by Jim Hearn
My first pay cheque stretched far enough to buy a carton of beer and some fancy Italian deli food. I got outrageously drunk on a beach in Townsville and danced and vomited and drank some more. When I look back now it seemed a time of confusion and hopelessness; a time when alcohol seemed to bring me undone in a childish fashion each time I drank. I vaguely remember older, wiser waiters and maître d’s, chefs and bearded kitchen hands, patting me on the back, ruffling my hair, telling me that it’d all work out; that I’d be fine.
Yet what I came to see over the coming months and years was that despite working like an adult, taking on responsibilities and more hours than was reasonable for someone my age, I was a kid who hadn’t or couldn’t yet come to terms with what had gone before. I was both a child and a teenager and the stories of my family continued to inform who I was and how I felt, and might even be the reason I drank so much at such a young age.
It is impossible to write about my early years in hospitality without including a description, a sense, of the life I had come from. Hospitality for me is and has always been a transitional space. Kitchens come and go, people slide in and out of a chef’s life, ‘. . . until the next gig’. My inherent capacity to leave a job fairly easily, to come undone and move on, was a continuation of a pattern established from childhood.
When my parents divorced it was my mother who left my father. Who leaves whom is perhaps the most telling signifier at the end of a relationship. Of course many couples like to say that it was mutual, that each of the parties came out of it with their pride and self-respect intact, but anyone old enough to have fallen in love knows that’s bullshit. Someone gets done over and someone does the doing over. In my family’s case, my mother, after having six children and not missing a Sunday mass for sixteen years, cut loose with a vengeance and somehow found herself working in brothels around Kings Cross. This isn’t really as dramatic as it sounds. The thing about being a prostitute is that for most people it’s such a fantastical notion it’s hard to get your head around what it entails. The reality of such a life, as least the backstage view of such a life, is that it’s like most other jobs. There’s the usual dramas, boring bits, good days and bad; it’s just that there’s not a whole lot of people you can talk to about what happened at the office.
I always felt that the reason my mother left was because my father sacrificed his family in order to make the world a better place. I don’t think he ever set out to lose the ones he loved, but like many others of his generation he got caught up in the ideological fever of the times, which in his case translated into a strange mix of idealism, social justice and Catholicism. What set my father apart from others in our community, who also found great meaning in those topics, was his decision to act rather than simply talk. When I arrived home from school one day as a six-year-old kid to discover our house on a four-acre block had been sold, my childhood was essentially over. The proceeds of the sale were to be given to a family less fortunate than ours and we were urged to believe that our needs would be met without the requirement of material wealth.
Thus began an epic family journey through five rented houses, eight schools and three regional Queensland towns until finally my mother decided she’d had enough and left. And when she left, she didn’t look back.
There is no history of chefs or professional cooks in my family. No tradition to explain why Mum had sent me to work at Oliver’s Restaurant.
5
Despite my rusted Achilles tendons, sore back, aching feet and general lethargy, during the lunch service at Rae’s these things become a distant memory. I’m calling the pass, tossing pans, opening and closing the oven, squatting to open the reach-in service fridge in order to pull out another portion of fish or beef or a container of herbs. It’s as if in this corner of the universe, I don’t have to think. There’s nothing to worry about other than the immediacy of the next order and the ten after that and the temperature of various pots, sauces, woks, oil and protein. My mise en place is so fucking set—by which I mean so full and unlikely to run out—that I don’t care how many punters turn up for lunch. When you know you’re set and you can trust the rest of the line to be equally prepared there’s nothing better than being busy. Every guest is getting the real deal today; there are no short cuts or half measures. Fuck that—this is the first day of a brand-new year and it’s all about fresh starts and clean slates and everyone staying or dining at Rae’s is getting nothing but the best.
As the service rolls on, though, it’s apparent that Jesse is falling further and further behind on larder. Jesse is not a salad and leaf guy; he’s a smoking wok and protein man. Jesse can get the job done in any section, including mine, but he’s also a kid and his life is a fucking mess and whatever is going on with him is affecting his capacity to stay organised.
