"If you write it, they will come"

Which is probably what Hugh Hefner reassured his editorial team back in the early days of Playboy.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I started to write this blog (such a geeky nerdish word). I wasn't sure if anyone would get what I was on about, I know it ain't War n peace, but you know what I mean. I've never doubted my own abilities, I am a waiter after all and we are a masterful and all powerful group of individuals. But as I wasn't getting a thousand hits a day I was disappointed. I have since reigned in such high ambitions. Seriously, talking to yourself is bad, but talking to yourself via the Internet is sadder than looking at yourself in the mirror and calling yourself "Big Guy!"

But like the new kid at school you have to go and find friends. I pushed the random button and what a Pandora's box of bitterness and swearing was revealed to me. Old Bitter balls, Toast, Troika, Fat Sparrow, Fat Mammy Cat, Kav, Conortje, Paddy etc all became my new bestest friends. Little Miss Manuel however is convinced you are all just grooming me for bad sex and are going rob my dinner money off me. She works with kids with behavioural problems and is offering to take you all on as clients over the summer to turn you all into good little citizens. It's something to think about.

As I start the third month of the the very excellent tome that is WELL DONE FILLET, I am again feeling reflective. This is in part due to my near death experience today. Whilst out cycling this afternoon I found myself heading up a tight little street with a car coming towards me. No worries thought I, a little shimmy to the right and we'll all be on our way. Not to be! One badly executed maneuver later and there I was lying in the middle of the road with a frigging Fiat Punto chugging towards me. The car driver managed to stop with a comfortable 5 yards to spare. Thank the Sweet Baby Jesus it wasn't a Range Rover, an ironic death would be just my luck. The lady in the Punto wound down her window and asked how I was. Thanks love, I'll just untangle my bike from my groin, no need for you to get out. She got rather impatient as it took me a moment or two to get my ass together and drag myself to the side of the road.

There was blood. My bike was all bent out of shape. And my manly man bag was ripped. And all because I had clipped the wing mirror of a bloody Volkswagen Polo! I dragged my sorry bent out of shape ass and bike home and phoned Little Miss Manuel for some love and sympathy. She arrived round and almost seemed disappointed that nothing was broken. I was then marched by the ear out to the car as LMM wanted to visit the scene of the accident. She burst out of the car in a fury popped the wing mirror back in place, removed my note with my phone number on it and got back into the car muttering something about "growing some balls". Nice.

Any way I survived. I looked death in the face and my life flashed before me. And you know what? I regret nothing, and wouldn't change a thing! Up yours, grim reaper.

So comrades, it is Mayday after all, here is your WELL DONE FILLET review of the month.

I had two weddings to deal with in April, one at work which went like a dream. The other wasn't so hot due to the rock star shenanigans of my friend. I am constrained at what I can say to customers at work but not on here. Cunts, like the one who booked for Christmas days after Easter. I shared my recipes for penis and horse. Where else would you get that? Teachers pissed me off as did Satan's bum chum Raul. I introduced you to the Management, not that they like being called that. I was taught a new phrase for fat birds by Emily. Smoking or the lack of it has caused me to swear more often than normal. And cultchie types were given advice on how to handle themselves in public. And never ever send your food back. All in all we all learnt a little something this month. Which is always good.

What happens when you send your food back

chicken ding! the chefs favourite

Ever wondered what happens when you, the almighty customer, forget, or are too drunk, stupid, incompetent [delete as appropriate] to tell your waiter that you didn't want the noisettes of lamb to come with the red wine reduction? Or that you don't really like the anchovies in your salad despite it being listed in the menu description? Or that you are allergic to the pine nuts in the pasta sauce?

Let me share the dirty little secrets of what happens next. Vanquish ideas of your food being remade in it's entirety. It's not going to happen. Head chefs are accountants with aprons, the very description of bean counters. A new steak will only get thrown onto the char grill if there is no way the errant one can be saved. Two, three, even four chefs will gather round the plate in a scene reminiscent of an episode of "ER", all pushing, probing, and offering analysis on the best way forward. Like vets in a dog shelter, a good meal will never be put down if it can be saved.

But we haven't got as far as the kitchen yet. So you are upset that something is "wrong" with your food so you call the waiter over and explain your problem. This is normally conveyed with a "my world has just collapsed" sort of attitude. Knock it off. Seriously, getting on like someone has just shat in your lap isn't going to make the waiter move with any greater urgency. Especially if the waiter knows it's your fault. This sort of attitude will have the opposite effect. If you messed up, admit it! The rest of your dining experience will be better for being an adult. Don't forget it is the waiter who has to explain to the Puka Fukas in the kitchen why you are sending your food back and a lot of what happens next depends on how the waiter explains this to the kitchen. Piss the waiter off by blaming him for your mistake and you may as well just pack up and go home, you are not getting your food anytime soon.

