Chefs Vs. City Bankers

Chefs Vs. City Bankers

(The next step in evolution??)

Evolution in humans is defined by the tools we use as part of our society.

Chefs as we all well know, train for many years and hone their skills to use their tools (Knives, amongst others) to create mouth-watering, delicious essentials of life;  Food.

City Bankers (Insert W where necessary) on the other hand, what tools do they possess? They would say their tool is their brain. If that is the case and they are indeed their brain, then they are tools; No argument there.

I bring this argument to you today to highlight something that I feel has been left out of the public domain for far too long but is something that has been discussed in professional kitchens for as long as memory serves.

Why is it that these Bankers (Insert W) insist that by watching and no doubt salivating over Nigella Lawson cooking shows that they know more about the food they order than the people cooking it? I'm sure that not all the people in this position of obvious knowledge are all Bankers (You know what to do by now) But a large portion are, due to the huge disposable income generated by guesswork, at best.

Now I can already hear the protests, denials and I'm sure the "What the hell would an uneducated chef know about what we do anyway" In my defence I DO know what you do and like most chefs take an interest in other topics outside our field and have an opinion. I have been lucky? Enough to attend gatherings with the forenamed and what a pleasurable evening was to be had listening to people obviously very HIGH on Life? Discussing how much money they made this week and showing everyone by buying the most expensive bubbly to prove it. Hedge-funds anyone?

Like surgeons, chefs must make hundreds of decisions every minute lest your food be ruined, and also like surgeons sometimes we get it wrong. I use this analogy because to US food is not life or death, but the way these people react when something does go wrong; it would seem it is.

When money is no longer the driving force in this world ask yourself, "What would you do?" Most chefs would do as they do now because they have passion, determination and skill that they practise even when not working. Bankers???? Perhaps they would play with their tool; as they do now.

Now all I ask you to take from this Rant is this; when evolution comes calling which side will you ally yourself with? Life giving nourishment FOOD, or Bankers?

Paying guest

I don't know about you but when I pay for something I want my money's worth. I'll give you examples. Firstly I live in London so there are occasions when you have to pay to use a toilet. Even if I only need to pee I'll sit and take a dump too. I want the whole experience in this toilet, you understand? I want the experience of firstly wiping down the piss soaked seat and lowering my trousers, hopefully not into that pile of puke conveniently located right in front of the seat. Then the feeling of your bum actually touching the hopefully cold seat. A warm toilet seat, to me represents a little too close contact with the person who just vacated their bowel on the very throne on which you now find yourself. Then to the final part of the experience to the loo paper. Will it be those wax strips of uselessness; the ones that you use about a thousand, covering your fingers in the exact thing you're trying to rid yourself of. Or that utilitarian giant roll that when you arrive in your stinking cubicle looked like there was plenty left only to find that you have grossly underestimated just how bad the deposit  you are making was going to be. Or if you are somewhere incredibly fancy and they have scented bog roll, firstly you want to smell it, so I normally take a few extra moments to linger and blow my nose, even if there is no pressing need.

Will you have that novelty of waving your hand at that "non touch" toilet flushing mechanism that always seems to trigger, for no apparent reason while you are mid dump and you have to wait for an age for the tank to refill so you can hide the evidence that remained after what must have been a courtesy flush done on your behalf. Is there a toilet flush button at all? Having spray painted a bowl because it felt like you were about to explode, you have that dread of not being able to dispose of the devils artwork before the next customer in a busy toilet facility. It's always nice to visit a toilet that that's just occurred in too.

Then onto the hand wash station. If you are very fortunate then it's there right in front of you sharing your stinking cubby hole. Hand wash or foam? It always seems a bit Heston Blumenthal to me with the foam.  Is it the Automatic one that's just makes me feel lazy when I use it, or the special pull draw that you just know is covered in other people's shit.  But you normally get there and there's none left anyway. So now not only do you have your own excrement on your hands but everyone else's who came to visit today.

Then it's onto the water. Warm? Hot? Or the normal that the bloody tap doesn't work either. After carefully disinfecting my paws I normally give the face a good wash too; and why not right?  I'm paying for this shit.

Then comes the final task of your visit, drying your hands. At this point I feel fortunate to be a man. If you've just taken a pee, and as long as you've taken a bit of care not to piss all over your hands then as far as I'm concerned you're good to go; maybe a quick check in the mirror, just to confirm just how awesome you look. People will no doubt question my stance on this but really, I know where my dick has been all day and unless its recently been in someone else's ass, which is a possibility as you're in a public toilet after all, then I know it's clean. But rest assured I normally wash my hands purely out of courtesy to you all.