‘Soda!’ I yell in the direction of the galley. ‘Give Jesse a hand for ten minutes.’
‘Yes, Chef,’ Soda yells back, happy to be released from the hell of a million dirty pots and plates.
‘You got that cutlery through, Sodapop?’ Scotty shouts into the steam.
‘Yeah.’ Soda tips the tray of silver noisily into a bucket that he passes to Scotty before joining Jesse on larder.
And Jesse doesn’t make a big deal about it. If you’re in the shit, you’re in the shit. The only thing you want to do when you’re there is get out of it and he starts Soda off prepping the mise en place that his section has run out of.
‘Choc,’ I call, ‘let’s go on tables six and seven.’
‘Yes, Chef!’ He pulls a whole fish out of its soy bath and drops it into the deep-fryer.
Choc deserves to spend some time in the bright lights of the wok section anyway. While he’s below Jesse in the kitchen hierarchy, he’s a good chef and it’s pleasing to see him going so well during such a busy service.
‘Scotty,’ I yell as the head waiter leaves the kitchen with his bucket of clean but unpolished cutlery.
‘Not now, Chef,’ he says over his shoulder.
‘I’ve got a phone card if you need it, mate.’
Scotty is stalling Paris and the girls on ordering dessert, which is something they are apparently desperate for. And he is doing this for two very good reasons: he doesn’t want them to leave before he manages to get in touch with Vinnie; and he knows that Jesse and Soda, who have to slide down the line to the pastry section after they finish on larder, are anything but ready.
As lunch progresses I’m getting a little scared by just how much these girls are eating—and they’re enjoying the food. Those plates are coming back empty. It’s not some anorexic trip where people order a whole lot of food and get stoned by pushing things around the crockery and refusing to eat any of it. Maybe it’s just a hangover thing? Although they don’t look hungover—they look fresh and bright and innocent. And even though I’m sure they’re not all those things, I can’t help thinking there’s some serious disconnect between the media representations of Paris Hilton and the girls sitting in the restaurant.
The word seems to have spread among the locals and those who are keen to have lunch with Paris are floating into the joint wrapped in their Donna Karan kaftans and four-hundred-dollar sandals. The worst of it is that most of them are friends of Vinnie’s and pretty soon it’s going to be a full house . . . minus the guy with his name over the door.
Scotty is back with the girls’ dessert order, and he doesn’t look well.
‘You need an aspirin, mate?’ I ask as the phone starts ringing.
‘Give me two coconut cakes, one sorbet, one chocolate and one tasting plate,’ Scotty replies.
‘That’ll be Vinnie now,’ I say, nodding at the phone.
‘Fuck him if it is. There’s nothing I can do about it.’
And he’s right. We all know that. But that’s not the point. This is Rae’s and everything is Scotty’s fault. And it’s not that Vinnie is some random star-fucker or people pleaser—he’s got more famous friends than he knows what to do with. It’s just
that he takes his role of being a host and hotelier seriously and he knows that a few good words from Paris Hilton is worth more than a toque awarded by a Sydney broadsheet.
Scotty is only on the phone for a few seconds before he’s back in the kitchen.
‘The police are the phone for you, Jesse.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ replies Jesse.
‘Tell them he’s busy,’ I joke.
‘You tell them,’ Scotty says as he disappears.
‘Choc, take over from Jesse.’
‘I’ve got to finish this order, Chef,’ Jesse argues.
‘Go talk to them, Jesse,’ I tell him. ‘Choc, finish that order off with Soda and then both of you get the girls’ desserts out.’
‘Yes, Chef!’
‘Fuck!’ yells Jesse as he angrily kicks dirty pots out of his way as he leaves the kitchen to answer the phone.
‘Table ten’s entrees are up, Chef,’ Soda says as he places two perfectly prepared spanner crab salads with red nahm jim on the pass.
‘Nice. They look great. Now get those fucking desserts out,’ I order.
