Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

Warning: infinitesimal rant ahead.

Wednesday night, or more specifically , Thursday morning. It’s 1:30 and I have just climbed into my bed.

Nope, I’ve not been up watching tv, neither have I been out kuiering/jolling/dancing/dining with my maatjies.

Instead I have washed off the smell of tarte flambée that has embedded itself into my skin, I’ve scrubbed away a layer of kitchen and cycling sweat to avoid a skin breakout, I’ve clocked 4000 steps on my e-watch since midnight, and it’s not even the break of day yet, I’ve cycled 7kms home through nearly empty streets albeit with an alarming amount of cats roaming around but most of all, having departed from that ridiculous space I now have to call work at 00:50 this evening morning, and I am harbouring a Rotterdam Port size portion of glacial resentment towards my new employers.

Bare with me. Or delete this mail.

I.

Am.

Bleak.

Typically, words scribbled on the net at that hour of the day should never be published, but let me not delete them, and attempt to hide my anguish. Instead, let me divulge on my 2am emotions.

It’s now Monday morning. I’m feeling slightly less grieved at life after an actual 6 hours of sleep last night, but still exhausted, with more of an aching body after far more work than I’ve done in a while. My feet need to be stretched. My back muscles are knotted. My thighs feel like I’ve run further than I have ever done.

I remember when I was a culinary student at Christina Martins, Christina herself told us on the first day that we wouldn’t know tired until that moment when we would have to peel ourselves from our uniform, and all we’d have the energy for is lying on the cold hard floor and somehow stretching down to the soles of our feet to massage them to alleviate the knotted pain therein.

That was me on Saturday. I did that on my cool bathroom floor. Except, I didn’t feel good about the exhaustion. Do you know what I’m talking about? A feeling of successful exhaustion where you’ve achieved something fulfilling? That wasn’t what I felt. I felt like I had failed at my tasks miserably, and along with the deep resentment at having to be the person washing plates and mopping the floor at midnight for the 4th consecutive night *, I was broken.

(* If I come across as being wholly privileged that I shouldn’t be the person washing floors, let me clarify that I have no issue at those jobs, but I feel it’s a shared job, and my resentment on Saturday in particular came from being on my feet for 11 hours without a break has taken its toll.)

I think I may have raced ahead of myself, and failed to let you know what work currently is.

So, the pub shut down on April 3rd. April 5th we met the new owners, and were informed that we would be taken over by their HR team immediately, and put to work within the enormous company of 12 bars and restaurants that they own. I was able to take 3 weeks leave while my folks were here, and due to start at a new job at Le Comptoir d’Eugene. The premise of all this company’s restaurants is continuous service, which means, unlike typical French restaurants who are open only at lunch and dinner, we are open all day, from 11am until midnight, 7 days a week. The upside to this, IMO, is that between the team of staff, we get to alternate shifts. This means that we will get to have a weekend off once every 5 weeks, that we won’t have to work 5 split shifts, nor will we have to work every single evening and there’s more flexibility in working hours. The downside is that midnight closure, because unless you’re a sucker for punishment, you really shouldn’t be tidying up and cleaning everything before the end of service, and so a clock off time at midnight has seen my departure over the course of last week at well after 00h30. Given the public transport network shuts down at midnight, I have to rely on my bicycle, which has been easy over the period of spring and early summer. I’m just not considering life after summer yet ;-(

So, you might all be asking at this point: “Are you enjoying it?”

The truth is, no. I hate it.

My sentiment has swayed from being wholly optimistic: I’m now part of big company where my employee rights are respected, where I assume there is opportunity for growth, where I thought I would be recognised and have flexibility in working hours, to now, how I am sitting in a position considering how anxious I felt after not coping with the mundane brunch prep (and being spoken to with downright nastiness by a peer: was I ever as much of a shit with new colleagues?) combined with sheer exhaustion and boredom. There is very little creative inspiration on the menu, the ingredients are cheap (and the profit margins exorbitant; clearly my opinions herein will highlight why I am not a successful restaurant owner). Lastly, I get zero joy from the work. I know it’s not actually a job requirement to be on the end of receiving ‘joy from work’, but by doing a job that you’re passionate about should come with some amount of joy, right?

Wrong. In my case anyway.

And if I’m left to consume my thoughts too hungrily while working alone (and perhaps not being able to speak English as freely), you cannot begin to fathom the level of overthinking that is going on.

