Here it comes,
It’s hour imminent,
Six angry chefs,
Reduced to sheep,
In the world of men,
It takes just two, faceless in anonymity,
In from the cold to our warming breast,
Knives drawn and sharpened behind closed doors,
In a fervour beyond our apprehension,
In delight or disillusionment
We will discuses to distraction,
But the night before a feeling crept from your very soul,
Grasped in paranoia,
A hand so heavy removes your will,
Lays gently in your mind,
Every move etched on your mind in screaming warning, Every past echoed through your tattered ego, Every move examined in 3D,
Turmoil resonates in a tornado deep within, Emotions surged through every pore,
Falling on to china canvasses of white,
It rushed through doors for investigation,
Forked and disembowelled,
Desecrated for comments unjust or fair,
Who knows? But wounded we will fight on, Hungry mouths to feed,
Who will turn away happier than they have ever been, And we chefs turn and smile,
Regardless of a single vote.
Chefs will understand the effect of an inspection visit from a food critic, the critic from the Evening Standard was reputed to be able to close a restaurant in weeks with the stroke of her pen, she once described the dinning room of a place I worked as being “Decorated like a second grade bordello” and it closed not long after, the walls were hung with artistic black and white pictures of naked women, which no matter how artistic they may be, they are a very strong statement, and not to many peoples taste, it was dated by the time I left, but it did have that low rent knocking shop feel to it.
No matter what level you are working too the news of a possible critic can paralyse a team of chefs, these angry young men/women who spend 18 hours a day spitting venom and throwing undesirable plates of food at unexpectant victims, become as quiet as lambs, we spend every moment dissecting how we cooked it, how we seasoned it, did it look good enough, did we do too much to it, to little to it, what will they say tomorrow morning. It bombards your every thought until you hear the verdict, at times I have felt like lord god almighty from a positive word and been working on the geometry of hanging myself from a sturdy wooden beam at others.
The worst part is, most inspectors are the type of people you would beat to a pulp for looking at your pint, those who were enternally bullied at school, the henpecked and down trodden, but on this day you feel as though they are the bullies and your are now the downtrodden.