Yesterday restaurants, bars, pubs, cafes and all establishments that lie in between the parameters of serving food and drink were allowed to open their doors to the general public for the first time since late March, albeit under restricted conditions. As someone who has spent most of their life working in food and hospitality, it has been heartbreaking watching an industry I love crippled by something so unforeseeable and unforgiving. Pubs, cafes and restaurants are not just somewhere to eat and drink, good ones can become as important as the people you partake in them with. To quote Joni (and therefore by default Janet) “you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone”.
However, though I feel that we should all be celebrating their return, chiefly because it will mean we can eventually have a proper pint in actual glass, I also feel that there has been much to learn in this period of stasis. These places and all the people that keep them running day to day are providing something that is not tangible. It's more elusive, coming under labels of pleasure, comfort and recognition. Stasis has allowed recognition of just how much we have taken for granted. Also how little help has been offered by a government, who have not only given very little guidance and support, beyond a lump financial agreement that does not fit all. But has also frequently and persistently called hospitality workers “unskilled”. Please think about this next time you are in a restaurant and someone has cooked your fish perfectly while someone else puts a drink in your hand (in a glass you haven’t had to wash) and a menu in front of you in a way that makes you feel like you belong there. All the things that are easy to overlook, only occur when people care about doing a job well and skilfully. You don’t notice them when they happen but you definitely notice when they don’t.
Our industry has not helped itself. We’ve somehow become stuck in a system where we rely on tipping to get our wages up to the bare minimum for living. We rely on part time staff to get through our Friday night shifts but provide the majority of those with zero hour contracts, resulting in employees who are consistently vulnerable to being cut from rotas whenever suits an employer with little regard for their need to pay rent. We encourage people to work 60 hours a week in hot, stressful, fast paced environments for very little reward. We are then surprised by how prevalent substance abuse and burnout is. We have instilled very little guidelines to allow employees any support or knowledge to move forward in this industry. We are resistant to any change in our working culture but bemoan a nation-wide chef shortage and constant staff turn-over.
The hospitality industry has been brought to a standstill in these last few months, a timely reminder that it is constantly running on a knife edge of success and failure. Change is needed, and this industry and its people need the public that frequent them to support that change. It is not enough to ask someone at the end of the meal whether or not the 12.5% service charge goes to them. As we stand looking around at the wreckage these last few months have wrought, I know that it will re-emerge. It is full of too many dynamic, intelligent and passionate people not too. I do hope however that it re-emerges with an openness and awareness that change is needed in all its aspects. We have an opportunity to reinvent it in ways that will make it more forgiving, diverse and respectful for those that choose to join it, and I hope we don’t throw that chance away.
We three Marigolds have all spent some time in places where the power balance has been too heavily tipped towards people leading with racism, misogyny and aggression. Reading Rebecca’s work of fiction today, inspired by that very culture, while we hope it makes you laugh, we also hope it makes you think about that which is portrayed within it. Consider whether or not you would like to ally yourself to that. It’s not as fictional as you think.
Love,
Josie + The Marigolds
Pairing Suggestion
A Manhattan.
50ml bourbon, a dash of angostura bitters, 12.5ml Sweet Vermouth, swished over ice and strained into a chilled coupe with a cherry to garnish
If you want to be a wanker about it, get yourself some expensive bourbon, as imagined by Luke Humphries below, but I’m easy. Up until recently I always had one of those elaborate looking jars of Fabbri Amarena cherries and a bottle of bitters on deck that ‘someone’ had nicked from their respective shit paid bar/restaurant job. Pay peanuts and that’s what you get folks! We have to make up our paycheck somehow.
Viva my addiction to stolen cherries. - Emily
Part One
R T Townrow
I had, for the last six months, been under cover in a three Michelin star restaurant. My assignment, an expose of the famed Head Chef, whose lewd machismo led to me witnessing a daily onslaught of discriminatory cursing. In his distinct lexicon the Italians were told to ‘suck their Nonna’s tits’, whilst the queer maître de was anointed ‘puff pastry’, an alliteration he purposely pursed his lips to pronounce. This behaviour became normal under an umbrella which gave the chef omnipotent power; his kitchen, his rules. You worked hard and tolerated it or you left lambasted by profanity, largely relating to your penis, or lack thereof. Cultural ideas of a fast paced kitchen only being able to function under such squaddie style bullying, had allowed his behaviour to pervade scrutiny. However my newspaper had been contacted by a source who suggested his idiosyncrasies stretched further than the verbal and through to the fetishized and carnal. I was yet to witness an act of empire crumbling capacity, but there were certainly a selection of daily rituals which existed in a realm of perversion. The most recurring of these being an order for a monkfish to be laid on ice at the pass each evening, Chef then spent the service barking out checks, his ring finger pushed to the hilt inside the fish’s mouth.
