Let’s face it – as much fun as cheffing is, its as much hard work. And a lot of fun…
Photo Credit Jez Timms
5:00 AM: The alarm blares like a fire drill, and I spring out of bed, not from excitement, but because I’ve realized I’ve forgotten to order the fish for the seafood cooking class and tonight’s date night class. I send a frantic text to my supplier with the desperate hope that they understand “HELP!” means “Please send my Cape Salmon before noon.”
6:00 AM: Arriving at the kitchen, I’m greeted by the scent of yesterday’s unwashed aprons. Already off to a glamorous start. I grab a coffee so strong it could wake the dead (or at least, a chef at dawn). By the time the first pot of coffee is downed, I’m starting to feel like a human again, which is great because I need to start prepping onions for service.
7:30 AM: Knife in hand, I dive into prep. Chopping onions like a master until—whoops—a slight miscalculation and my finger gets nicked. Nothing too serious, just enough to test how well I can apply a band-aid with one hand. The kitchen motto: “If there’s no blood, it wasn’t a good prep session.”
9:00 AM: The rest of the team arrives. One sous-chef is still half-asleep, and the new guy just tried to peel garlic with a vegetable peeler. “It’s gonna be a great day,” I mutter to myself, trying to smile through my rising anxiety.
11:00 AM: We’ve got two hours before the class starts and the fish order arrives. It’s… frozen. Panic level: volcanic. I mentally compose a letter to my supplier filled with colourful metaphors about fresh seafood. We pivot. Change recipes and try and find seafood dishes that may not entirely include seafood. WTF? Pasta and mussels—pasta never betrays you like seafood can.
12:30 PM: The calm before the storm. Class is about to begin, and everything is prepped—mostly. The tables are laid out, the ingredients are set up and the apprentice-chef just knocked over an entire pot of stock. But hey, this is life in the kitchen. We adapt. We laugh, because if you don’t, you might cry.
1:00 PM: The first guests start arriving. Someone mentions that they’re gluten- free, dairy-free, everything-else-free which means the pasta seafood dish needs reconsidering. We get creative, finding stuff in the store-room that will suffice. The new recipe consists of vegetables and a partly defrosted prawn. All good (mostly). At least we still have our sense of humour.
3:00 PM: Class is in full swing. It’s chaos. Pans are flying about, one guests burns the potatoes and I’m holding the kitchen together with sheer willpower and a spatula like some kind of culinary gladiator, guests ducking left and right. One of the servers arrives with plate for the cooking class and drops them just right before they hit the dining table. In that moment, the sound of smashing plates feels like the soundtrack to my life.
4:00 PM: The class ends and everyone is happy. We’ve cooked about 8 recipes and guests are happy, full and starting to leave, some slightly inebriated. Finally, a brief lull. We restock, rehydrate (with coffee, of course), and laugh over the some of the incidents, including a few reprimands. Our amazing team is holding up remarkably well, despite the minor burns, cuts, and emotional scarring from the everything-free guest.
5:00 PM We start prep for the Date Night class, checking that the fish has finally defrosted, and realise that the dessert has not yet set. Back-up plan? Always something at hand…
6:00 PM: Date Night class begins and couples start setting up for an eventful evening of cooking together. It’s all hands on deck from the chefs, who try and determine cooking skills, dietaries and allergies, all of have which changed from the spec sheet. One customer changes their menu option and because the steak is “too meaty.” My inner chef screams, but on the outside, I nod politely and offer them the vegetarian option. Crisis averted—until someone sets a dishcloth on fire, then promptly douses it with some Moet et Chandon. I didn’t know expensive champagne was that versatile.
8:00 PM everything is running smoothly until one couple starts arguing about how to cook their steak. The conversation starts to turn a little bit zesty, so I step in to manage the situation, carefully avoiding knives that are being waved around. I remove the knives and the situation relaxes. We get on with the cooking without too many scars, although a few emotional challenges may remain.
9:00 PM The rush slows down. We’ve survived another date night with only minor burns, one guest fainting and a missing knife (which I suspect ended up in a bin somewhere).
10:00 PM The last of the guests are ushered out after dessert and we congratulate each other on a good evening. We gather in the scullery for a debrief and a quick bite before closing up – usually toast with leftovers on top – a staple of most chefs working night shift.
11:00 PM: The kitchen is spotless again, as if the madness of the day never happened. We all leave, exhausted but proud. Tomorrow, the cycle begins again—more onions, more mishaps, and hopefully less frozen seafood. But that’s the life of a chef: controlled chaos with a side of laughter, and a passion for what we do and maybe a band-aid or two.