Tell people you’re a chef and they picture scenes from the F- word, a TV show where macho- chef Gordon Ramsay swears like a sailor and throws frying pans around. I’m reminded of a similar scenario that played out when I was a 19 year old trainee in one of South Africa’s top restaurants.

It was a Friday night and we were fully booked. The kitchen was bustling, poised for battle against 120 hungry diners, 2 food critics and 20 demanding waiters. Prematurely soaked in sweat we guzzled down juice or ice water from large jam jars (its pointless buying cups for cooks.) Meat sizzled on the grill amidst the chef’s banter of dirty jokes and predictions of which section was going to get “rammed.” The luxurious aroma of truffle oil filled the air as I folded it into whipped cream. The first table was seated and we thought we were ready.

The sous chef (second in command in the kitchen) told me to take the amuse bouche (a fancy little snack attack to whet the guest’s appetite) up to the pass. I studied the small saucer with its beautiful truffle dressing, herbed croûte, chicken liver parfait and chervil sprig. I hesitated. “Chef won’t want that parfait” I told him “It’s raw.” The sous chef gave me a condescending look- The kind of look that says “Listen kiddo, I’ve done this a thousand times before- I’m the boss and you’re a donkey.” I placed the plate down tenderly in front of the head chef and held my breath as I walked back to my section.

A guttural noise erupted behind me “I don’t want this fucking parfait” he shouted as he flung the plate across the room. I ducked as the plate smashed to smithereens against the wall. Silence. The whole kitchen froze. Pots stopped clanging and no- one stirred. All you could hear was the constant whirr of the extractor fan and the far-away din of the dining room. I thought I could hear my blood pulse.

I sank to my knees, desperately trying to pick up the pieces of porcelain and hide my face. The floor was dirty and there were too many sets of knees; too many bits off glass. I choked out words of apology, trying to fight the sobs in my chest and the blush that was spreading over my face. Impossible. Even my ears turned red. I could feel them burning like hot coals attached to my head.

Have you ever felt utterly hopeless? Like running away into the dark Friday night would be the only way to save your soul and your dignity? I think Tanya, a fellow older student had. She just bent over and squeezed my shoulder, saying, “its ok” She had already come up with a replacement amuse and had memorised the next few orders. The numb feeling began to leave my body and I gained control of my shaking hands. I was amazed as even the most hardcore cooks made an effort to catch my eye and nod encouragement. They understood.

Chef bought us all a round of beer that night. He gave me half a smile and I knew he was no Gordon Ramsay. He just has high expectations and serious respect for food. It pays, too. Two months later La Colombe was named the Best Restaurant in South Africa.

I happily worked 16 hour shifts after that. I aced chicken liver parfait and could carry 5 amuse plates in one go. I made up a new amuse (Salmon Rilêtte with lime and parmesan.) Chef put it on the menu. Sweet success! After 2 months I could actually decipher the orders that he called out. I was taking charge and taking responsibility. I stood up to my seniors. In months to come I would suffer much worse at other fine restaurants and hotels. Thanks to Luke- Dale Roberts, the head chef of La Colombe, I was prepared to receive any wooden spoons that were tossed my way. Fits of fury by arrogant sous chefs who loved abusing junior cooks would only make me smile inwardly and remember my first flying saucer.