During this period of secrecy, I had kept a low profile as pantry chef. My tasks were numerous and though on the surface appeared to require little ability, took care and precision to execute. In the mornings, I prepared salad leaves, brushing dirt from each one by hand. In the afternoons or during service, I picked herbs and mixed dressings of aged vinegars and golden olive oil. The monotony of these tasks performed over long hours, paired with lengthy fraught abuse from Chef had, like my much-maligned co-workers, left me rather brow beaten. This made for beautiful garnishes but a lack of material, initially I had hoped for far more splashy findings. The office was starting to lose patience and had given me until the end of the year to prove he was ‘front-page filthy’ and not just nasty.
Luckily the Christmas party was approaching and the bartender who allowed me to neck espressos from a tray they discreetly bought into the staff smoking area, had alluded that Chef normally took at least one member of staff home with him. I had disclosed this information to my editor and he had suggested I should ‘make myself available’. This job was my first undercover, I didn’t want to go back to reviewing the best ‘on the go lunches’ or cleaning products, so I bit my lip when he sealed a complicity between us with a wink.
The day of the party came, Chef promised it would be a treat for his ‘naughty boys’, an address that was inclusive of both me and his sous chef Angela. The dress code was smart and so when the evening arrived, in keeping with the festive season, I wore a black dress with sheer sleeves and décolletage, lining my lips and painting them red before I left the house.
We met in a pub with a private dining room; I was greeted with a glass of sparkling and joined a conversation about how well we looked out of whites. A voice boomed ‘get your fucking arses on chairs before I fucking fire the lot of you’ Chef laughed out, ‘only joking you fucking idiots, I’m just fucking starving’. I sat at the opposite end of the table to him and, between courses and top ups, kept a steady eye on his behaviour. He wore a dark cashmere jumper, complete with personalised insignia and a watch of thick brown leather and gold. The gossip magazines spoke of him as a figure irresistible to women, but to me, his deep lined face was akin to the body of a witchetty grub, full of bumps and ravines, his prominent forehead a ribbed and distorted wall. He barked at the waiters to smile more and fetch clean plates. After the mains were finished I borrowed a lighter, excused myself, and made my way outside.
I was half way through a much needed second cigarette, leant against a wall dissecting the evening thus far, when the party exited the bar congregating on the kerb. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘He didn’t enjoy the food.’ Angela said, rolling her eyes, ‘we’re leaving dessert, he’s ordered cabs to his members club - finish your fag, I think there’s another one coming, there are still a few people upstairs’.
I watched as a fleet of cars appeared and the staff fell in. As I stubbed my butt with my shoe, Chef appeared from the doorway. Behind him, two kitchen porters exchanging conversation animatedly in French. Another car pulled up and we moved into the back, I ended up opposite him. He spread his legs out and his knees dug into mine. The porters were still conversing; he turned to them, and in an interpretation of French snapped ‘femi la fucking bouche’. They turned, mouths slightly agape prepared to defend themselves, but he raised his eyebrows and interrogated them silently. No words came to their lips. Instead they pulled their bodies towards the door and sat uncomfortably at a side angle.
We spent the next ten minutes in silence, the Friday night traffic in the direction of Soho, moving at an excruciating snails pace. At one point he moved his leg and it slotted between my fish netted thighs. I took a second to mentally fortify myself and moved my head upwards to meet his eyes. I looked straight at him and he bared his teeth like a great white.
On arrival at the club we were greeted by the host, who he knew on first name terms, he positioned himself behind me and removed my coat. In an old fashioned gesture he offered me his arm and led me to the bar, I seemed to have caught his attention. I ordered a Manhattan and he made it two, taking out a thick black card to start a tab. Languidly propped against a velvet stool he spoke loudly about research for his new book, which had included 6 months of weekend breaks in the Basque country. I listened with intent and we ordered a second round. He had excused himself to go to the bathroom and I was chewing on the last of my whiskey soaked maraschino cherry, plotting my next move, when he returned.
An unnecessary internal conversation, because his next move was to put his mouth close to my ear and in a hot breath whisper- ‘We should ditch this crowd for half an hour, I've got the end of a fantastic bourbon in my office, I can show you some proofs from the publishers’. I faked an air of intrigue, stood up and answered, ‘The company in here is terrible, let's go’; a statement he failed to register because he was already striding towards the door. I walked behind quickly, the staff were drinking and dancing in the corner, and I was keen for our departure to go unnoticed. I caught him up as he walked through the door and doffed an imaginary cap to the manager, ‘we’ll be back for our belongings, we won’t be long’ he smirked.
……to be continued.
Thanks for reading!
As always, here are some links for ya:
Alice Waters’ Brandied Cherries - No need to steal ‘em, get a big box of cherries and make your own.
Riaz Philips’ piece for Resy - We mentioned him in our last newsletter, but this piece about systemic racism within the food industry is worth a read and very relevant to the questioning tone of this week's issue.
Make-Believe is For Diners - I would like Osayi Endolyn to write about all my dining experiences forever. Every time I read something from this series it strikes a chord.
Justin Robinson on Hydrangea - back to my klepto tendencies; I love hydrangeas and I stole a handful of them from a neighbour's front garden last week (my thinking is they won’t miss a few, the bush is huge and spills over onto the street so it’s fair game right?) In this IG live Justin Robinson talks eloquently about the history of the flower. His other videos are all super educational and worth a watch too.