I am, once again, working. Only this time, I am in the kitchen 11 hours a day, five days a week. Which isn't bad, considering the fact that I get a weekend of sorts every five days. Even if my weekends turn out to be Wednesday's and Thursday's.
I am here in my little room, on the fifth floor of a building right next to the hotel. I am lying on my stomach in bed as I type this, using my mobile data because I have no internet connection. To my left is my table filled with bananas and stupid amount of chocolate - which reminds me, I need to get a jar of Nutella again soon. Finished mine this morning.
A little further away is the bathroom with a bathtub I never use - my break times consist of runs and quick showers at the gym and when I'm back from work, a long bath is the last thing on my mind. A little nearer to me is the kitchen which I've never used. Up till today, that is.
But let's backtrack a little.
I've been here before, in the kitchen. Of the place I work, I mean, not this little thing in my room. It was November last year, I think, that I literally begged for an interview with the department. I tried so hard to convince her, that pretty lady, to give me a shot. Me, of all the mad amount of people who slipped in an interview with their files full of documents like encyclopedias, was given a chance to go to the kitchen for a trial.
It was December last year that I came here for the first time. I remember being scared sick and wanting to just crawl back into bed. I went into the kitchen and met the first person who would teach me how to do the random little things that they needed here and there - pluck some herbs, chop tomatoes.. And then someone slid a black plate full of sweet smelling bread in front of me while I was concentrating on my bunch of rosemary.
"Brioche," said a voice. "You want some ?"
I looked up and saw a smiling face and an extended hand. I had met my first friend.
I met everyone else after that. They were all guys and a girl, an intern as well who had been there for months now. I clung to her like glue that day - she was very kind. As were they all. I remember that the most. I also remember shaking their hands before I left and not knowing whether I would see them again - and also asking the chef where he was from and telling him I loved the place. I think I was supposed to have done my homework and tell him where he was from but.. Oh well.
A week later, I got the job. I nearly cried.
And then I came back in January, not knowing what to expect. Would it be different now that I was not here just for a day ? No. They were as nice as I remembered. And they remembered me.
It was an odd sort of feeling, to be remembered by people you just met for a day. I liked it.
I didn't talk much at first - I barely spoke french and they barely spoke English. But we tried and there were a few who spoke to me more - the girl being one of them, having impeccable English - and she helped me translate and kept me company. Then the jokes started - and I had to be louder - yelling YES CHEF during service - and I made more friends. And I proceeded to fall in love with the people.
Which was why I found myself stirring a pot of chicken curry and pouring it over a bed of fried rice, and carrying it down to the room of my Italian friend. Italians could love rice and sushi, who would've thought ?
It was a thanks of sorts from me. For the brioche. And the kindness they showed me since I got here. It's only been two weeks, I still have a long way to go but I am definitely happy. I only hope to improve and help them more, but in the meantime, I am very content with cooking them fried rice, and snacking on cheese and watching their silly antics and listening to Italian rap.
Who would've thought someone like me could end up here ?
Thank you. For making this place like a home to me. I doubt anyone ever reads this - let alone the people I am writing about (!) but thank you. Hugs and kisses.
I cooked this on a wonky stove with a wonky pan. I had nothing else so my measurements are stupid. Forgive me. I am just happy it turned out to be edible. And that my rice-loving italian friend finished the entire bowl.
Simple fried rice:
2 fistfuls of rice
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 onion, minced
2cm knob of ginger, minced
1 small carrot, diced
1/2 cup baby peas (petit pois)
50g lardons, diced
2 eggs, beaten
Soy sauce, to taste
1. Put the rice in the pot with about 2 cups of water. Bring to the boil, cover and simmer until cooked. Spread out and leave to cool.
2. Fry the lardons until crispy and they release their lovely fats into the pan. Put the lardons on a plate and fry the onions, garlic and ginger in the fat until fragrant.
3. Add the carrots and cook for a minute or two. Add the rice on medium heat and stir to break it up a little, add a tablespoon of soy and toss to mix.
4. Lower the heat and pour over the beaten egg. Toss the rice so it gets coated and add another tablespoon of soy. Toss in the peas and lardons and stir over medium heat until nicely browned and smelling like a chinese kitchen. Taste and add more soy if you like.
5. Serve at once. Maybe with a drizzle of sesame oil, with some curry on the side. Or a fried egg on top. Or some soup. Whatever makes you happy.
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