and  sauce bottle and the TV Guide is littered with upcoming shows like My Restaurant Rules, Master Chef , Gordon Ramsay’s What is My Celeriac Looking Head Doing This Week? and that’s not even mentioning the token chef on every assorted lifestyle program, Oprah’s private chef bouncing between Low-Fat Eating and 1001 uses for butter, Ainsley, Nigella and Jamie Bloody Oliver.

The commercial kitchen, and the personalities that inhabit it, are big, big business and, as a chef, I’ve noticed an incredible swing in public perception. As a young lad coming up in the culinary world you were used to being an absolute nobody. No one in the dining room cared who you were and no one even thought twice about what went on behind the scenes. Being a chef was akin to being ‘the help’. It was a job that few wanted to do and most fell into, be it by chance, or the fact that no other industry considered them employable at all.

Now chefs are intriguing. I’d rank us third behind wizards and the undead in the global obsession stakes. People find out what you do for a living and they perk up, fire a million questions at you and then announce “I love cooking, I’ve always wanted to be a chef”.

This is a good and a bad thing.

We love the attention, sure. Who doesn’t get off on a few awe inspired stares when you’re in your uniform or people sneaking peaks into the kitchen? And being globally labeled as a crazy, lunatic chef is a generalization that is both accurate, enjoyable and coming in handy quite a lot.

BUT

Every dumbass kid, housewife and mid-life crisis wash-up is banging on my door for a job. It’s maddening. Once, the kitchen was a refuge for the unemployable, the socially challenged and those not seen fit to contribute to anything else. Now I’m inundated by people attracted by the false glamour advertised on the television and in magazines. I had an interview with a First Year Apprentice today. Here’s a snippet of our conversation:

“So, Adam*, what makes you want to be a chef?#”

“I want to be famous.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, like a chef on TV.”

“Right. Ok? Adam, tell me, how many chefs are there in world?”

“What?”

“How many chefs are there in the world, Adam?”

“Dunno.”

“Ok, for arguments sake, let’s say that there are a million restaurants, cafes and the like in the world, ok?”

“Ok?”

“There may be more, there may be less, but let’s just say a million. Got it?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Now, let’s say there are five chefs working in each one, ok”

“Ok.”

“There may be more, there may be less, but for now, let’s just say five, ok?”

“Ok?”

“So, now we can say that there are potentially FIVE MILLION chefs in the world. There may be more, there may be less, but we’re saying five million. Got that?”

“Sure…”

“Adam, out of FIVE MILLION chefs in the world, how many can you name?”

“Huh?”

“How many chefs can you name, Adam?”

“Er… Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsay, umm, Nigella, ahhh….”

“Ok, stop. So, out of FIVE MILLION chefs in the world, Adam, you could think of THREE. Out of FIVE MILLION chefs, Adam, off the top of your head, you thought of THREE. You want to get famous being a chef, Adam? You think you’re in for a chance? You think this career is a fast-track to fame? Good luck with that.”

I terminated the interview, handed him back his resume and sent him packing.

I want someone who will scrub the floor spotless without complaint, climb into a range-hood and scrape the viscous grease out of it, someone I can take and mould into a card-carrying hard arse who can cook like a ballerina dances and take names like a Green Beret.

I’m not going to get that from some pecker-head who wants to be fucking famous.

next course…

# I’m passionate about food and have always wanted to be a chef; I don’t know; My mum is making me; I’m running from the law; No other apprenticeship scheme would have me, are all adequate answers.