The author of the acclaimed debut novel Moth tells how hard graft in the kitchen prepared her for the world of literature
You hear about the shouting, the “oui chef”, “non chef”, the “behind you!”, the sweating fury, the expletives. Hardly anyone ever tells you about the joy, the electricity flooding your sleep-deprived veins, the camaraderie, the banter. They don’t tell you about the plate of food on the pass, seared just so, the final curl of a sprig of something green, like a swagger, the dot of emulsion that makes your arm ache while whisking until it glistens. A good Saturday night’s service and there is nowhere else in the world you would rather be than in that kitchen, armpits chafing with yesterday’s sweat, fryer oil fragrant in your hair.
You burn the insides of your wrists often, the tender skin, accidentally on purpose, speed being of the essence. In a kitchen of men and boys, there is more to prove. Whatever they do, you will do it better.
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