Jesse storms back into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to move the car or they’re going to tow me,’ he says.
‘Fuck, Jesse,’ I say. ‘Where did you park?’
‘Across the driveway next door. No one ever uses it.’ He sounds pissed off, like it’s perfectly resonable to block the driveway of someone who’s paying ten thousand dollars a week to rent the house next door to Rae’s.
‘It’s fucking lunch service on New Year’s Day and you’ve got to go move your fucking car. Not cool, Jesse.’ I’m stating the obvious.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, Chef.’ Jesse grabs the keys off Soda. And trust me when I say Soda should not have the keys. He’s in a whole other world of pain with the police for matters regarding cars, and for him to be even holding keys is criminal.
‘Tell me you didn’t drive the car to work, Soda,’ I say, all serious.
‘It’s fine, Chef. I’m on it,’ Jesse assures me as he bolts out of the kitchen to go move his heap-of-shit car.
‘Nah,’ Soda drawls completely unconvincingly before cracking a smile that would split cream.
‘Fuck!’ I yell.
‘Nah, really, Chef. It’s all right. It looks like I’m going to get off that last rap if I help out down at the youth centre,’ Soda says.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, like it’s me you’re talking to, idiot. ‘Help the kiddies out down at the centre, eh? You trashed a BMW, mate, and wrote off a small business. I’m not sure teaching the Under 12 football team to cook pasta is going to cut it.’
‘Apparently it will, Chef,’ Soda says, his blue eyes flashing mischief, as if he can’t believe it either.
‘Yeah, crazy fucking world, ain’t it, Sodapop? Finish that check off, for chrissake. How long, how long, how long?’
That’s the last call I give before I start getting all fucked up and serious. And really, no one likes me when I get that way, so the boys pull out all stops and start calling back like they’re actually serious line cooks rather than fuckwit petty gangsters.
‘Thirty seconds, Chef!’ Choc calls as he places the first of the girls’ dessert orders up to the pass.
‘Fucking Jesse,’ I grumble to no one in particular. ‘That’s the last piece of bullshit news I need in relation to that guy. What the fuck is his problem?’ I yell into the blazing heat of my stove, where all six burners are roasting the air. Exhaust fans are roaring above my sweating head and two million dirty frypans and stainless-steel bowls are jostling for an inch of bench space. Suddenly it’s all very hot and crowded in my little corner of the world. Not even Vinnie could find a way to describe lunch service as anything but a success though. And it may just be that I feel pissed off because I don’t even have half a minute to spend covered in glory before Jesse pulls focus back on to himself over some new bullshit newsflash.
‘Go easy, Chef,’ Scotty barks into my personal space. ‘There’s only one parking spot outside Deke’s house.’
And Scotty—who after years of training from Vinnie is now an expert at ending a man’s adrenaline rush or smashing the first hint of anything that looks or smells remotely like ego—is referring to the fact that because I got to work before all the other fuckwit cooks in my kitchen, I got to park in the one secret spot at Watego’s.
‘Well, fuck me, Scotty!’ I snarl after him as he disappears out to the restaurant. ‘Who said crime doesn’t pay? Service!’ I clap twice as the boys pile the desserts onto the pass.
6
The Bondi Hotel is a landmark building on the beachfront at Bondi in Sydney. For some reason, it seemed more of an institution twenty years ago than it does today, somehow less try-hard and more gracious. Over the years it’s had some unsympathetic renovations and has been crowded into the background by some ridiculous architecture either side of it. When I started work there it was like walking into a dreamscape; like thirty-five-millimetre film rather than HD video. The place didn’t just smell of beer and cigarettes, the odours were ghosts that held the joint together. It had endless nooks and crannies, rickety staircases that led nowhere, bathrooms which weren’t used any more (or at least not for their intended purpose) and a drug-dealing scene that was the envy of all the other pubs of Sydney’s eastern suburbs.
