The Devil in the Kitchen by Marco Pierre White Read Free Book Online Page A

wanted to learn how to make béarnaise, a derivative of hollandaise, so I asked if I could come in to watch it being made.
    At the George we might have a party for 350 people and I’d have to do pommes de terre château, where the potato is “turned” so that it is perfectly olive-shaped. With 5 little potatoes for each plate, that’s 1,750 pieces of potato. Compare that with working in a restaurant, where you might do six portions of pommes de terre château a night, and in one evening at a hotel I had acquired experience it would have taken me nearly sixty nights to get in a restaurant. So I picked up the disciplines of cooking speedily, organization and one other thing: how to discipline my hands, almost program them, so I became really fast with a knife.
    It didn’t matter how fast or hard I worked, bollockings were still part of the job. Bollockings from Chef. Bollockings from the older chefs, who included a bloke from Lancashire whose accent was so deep that I could not understand a single word that came out of his mouth. I would just respond with a simple “yes” to every remark he made. Then one day he muttered something unintelligible and when I said, “Yes,” he screamed, “What the fuck do you mean, ‘yes,’ boy? Didn’t you hear what I fucking said?” That was the only time I understood him.
    I was indeed the apprentice, the whipping boy, but I could take the bollockings because I had been toughened up by my childhood. It was as easy as stepping from one male-dominated, bullying world into another. Being bollocked was no big deal. Most of the time I found it rather entertaining, even enjoyable. I savored Stephan’s rage.
    There was something else that would make my life a little easier at the George. Stephan, like my dad, enjoyed a bet, and something happened that helped to mellow him a little. A few weeks after I joined the brigade, Stephan let off one of his drill sergeant yells: “Marco! Your dad’s on the office phone.”
    I went into the office and took the call. The excitement in Dad’s voice said it all. “Marco,” he started, “I’ve just had Johnny Seagrove on the phone and he says there’s a horse racing in the three ten at Ripon. It’s a good one. Do a pound each way.” He told me the horse’s name, I repeated it and then said good-bye. Stephan, who had been within earshot, was curious. “What was that all about?” he asked.
    “That was my dad. He’s mates with lots of trainers and jockeys and he’s had a tip.” Stephan’s eyes widened with delight. He was more than a little impressed; he was agog. Now he saw me in a different light. This teenage lad standing in front of him, young Marco White, had connections.
    Dad’s tip proved to be a winner, and after that news of my connections rapidly spread through the hotel. Within days my popularity had soared. Chefs and waiters, barmen and chambermaids would track me down to say sweetly, “Hello, Marco. Spoken to your dad?” If I nodded, they’d put a pound or two in my hand and ask me to back the horse for them. “Off you go,” Stephan would say, pointing toward the door, and I would sprint to the bookie’s in my chef’s whites to place the bets. I wonder now whether I spent more time in the bookie’s than in the kitchen.
    Through this I devised an ingenious way of getting the brigade back for bullying me. I used to announce to them, “My dad’s calling with a tip tomorrow,” and they would rush toward me, handing over their cash. Then I’d go to the betting shop and put all their money on a horse of my choice. If it won, I took the profit and then gave them their money back, saying, “There was no tip from Dad.” If the horse lost, I’d give them their betting slips to show I’d put the money on. It meant that on a good week I was earning more than Stephan. I felt like an entrepreneur.
    The George also taught me that chefs and waiters hate each other. There’s a variety of reasons but usually it boils down to