Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

Who ever would have figured that I would be flipping burger patties in my 22nd year of being a chef, and at the age of 40, with a hubby and 2 kids under my belt?

Yes indeed, I am a burger-flipper these days. (Even I am sitting here shaking my head in irritable disbelief, that’s the extent of how appalling I find the situation).

Perhaps I am being grossly over-exaggeratedly flippant (no pun intended, really), because I make it sound as if I’m wearing a paper hat with a striped greasy MacDo apron, while standing miserable in front of a greasy flat-top grill filled with mass produced commercially available half-meat patties.

The situation is not as dire as that. But after my recent Saturday shift of around 100 hamburgers sold the pub, forgive my cynicism. It’s really much more than that. It’s a challenging task of melting cheese onto the bun, delicately placing a handful of roquette salad and tomato over the melted cheese,and then ‘gooi-ing’ (with a very gutteral Afrikaans g sound there) chips on the side of the plate before the other burger flipper deposits the fait maison- cooked burger patty on top of the salad, and carefully pours a delicious home made sauce of Jamesons whiskey or Gorgonzola cream sauce over the aforementioned very large steak-hache.

Perhaps I should be a little more honest. My ‘boss’ (I’m not sure what else to call him as the head chef, because I don’t particularly see him in that regard for whatever reasons) is an extremely talented young French chef. You can see it in his manner of cooking tough cuts of meat to veritable perfection. Granted, his effort requires around 5 days of work, so the end product is not a slap-dash approach and thereby ensuring the wild boar speciality is the kind of “melt-in-your-mouth delicacy” enhanced with juniper and red wine that it should be. Also, his method of broiling veal loins over a 10 hour time frame and ensuring it remains pink on the inside is a skill I have yet to discover. (It’s a very clever combi-oven which is the trick, it’s not really a skill, but who would have ever thought?)   You see, there is potentially more to this sports pub/Irish pub than just millions of homemade burgers. Unfortunately our patrons don’t seem to see passed the burger menu so the possible gastro-pub selection of a cordon bleu salmon, or a lamb rack with Colcannon are for the most part  ignored.

When I confessed to my Dad that I am a burger flipper, I said it in jest, but the truth is, I was despondent, and told myself that I am more than this job, that I have way more experience to be taking instructions in this manner and I was not going to let myself shrivel and fade into the greasy kitchen tiles.

Obviously, I would never have actually put a real voice to these thoughts.

Obviously, I just took a breath and did what I had to, because that’s how I was raised.

Obviously, the situation has changed. Because I do have loads of experience behind me, and my parents raised me as they did. Despite the language barrier (*), it just goes to show the last weeks in between (I started this post some quiet Monday a few weeks before Christmas, it’s now Thursday, after New Year) has showed me that cooking is an international language in itself, and even if I cannot express myself fluently, I am so much at ease in my skin, I can pass a cynical joke and be understood, I have rediscovered my confidence that I had buried (or perhaps just forgot somewhere in a suitcase), and in general my self esteem is stronger than it has been in a while. After all, it is the one area that I actively seek recognition.

The last time I wrote, I think I came across as being quite despondent about this new job.  Despite trying to see the positive side to it, I am sure you realised that it wan’t my dream job.  Obviously, it isn’t.  However, I have come to see more advantages to it, the most advantageous being that the owner and all the staff have absolutely no issues with me bringing the kids to work.  Granted, the girls are old enough to fend for themselves, it’s not as if I have an attention seeking toddler trying to claw her way up my work trousers, so it’s understandable that PK is okay with it.  There have been days when my shift has changed at a moments notice, and have had no option but to take the girls with me to work.  A & B bring a book to read, cards to play, yes, the iPads come with unfortunately, (but mostly for them to listen to music I suspect) and depending on what time of the day it is, they also spend time chatting to some of the students that come in to play pool or foosball, and lo and behold, I have unwitting babysitters at my disposal.  This obviously gives them a few social skills without Mommy-dear correcting their lame-ass stories (because seriously, not all our kids are like that ‘super-cute’ kid on FB).  (Okay, okay.  I have had a bunch of staff and regulars tell me how lovely and well behave A & B are, so it’s all good.)

Goodness, how completely off track have I gone?  It feels quite typical for the day- grey and gloomy outside, so while the kids are still on holiday, I’m enjoying a super peaceful day off doing nothing but for my rambling to you.

I keep forgetting to mention that I am a quarter way to becoming fluent in French!  Hence the * asterisk earlier.

My kitchen colleagues don’t speak English whatsoever.  The oldest, hardest working guy is Sri Lankan, and speaks French in a ‘old foreigner’ manner.  It’s cool, because his French is childlike enough for me to understand, and vice versa.  Plus, he is just awesome and amazing.

Then there’s the young appi from outside of Strasbourg, whose accent I really struggle with.  We get by, but there are things I just don’t understand at all, and obviously, there are NO great big philosophical debates raging about the practice of force-feeding ducks to feed the chic French at Christmas.  I have largely written him out of my ‘give a shit’ list, because he’s somehow managed to avoid the very busy shifts (read ‘be sick’) TWO full weekends in one month, causing all sorts of shift reshuffling and french swear words being discovered.

And then there’s X (head chef).  We’re able to share lingo because of classical training.  I can ask him what certain ingrediants are in French, and in turn, he occasionally asks for the English word for something.  (Like when I repeated sh1t too many times after spilling grease on the floor.)  Although he’s born and bred Strasbourg(oise?),  his Dad is Ghanaian.  And for some reason, I ‘get’ his accent.  Maybe it’s because I’m by now accustomed to the Strasbourg accent so I can hear the nuances or dialect.  Maybe it’s something else.  No, I can’t muster a debate about foie gras with him either, but I can actually say a sentence that is more than 10 words long, about something that is not work related, and in my book, that’s a win.

I mix up my prepositions way too much, my verb conjugations are ALL over the place, and my actual verb vocabulary is still largely empty, but I am learning catch phrases which counts for something right?

Oui.  Or weh, as it is more commonly pronounced by the younger population.

Mais, je pense que je t’ai fait dormir. Which basically means I think I have put you to sleep.

I think I have scheduled a kiddies play date this afternoon, so I had better sign off, find some clever pictures to add in here (of which I am going to have to dig deep, I don’t think I have managed a selfie of my Burger Flipper Status), and wave a fairy wand over my not-so-clean kitchen.  I am looking forward to making a batch of English scones for afternoon tea though. Yummy!

Anyway, a prochain foire mes chers ami.  Actually that really should be cheres amie since you’re mostly all gorgeous women.

Lastly, please let me extend my wishes to you and your gorgeous families for a rocking 2018.  I know that adjective is not really classy, but I am so feeling it right now.  And also, thank you for being by my side in the last 16 months.  You know who you all are.

God bless my friends. And here’s to new challenges.

Xxx