“Swapon, chef.”
“Your knot,” Ramsay said. “It’s very big, don’t you think?”
“Yes, chef.”
“You know what they say in Britain—the bigger the knot, the smaller the cock. Young man, I’m sure your cock is very big. Will you do something about your knot, please?”
“Yes, chef.”
The next day, the sommelier, Gregory Condes, made the mistake of approaching the pass during service—he had a question for Neil about oranges and had got momentarily in the way—and was so humiliated that, by the end of a long and relentless haranguing, his face puffed up with held-back tears. Minutes later, a line cook, James Kent, committed a variation of the same offense. James was then tortured, until finally he, too, was ordered out. “Go, leave, now. The sight of you disgusts me,” Ramsay said. But then he paused and became reflective, seeming to savor the effects of his punishment. “Did you see that young chef’s face?” Ramsay asked. “The way it was all knotted up? Wasn’t that fantastic? He was in terrible pain. Isn’t it fascinating how food can make for such pure emotion? He was desperate. He wants to be here so badly it hurts. We’ll have to pull him back up.” He called over Dale MacKay, the sous-chef. “Treat that young man like your little brother. Take him under your wing. Build his confidence.”
The above paragraph is extremely reminiscent of my time. Far out!
For Ramsay, Marco Pierre White was boss, teacher, father figure, rival. He fed Ramsay hundreds of foods for the first time—truffles, morels, reduced sauces, a perfectly cooked scallop—and introduced him to a comparably long list of combinations: red mullet with citrus, say, or shellfish with ginger. White had taken a lad from a council estate (White, too, had grown up in one, in Leeds) and introduced him to a different world.
The above is however in my eyes to be envied
Have a read of the rest at the link above
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