The kitchen don't plan for food coming back. So when you send it back you are throwing a massive spanner in the works. They have moved on to other orders and don't have time to change the sauce on your steak, or re make your pasta. So if they can get away with not remaking it they will. So here are the three main methods for dealing with returned food:

1. The pick it out and fluff method. Used when there is something in your salad you don't want, for example croutons, olives, etc. The chef, KP, even the waiter will remove the undesired ingredient, add extra lettuce, bob into a new bowl, add extra dressing and return to table. You would be better advised to remove the unwanted yourself. Do you really want the kid who's doing the dishes pawing over your food.
2. Nuke it, zap it, ding it. Soup cold? Stew not as hot as you expected? It ain't going back in a pot it's getting a reworking in a microwave. Also used when something is needed in a hurry, for example a chicken fillet takes as long as a well done steak to cook. But his time can be halved with the use of the trusty microwave and a spell in a "proper" oven.
   
3. Wash it! Order the wrong sauce for your steak? Does your definition of "medium" differ from that of the chef's? If your steak has to be changed in some way you can expect it to be washed. The offending sauce is scraped off, the steak is dropped in the fryer (the washing) to remove any traces of the sauce, and if needed put back on the char grill. Steaks are often washed under water too, in order not to cook it any further. The only time this doesn't happen is when the steak is over cooked.
   

This happens everywhere, from the best restaurants to shitty little dives. My advice is to suck it up and if you have to send something back ask for it to be re-done. You'll wait but it is worth it.

Next week: what does "homemade" actually mean and where does that locally reared beef actually come from.

Chef in "head up own arse" shocker!

not in the real world? Moi?

Regular reader and big fan of mountains, long walks, and taking amazing photographs TOAST put me onto this ridiculous story from the FAT DUCK restaurant in Berkshire. Heston Blumenthal, owner and chef of this 3 Michelin star restaurant, now serves some plates with different gimmicks to enhance the dining experience. The "Sound of the Sea", a mixture of seafood and edible seaweed served on a sand-like tapioca mixture, will be served with an iPod playing sounds of crashing waves etc. It, allegedly, enhances the dining experience, making the food taste saltier and stronger. Really? Does it? How fan-fucking-tastic! And he isn't finished yet. Upon booking, no doubt months in advance, diners will be sent 3D glasses and a sweet-scented atomiser spray. I couldn't find an explanation for this. I'm sure some arse will call it iFood or an iMeal. iSwear!

I'm sorry but this sounds like utter bollocks to me. Mr Blumenthal is clearly a very talented chef having won the best restaurant in the world award and is holder of 3 Michelin stars, but does he really need gadgets and gimmicks to enhance his food? Jesus, what would he serve an Ulster Fry with, tin hat, an atomizer with hint of petrol, iPods playing the soundtrack to a riot?

This is just a whole new level of shite for customers to complain about. But is Blogging gold!

"Can we get the Chateaubriand with a bottle of Chateau Lafite and a side of 80's all girls supergroup Bananarama. We tried it last week with the early work of Echo and the Bunnymen but found it a bit over powering." Or other such drivel.

For sure good music can add to the enjoyment of your meal, as can good company. Just as the sound of arseholes on their mobile phones can detract some what. But plugging in to an iPod is just so wrong.



But it does throw up some interesting ideas though. On tonights menu Manuel recomends:

1. Rare sirloin steak with horseradish mash and a generous portion of Raining Blood by Slayer.
2. The vegetarian option is both organic and Fairtrade and comes with the sanctimoneous sounds of Coldplay. Coldplay, "music for men who cry when they masterbate" as someone so brilliantly put it.
3. Caramelised Bacon joint with fried green cabbage on a bed of KD Lang's greatest hits.
   
4. The Sauerkraut and sausage is finished with some Wagner, obviously.

Any other thoughts, send them to to the Fat Duck. He will probably use them.
Cheers Toast.

Satan's personal chef

undead undead undead

Despite my utter dislike and natural aversion to most human beings I can get on well with most people, if even for a short period. White supremacists and members of the SWP aside, obviously. It's the same at work. I 'd rather get on with people than fight them, but I wont hold back from a bit of verbal if I have to. Only very occasionaly do those I can't be arsed with get a force ten "FUCK OFF".

My most recent incident of "toe to toe spit in the face" verbals was with the second chef, "Raul". I don't mind admitting I was left shaking after it. I am rarely bettered in such confrontations, and there is no one on here who can contradict me! "Raul", though, is different gravy, very different gravy. He is a cold, silent, brooding, loner of an enigma wrapped in a chefs jacket wrapped in a mystery. These are qualities that I usually admire. But not when they combine to create fear.

Little is known about him. Some say he is from that bastion of liberal thinking and free love, Larne. Some say he was crafted from a block of ice left over from an ice age of millenia ago. He doesn't sweat. Not a drop, even when the temperature reaches silly degrees. He has no reflection and casts shadows even when there is no light. Children and animals fear him. He was the subject of the Tom Waits song "Whats he building in there?". He has no known friends save for an old pairing knife he calls "bleedy". He thumbs it's point with un-nerving regularity. He hates waiters and people with hands in general as he heats the plates to a point were you can hear the food bubbling on the way to the table. When not shouting he speaks in a low montone voice, and never repeats himself. When he laughs you cant see him. When you look into his blood shot eyes you see nothing but the bodies of dead waiters piled high. He is the blackness, the night, the chef who never eats. He is darkness personafied. There is a special place for him in hell when he returns. And he likes it like that. He is the devils personal chef.