 I'm not too sure how it works in women's public toilets as I've never been in one but I have a creative imagination. Scenes like pillow fights in bras and panties and women openly groping and tongue kissing each other with the heady scent of aroma therapy oils penetrating their nostrils in a pristine clean environ, is a fantasy that often tries to creep in on those rare occasions when I think about what it's like to visit a women's toilet, but I think in reality it's probably more like a Saturday night at a bar in a rough part of town when everyone has had just the right amount of alcohol to believe they are ten feet tall and bulletproof and are looking for a fight. With women stealing quick glances at the others, judging if they are better looking, if she looks bloated or if her hair is dyed. Then perhaps they notice a girl who has a body, in an outfit that would change the course of most men's worlds and that thought comes round to suggest that she's a bitch. Then more like a rugby scrum around the mirror as they make final adjustments to their face to make sure we men still want to look at them.

At this point I stride out of the toilet and through the turnstiles with a big smile on my face knowing that I've had more than my money's worth, thanks very much.

Or when I go on holiday to a foreign country and staying in a hotel, I want the full experience and of course my money's worth.

If it's got a gym, I'll use it. Even if I wouldn't normally visit a gym back at home. A swimming pool? I'll go for a swim and pee in it. You're seeing where this is going. I'll have a shower with the little shower cap on, well half a shower because I want to wash my hair with the combined shampoo and conditioner that comes in the same bottle. No idea how that works but hey, they do it. I was once staying in a hotel in Rome, called the Hotel Milo. The only reason for me staying there was that as a kid I used to love drinking and eating strait out of the tin, milo. Now, in my room there was a bidet. I don't know if you've ever had the misfortune to ever use one but having a jet of water shot up my ass fills me with as much enthusiasm as having a warm load of horse gism shot in there. Not a lot. But not wanting to miss out and not use this appliance I duly wash my feet in it. Admittedly, washing my ass would probably leave less of a stain and smell than me washing my feet at that stage of the day.

If the hotel room has a hair dryer I'll use it on the hair on my head and of course dry my pubes and ball hair, if I have any at that point.

I'll poke into every nook and cranny of the room to be sure I've found and made use of everything that's there to be used.

Ironing board? I've specifically called down to reception to have an iron sent up to my room when I had nothing to be ironed, so I ironed my underwear; never had the experience of pulling on warm, perfectly creased underwear? I can thoroughly recommend it.

I stayed at quite a nice hotel in Vegas once and found a hotel branded makeup kit in the bathroom, nice touch I thought, although I can't imagine there would be too many women forgetting their makeup on a trip to Sin City. Not wanting to actually apply the makeup, well I didn't know how did I, I found the hotel writing paper in the draw next to the bed and set about making an impromptu art piece that Pro Hart would have been proud to exhibit, which I left for the no doubt surprised and I'm sure delighted cleaning staff, signed of course. If they're extremely lucky, had exceptional foresight and it had been kept in the back of a wardrobe somewhere in mint condition, it will no doubt be worth about twenty cents when I hit the big time.

I think my favourites by far are the slippers and bathrobe that as soon as I arrive I'll take off my clothes and slip into, before I've showered, just so I know I've tainted it to the point that the cleaner will probably not even bother to put it into the washing and just throw it straight into the hotel incinerator. One thing you don't find too often these days and it’s probably because of me, sorry, is a Jacuzzi. If they have one of these I'll fill it up and put all the little bottles of bubble bath, shower gel, hand wash, combo shampoo and conditioner and switch that bad boy on. I've done this perhaps a little more often than I should have, especially since that      one hotel in Berlin wanted to charge me extra to get the carpet in the room dried and the soap marks half way up the walls washed after a particularly foamy bath gone slightly wrong. On that occasion I got lost in the bathroom and it took me a half an hour to find my way out. I thought I was back in one of those dodgy foam parties popular back in the 90's.

Which brings me back to the reason why I stated to write this little tirade in the first place, British Airways breakfast. It may seem a little strange at this point as to how a breakfast platter on a plane can bring forth memories of taking a shit or hotel stays, but stay with me. Of course there will be some among you who believe that the correlation is that airline food is toilet and well, toilets but they would be wrong. I was travelling recently on a plane to Amsterdam and we we're all served breakfast on our trays, with the plastic cutlery of course, after all we don't want anyone trying to hijack the plane with a butter-knife now do we? Or a pair of nail clippers. What has the world come to when you can't board an aircraft with a pair of nail clippers? I think I'd actually like to be on a plane where a would-be hijacker tried to take over the plane with a butter knife or a pair of nail clippers. I wouldn't be able to help myself; after changing my underwear because I had pissed my pants I'd pin them down and smother them with those same piss soaked under cacks. To me that is Darwin's evolution theory in practice. Survival of not the fittest per se but rather the person wielding saturated jocks.