To clarify those sad moments of overconsumed thoughts that race through my lonely brain, here’s a bulleted list:

• It’s like I’m working in a cafeteria. There is zero really lovely fresh creative meals on the menu and nothing is done with real passion. It’s slap dash with zero attention to detail, which is what I do when I’m rushing. Honestly, I’ve had an opportunity to be more creative in a cafeteria at Compass Group circa 2008-2013.
• Zero feedback and joy comes from this job. Whether its because nobody actually likes the meals we send out, or if the feedback stops at the server, who knows?
• Following on that point above, I would hazard a guess that there is a larger majority of French people that are NOT as snobby about the food they eat as the perception of French cuisine actually is.
  • I mean, if somebody says they’re going out for a fancy meal, there’s an assumption that it will involve some amount of historically French styled methods of cooking: deep dark brown jus sticking to a glistening Villeroy & Boch ceramic plate; butter speckling the perfectly marbled steaks; sweet and tender baby carrots with their tops attached because why not?; seasonal asparagus and floating islands and name titles that create the impression of real authenticity because of the grand illusion created by Auguste Escoffier in the late 1800’s, and that this is the veritable standard to which all French citizens choose to eat. Nope. That’s not the case at all. The French in general will eat just about anything that they recognise whether its actually tasty or not. Just so long as they didn’t prepare it themselves. (This is a very cynical POV after these recent weeks. I’ve painted people with rather broad strokes for which I apologise. What I am trying to get across tho’, is that french food is really not all that special as it’s portrayed to be in public media).
• My French language skills must be getting wholly better if I am able to be aware of being spoken to like a commis de cuisine. The test will come when I can retaliate with equal disparity.
• I’m too old for this job.

Yes. I’ve said it. As a woman aged 44 with a family, I know that there is more to life than toiling until the midnight hours, having to try make excuses to an arrogant shit who thinks he’s a cut above the rest- and there will be more than one isolated case in this industry, I can assure you. (That said, there are so many women in their 40’s out there who have no option but to do jobs that they don’t want to. I am grateful to be in a position where I can try change my narrative.)

This roiling sadness that sits in heart is something I’m terrified to admit to, because the implications are too vast. They basically spill out onto “what will you do if you can’t be a cook?” My level of complacency over the years from 2017 until March has allowed me to hide behind the comfort of the pub job, but with my emotions spilling out onto the keyboard and in conversations with friends lately, the turmoil and a level of toxicity I have endured in the space of 3 weeks is really pushing me closer to breaking point.

My kids and hubby need me. I need to not be a waste of a body when I should be present. (Although, new weight loss protocols which include sweating for 8 -10 hours and not eating the same calibre of meals I used to have escalated which is one little benefit.)

The truth is I am too scared to reach into an entirely different realm of income. I’m scared I don’t have what it takes to try fulfil a different dream. I’m scared of the downtime where I will have more stress than I currently do. I’m scared of failing (again). I don’t want to deal with admin of being self employed and as a result, I feel a step in a different direction within a kitchen is what will be best for now.

People talk of how the ‘ideal’ is doing the job that involves your passion. However, it’s easier said than done, because once the pressure to fulfil work obligations becomes more, the passion for it becomes less. Case in point- I thoroughly enjoy writing and I dream of publishing a book. But I think that if I could take a sabbatical to do exactly that, I would end up with every other distraction and form of writers block. If you had to see my draft folder on this blog, you would have to agree.

I’ve had an opportunity this week to chat to friends about what I’m going through. There have been some truly beautiful suggestions from them as to which direction might help me out. They were full of compliments (and I truly love my friends for supporting me in every aspect) and it’s made me realise that a career change is possible , it’s just a case of discovering that route.

Becoming an auto-entrepreneur is a scary goal based on administration concerns, but it may be the best solution in the end. However, in the mean time, a suggestion was made to lecture or teach classes, or alternately, take my Instagram profile and ramp it up to a real monetary source. I’m not sure which is the more formidable option.

Look at me. It’s Friday. A week has passed and while I had an easier beginning the this week, and realised that my exhausting week last week was a result of being short of staff, and that maybe my views are skewed, let me not get too complacent.

On that note, I bid you au revoir et a bientôt, and if you have any sources of an income or a different suggestion to inner peace, drop me a comment please.

Much love my darlings, and have a great weekend,

Moi,

Xxx