All I wanted was a fucking staff meal. Cooker jockey.

Jus you know what it is?

Not so long ago jus was only to be found in French restaurants. Now, like Creme Anglais, it's bloody everywhere! Seriously jus is everywhere now. I half expect to see it on the menu in my local greasy spoon, "Toast a la beans dans l'jus de tomat" or something like that. And it's not just jus, why do we still use terms like "A la carte" and "Table d'Hote"? If it's in a French restaurant then go for it, anywhere else knock it off! Modern, or should I say moderne, menus are full of this gibberish. These are no more than ubiquitous terms used for effect or if I am really being cynical, and I almost always am, they are "sexing up" dull plates!

When I ask a customer if they would prefer the a la carte or the table d'hote menu I can see the panic in their little faces, beads of sweat dripping down through their furrowed brows, as they work out which sounds the cheapest. We should "Drop the French!" And I say this as a commited Francophile. There is no need for it in most restaurants.

So what does a customer do when handed a menu full of confits, carpaccios, and creme Anglais'? (I started writing this when I got to the letter "C" in the "BIG BOOK OF PRETENTIOUS COOKING TERMS).

There are four ways customers react when handed a menu full of exotic and strange terms:

REACTION 1: Peruse menu in a relaxed manner and order confidently as you are no stranger to the Lobster Cappuccino. You have my respect. You pray for these people.

REACTION 2: Scan menu several times in the vain hope you come across something you recognise. In the end you give up trying to work out what the tournedos of beef are and ask the waiter for help. The waiter will provide this help in one of two ways. If you arrived on time, were courteous, and generally appear to be a stand up chap the waiter will explain all to you with genuine care. He will translate form "chef'ese" to English, unlocking the menu's secrets along the way. Alternatively, if you arrived late without apology, asked to move table, complained about the lighting, the music, or in any way put the waiter out he will approach you with nothing but derision. Essentially you are fucked! He will recommend the Carpaccio of beef for your wife who wants her meat "cremated" and so on. But the people who ask also have my respect. Just dont piss on the waiters apron then ask him to help!

REACTION 3: Read menu, realise you are out of your depth but order any way as you don't want to lose face in front of the girl 20 years your junior who you are trying to bed. Inevitibly you complain, bitch, and whine when your food arrives as the "Gazpacho is cold and steak tartare isn't even cooked!" You sir, are an arse and I have nothing but contempt for you!

REACTION 4: Read menu, realise you are out of your depth, handback menus, pay for drinks, leave and go to Pizza Hut for the Mighty Meaty Meal Deal. Hey, you're ok with me!

Non French chefs need to drop the arsey phrases and open their menus to those who haven't spent 15 years working for Raymond Blanc "et al". I'm not advocating dumbing down just a bit more plain speaking. It makes my job harder and we can't have that! Oh and Creme Anglais? Are you fucking serious?

Bon Appetit, as they now say in Kilrea!

I blame Gordon Ramsay for everthing that is wrong in the world ever.

Ok maybe not everything.

But definitely for the attitude of chefs. With carry on like this, is it any wonder? Don't get me wrong, chefs have always been a mouthy bunch of gets. But Mr Ramsay, with his mulitude of TV shows, has given them licence to rant and rave and act like well slapped arses. And when you are one of the finest chefs in the world who could argue with you? There is no doubting Ramsay's considerable talent. But I am talking about wee lads who only got into catering on the advice of their schools career counselor. The brick laying classes already being full. And who takes the brunt of this abuse? Not the managers, certinaly not the customers (well not directly), not the other cooker jockeys (you can't sh*t on your own doorstep), but yours truly.

Waiters have to put up with their little temper tantrums. God forbid you have to take something back to the kitchen or even worse you make a mistake. Pans get slammed, eyes are rolled, and microwave doors are slammed ALONG WITH THE SWEARING AND SHOUTING!! Often they gather round the offending plate and take turns in poking it and offering their "educated" opinion; "Its fine" "No problem with it" "the f**ks wrong with that?" and so on.

I am left standing there waiting for one of them to make the obvious decision, to remake it. They get there in the end. If they weren't stoned half the time they could get to the decision quicker. By this point I am usually getting stressed out listening to their ramblings. But I have to compose myself and return to the table with a bogus apology from the chef. Chefs never apologise. NEVER.

I hold Ramsay responsible for turning these chefs into prima dona's. His televised antics have created a new breed of bed wetting chefs who think its ok to fly of the handle at the seemingly smallest thing. It makes my life harder. And I can't be having that! Still he's still less annoying than that puka f**a Jamie Oliver. Chefs are on the list, there is no doubting it.