Hubris
The Chef prepares humble pie in Chapter 11 of OBSERVATIONS FROM THE KITCHEN.
BLURB: OBSERVATIONS FROM THE KITCHEN is an autobiographical adventure story that unfolds upon the metaphoric battlefield of a chess board, a place Michelin Star Chef Richard Neat uses to describe and make sense of a lifetime spent in service to gastronomy.
Set within the sweatshop kitchens that have been his home, it is a journey that takes the reader from the frenetic chaos of the London’s West End to the narcissistic playgrounds of the Cote d’Azur, through amazing India and magical Marrakech to the snow-covered domes of the Kremlin before ending in the steamy jungles of beautiful Costa Rica.
The Cook invites different companions, the people who have touched him, made his life something other than mundane, to join him ‘à table‘, where, whilst preparing his signature dishes, they discuss such themes as Ambition, Loyalty and Contentment and whether such ideas are comprehensible to anyone other than the person who utters them.
LITERARY REVIEW: “OBSERVATIONS FROM THE KITCHEN is rather wonderful. You’ve created an extraordinary work here, and a beautifully crafted one. I found myself thinking that every creative should read it regardless of what industry they’re in or skill set they’re mastering. It raises such important questions, and is so refreshingly forthright about them. This work is unique in many ways… It’s such a smart, thoughtful, brave discussion about some really difficult (dare I say unresolvable) issues. It strikes me as a meditation, a parable, an exploration of the creative journey.”
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Contents (to date):
Chapter 1: Ambition // Chapter 2: Faith // Chapter 3: Loyalty //Chapter 4: Struggle // Chapter 5: Sovereignty // Chapter 6: Creativity // Chapter 7: Shame // Chapter 8: Exclusivity // Chapter 9: Recognition // Chapter 10: Tyranny
OBSERVATIONS FROM THE KITCHEN by Richard Neat
Chapter 11: HUBRIS
Turbot Fillet with Shrimp Lasagne
“Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” (Shakespeare.)
The Cook stared out onto the Thames which flowed slowly beneath him, the usually fascinating activity that took place on and around the river for once offered him no distraction, its rhythmic movement unable to alleviate the noxious taste of failure that choked The Cook that morning.
The proverbial humble pie, as always rather unsavoury, was on this particular occasion decidedly foul tasting. The Cook tried to swallow a few sanitized moments of the venture as though they were aspirin, vainly hoping their recollection might ease the throbbing sense of humiliation that pounded incessantly inside his head. The melody of disappointment was one he could not expel as a pitiable parade of ‘what-ifs’ marched by, presenting themselves for inspection yet offering little elucidation.
The well-fingered opening reviews of the restaurant lay scattered around him. Everyone involved thought them to have been exceptional, so the result was unsurprising: the Cook considered himself immune from the fluctuations and arbitrariness of public opinion, something which surely only happened to other people.
Written by journalists he despised, he now clung pathetically to their generous words as they were the only voices who lent him any solace. ‘It should be a major step forward for eating-out in London’ thought The Independent. The pounding continued. ‘Utterly, utterly delicious’ before adding that ‘the man is evidently a brilliant cook’ opined The Telegraph, yet the filthiness of failure clung as tightly to The Cook as before. The rolling, murky Thames remained silent too.
He ordered an understandably morose-looking waiter to polish the eponymous nameplate above the entrance for what they both knew would be last time. The waiter complied, though The Cook felt his legitimacy to give orders ebbing away, as indubitably as the directionless debris on the Thames below. The Cook had not even been able to look at the waiter, instead lighting the umpteenth cigarette of the morning, one which provoked a wheeze, while his subordinates choked and coughed upon the acrid taste of inexplicable failure.
It was a truism of the business that no matter how many partners and players were involved, nor how much advice, finance and skills they contributed, the bearer of the name upon the entrance plaque would ultimately experience the pain and humiliation involved in its demise alone and in horrible privacy.
Tactitus observed that “Those who aim at Empire have no alternative between the highest success and utter downfall”. And today was The Cook’s utter and most spectacular downfall.
F8-H8!!
The game still had to be concluded.
The Cook prepared what he knew to be his last dish in London. He threw the picked flat parsley leaves into some boiling salted water. He slightly over-cooked the leaves so that they could be crushed between thumb and finger, then squeezed out the water and blended the leaves to make a puree, as thick as possible.