But I digress. Part of the breakfast platter served was yoghurt. Now I hate yoghurt, but being the person I am, someone who wants not only to get the full value of the experience and my money's worth, I felt compelled to eat it. And if that wasn't enough the guy next to me expressed his displeasure at yoghurt offering it to me. I of course took it and ate it. Now I was starting to feel like the costs of this flight were starting to swing back into my favour. I asked and received two cups of tea and two lemonade's. I was starting to feel pretty pleased with myself and wanted to be sure that I used all the facilities available to me. This included a visit to the toilet. I think you've probably got a good understanding of my toilet etiquette so I don't feel pressed to expand on what I have written thus far, suffice to say that I returned to my seat confident that I'd made up for three or four people's lack of interest in getting their money's worth from the flight.

It's at this point I ask, am I the only one who feels this way?

It would seem, amongst my friends at least, that I am.

Upon reading this I watch, as when they first start reading they laugh at the stupidity, like the German tourist who when walking through the airport scanner and it repeatedly going off only for him having to take off another piece of clothing each time thought it would be a good idea to strip naked and yell at the airport security "Are you happy now?" (He was duly arrested). Then seeing the concern creep onto their face when they discover how deep this runs in a friend they no doubt thought they knew.

So I put this to you, in hope that you agree or at least sympathise with my plight.

I don't really worry if I stand alone on this as I know that over time I'll take up the slack in what you all leave behind and be sure to leave satisfied, whatever I do or wherever I go.

 

I'm an asshole and I know it.

There's something you need to know about me, I'm an extremist. Not in a political and definitely not in a religious sense. No I'm an extremist in that it's yes or no, it's black or white,  in short there's no middle ground; no grey area. No maybe.

If I'm out to party, expect to see me get home tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon. But then I won't go out for a month or two and in that time not even have a drink.

It's because of this attitude of no middle ground that I come with caveats. A set of rules or to use a better word, guidelines that you must adhere to in order to maintain any reasonable time in my company.

I'm difficult and I know it.

For instance I have a tendency to write things down on scraps of paper or empty boxes; anything that I can find in the vicinity when I need it. Phone numbers, account numbers etc. All if incredibly important; and it will be left there, wherever that is and I expect it to be there, exactly where I left it, when I need it, anywhere up to a month later. My wife has fallen foul of this "guideline" before, it must be said early in our relationship. We had many heated discussions before she gave up arguing and just saved anything with writing on it for when I needed it.

I like things done "my" way. As far as I'm concerned my way is best. I've spent my whole life developing "my" way to have the best possible result. To give an example, I get on the train at the door where I intend to get off, to save time on my journey.

 I entertained the idea of developing an app for people with a similar mind-set but in the end I couldn't be bothered. Which leads to something else you should know about me, I'm an ideas man. I literally have hundreds of them, all day. While I work my brain is off doing its own thing quietly, (sometimes not so quietly) solving the problems around me or around the world. I once had an idea for a 26 hour watch. You take 4 seconds from a minute and four minutes from an hour and you have an extra two hours a day. See what I mean.

The problem (one of) with having all these ideas is that I start a bunch of things and never get them finished. I'm great with the initial idea but the day to day running of it bores the shit out of me. The monotony of doing the same thing day after day bores me and boredom is not a good state for me because I tend to annoy the hell out of the people unlucky enough to be around me.

In addition to these, another trait that my loved ones try hard to tolerate is my total, complete belief that I can do whatever it is that I want. My 100% knowledge that nothing is out of my reach and that if I set my mind to something I can do it. The problem is that that is what I do. I can do anything. Not fantastically but do it nonetheless. Write a movie, yep, done it. Travelled the world, yep, done it. Wrote a book, yep, done it. Wrote and sold a TV show, yep, done it.

Do I say this to show off? No I say this to prove a point. The point is that I come from an average working class background, my parents working two jobs to make sure we had a roof over our heads and food on the table. To make sure we had a good education.

I don't come from money and I have done the things I've done by working for them. Working HARD. Nothing has been given without me earning it.

So it grates on me that people sit around on their ass and expect that the world owes them something. Or they say something like oh you're so lucky to have done those things. My response is "well that's funny because the harder I work the luckier I get."

I may not be the best at what I do but I'm prepared to work harder and longer than everyone to achieve what I want. Most people aren't prepared to do that and that's why they will never have what they want.

Opinionated, I hear you say. Yes indeed. Everybody has an opinion and I'm more than happy to be vocal about mine. I have a strong belief in my opinion and am always ready for a debate.

I also find it hard to admit that I'm wrong but will admit it if I see the error of my judgement. It doesn't happen very often though.

I will fight to defend what's mine both physical and mental. I won't idly stand by while a friend or a loved one is being threatened. Ever. And to that end if you cross me or try to fight me I will end you. I will not rest until I have done my utmost to make your life a complete misery. (Isn’t that right Qantas? I'm not finished with you fuckers yet.)

I suppose there are a few plus points that negate the negatives and I think my friends focus on those in order not to strangle the shit out of me when I'm going off on one about some slight or another.

I suppose in the end that the thing that really counts, that really matters is time. The time I devote to those that I really care for and about. I think that is the key to any real relationship. Even when you're the asshole of your group. Every group has one and for good or bad I'm their asshole.