However long it’s been since I’ve posted on here.
Finally getting my sleeve done, after a year of procrastination and idea bombing.
On the other note, I wanna go to London for the culinary fare.
I’ve become somewhat of the ‘morning person’ I seem destined to be.
7a.m calls for the usual dryer/washing machine combination thumping against a paper-thin wall. I couldn’t sleep any way because of the nerves boiling up inside.
I’m meeting the lady’s parents tonight for dinner, oddly enough I have to cook too (I only got told last night), which is a bit of a change to the odd ritual of whenever this happens.
I’ve gone for a Raspberry Souffle for dessert, hopefully that will convince them that I am somewhat worthy enough for being a mere Chef.
9 a.m - Breakfast at Joe’s: sauteed mushrooms, rocket and scrambled eggs.
10 a.m - Ramekins for Living & Giving. Sale. $14.
11 a.m - Ingredients.
Taking the train out and walking up that stupidly elevated hill up to her place after lunch. My hands are shaking, whether or not it’s the winter morning in Wellington or not is hard to say.
On other news, my little brother got his acceptance letter to the Le Cordon Bleu, even more exciting news was when he told me they asked for his measurements for his Chef’s Whites.
Hopefully I’ll get my shit sorted and join him for 9 months, and convince him to fuck off to Melbourne with me to finish the second part of the course to earn their Grand Diplome du Cuisine.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m posting this, it’s ridiculous - but I’ll leave it here in case it ever does happen in the future. I can’t even begin to explain why it’s so vivid.
I was having a smoke on the porch outside of my flat, it was dark, and my old boss from the bank was adjacent to me talking shop. An unusual knock comes to the gate, I take one last drag, stub out my Marlboro against the Paua-shelled ashtray and open the door to find two females grinning, dressed up to the 9’s and ready for a night out.
"Jason, I presume?" asks the one closest to me. I nod accordingly and invite them on the porch to join Neil and I for a smoke, to which they politely declined.
"I’m here to make you an offer, Jay. A mutual friend referred me. Do you remember Bex? Goth-ish looking girl?
(for the record, I don’t know anyone by that name)
She goes on to explain the details of why they are here, the other girl simply sits there, hardly saying a word - with the odd finishing of sentences in between.
"I’ve come to offer you a job. As Cocktail Consultant for Ancestral Bar. Right now the menu is looking rather shoddy and Bex and I got talking and she mentioned your name. She tells me that you’ve got a background in Motel Bar and that you are quite creative. So I’ll offer you this: create our menus and we will give you a share of the profit made from the drink sales."
I look to Neil, my old boss. He’s sitting there with a smile on his face. Now I feel even more somewhat confused. As I light up another Marlboro I begin my questions.
"So it’s like an investment? What is the percentage of sales I get?"
"1000%" - she replies.
(yeah, it doesn’t make sense to me either…)
"What’s the catch?"
"There isn’t one."
"How long do I have to think about this? I’ve only been into your restaurant once, the menu was shit, so I left."
"As long as you want, sooner rather than later obviously."
I take a drag to buy my time.
"I’ll go and get changed, I need to look at your current menu and what liqueurs you have."
At this point the girls smile ecstatically and hop into their Jeep to wait for me. Neil’s vanished in thin air and head upstairs to put a jacket on. I walk back down to fetch my smokes and notice 2 packs of Dunhill’s beside a now empty Marlboro pack, probably remnants from the night before or something my friends left. There’s two cigarettes in each pack, so I swap two over to the other and stuff it in my pocket.
I head out the gate and kindly tell the girls that I’ll just walk to the bar. I light up another smoke and breathe out into the cold winter night. From the corner of my eye, a homeless man with his belongings inside a shopping trolley heads down the hill.