In the late eighties, the hotel was a haven for Kiwis fresh off the boat from New Zealand, Pacific Islanders (who you learnt quickly were very different to Maoris) and leather-clad bikers. Though its twenty-four-hour trading licence wasn’t used regularly, come public holidays and long weekends the hotel never closed. Christmas in particular was a fucking blast.
Staff turnover was high. The ultra-violence of knife fights at three am, glasses smashed into faces and syringe-clogged urinals wasn’t for everyone. But this was how I pictured heaven.
The Bondi Hotel, which I’ll forever associate with the beginning of what I like to call my ‘heroin period’, was without doubt one of the greatest times of my life. The people there weren’t just loose, they were off their fucking chops. It was a fantasyland of good times and crazy nights and pool-table politics. This was before pokies ruined everything great about public bars. Back then there were no beeping robots with round-eyed suckers attached. People talked, drank beer and took the piss. They also fought, argued, ate and fell asleep.
But what really mattered at the Bondi back then was playing pool, and I got good at it. I would often be so stoned for such long periods of time that the pressed metal ceilings would become animated, guiding my shots from twenty feet above, the sheer scale of the place adding to the surreal feel of dark and boozy nights. And when a person who wasn’t familiar with the etiquette walked into the pub, they would be a little wide-eyed, clearly wondering, Are you guys for real? And the thing is, we were.
The three main bars of the hotel were run by different, sometimes warring but generally peaceful factions. The Kiwis had the public bar, the Pacific Islanders had the poolroom and back bar, and the bikers had the front bar. What I mean by ‘had’ is that they controlled the sale of drugs in that part of the hotel. These guys had Uzi machine guns, sawn-off shotguns and the capacity to inflict such brutal physical pain with their fists and clubs that the idea of someone or some group imposing some other form of order over the top of what existed would have seemed absurd in the time I was there. The police would raid the joint from time to time but otherwise we had the place to ourselves. And because many of the regulars had so much money from selling so many drugs, the proprietors, along with everyone else, were pretty happy.
The kitchen was busy, though the food was basic. This was not a Weight Watchers club; there were some very fucking large people around the hotel who had a penchant for large slabs of beef with buckets of vegetables and sauce. Food costs were out the window. The focus was on keeping the blood sugar levels of very imposing men at a level whereby they considered me friendly. What the fuck did I know? I was a kid from Central Queensland who, while capable
of taking a swing, was much happier beneath the umbrella of existing arrangements. They let me know what they liked and how they liked it and I did my best to provide. It was a simple arrangement really, and I’m pleased to say I got to call some of these people my friends. And my dealers.
Anyone who tells you that the experience of being high on heroin is no good either hasn’t tried it or is just getting clean and wishes they didn’t have to. Heroin, particularly in the early stages of your first addiction, is one of life’s great pleasures. If you survive. Many don’t. We’ve all lost friends from the needle and spoon, and I’m not intending to endorse the drug but simply describe how it was for me. And if the story starts well, the ending’s a whole other thing.
JD was one of the smaller Pacific Islanders, and it was JD who suggested I might like to try some smack. I said why not and handed over the thirty bucks, and he was back in a few minutes with some packeted syringes and a foil of smack. I watched as he poured the powder into a spoon—which we had plenty of in the kitchen—squirted in some water, mixed it up with the butt of a syringe then sucked it up through a cigarette butt filter into the plastic barrel. He carefully pointed out the exact quantity, squirted half back into the spoon, and pushed the needle into a vein on his forearm. He was very business-like, JD, pulling the fit out of his arm then throwing it into the kitchen bin before repeating the exercise for me with a fresh pick. Frankly I was stunned he could perform such tasks given what was happening to the pupils of his eyes. But JD didn’t seem to notice, sort of coughing a couple times while he indicated I should squeeze my bicep and pump my hand in order to get a vein. The sight of such pristine blood pipes got him more animated than anything else that happened that day, and quick as the Red Cross, JD pushed the fit into the fattest vein on my arm, drew back some blood, and plunged the white lady home.