Trials and tribulations

On Saturday I went for a three hour trial in the kitchen of the newly refurbed Forest Hill Tavern. I was going to be helping the chef, a genial Scot imaginatively named Scott, prep for a function they were hosting that afternoon. By function, I mean Irish piss-up.

As expected, my primary duties were vegetable-based. Peeling and coring butternut squash, peeling carrots, chopping cabbage, and slicing tatties. I'd been told that the purpose of my trial was to see if I had any common sense, if I could spot when things needed doing and use my initiative. So I turned into what might have come across as an eagle-eyed speed freak with OCD. Every drip was wiped, every stray plate was rehoused, nothing was left to be washed up.

Scott the Scot seemed impressed with my attitude, my questions, and the fact that I washed up using hot soapy water which none of the other triallists had apparently managed. At the end of the three hours he said he was pretty sure he'd be seeing me again and promised to call me by Monday. I left with all fingers in tact, on a high, hoping for more.

Monday came and went without news. I waited like an anxious teenager, hoping for 10 A*s. Would I get the chance to be Scott's trainee and learn everything this well travelled chef would share with his eager apprentice?

Tuesday brought the answer, and the answer was no.

Apparently he trialled someone with more experience on Sunday, and has given the job to him. It seems he was after a specific degree of wetness behind the ears. Soaking was too wet after all and maybe he's found something between moist and damp that he's more comfortable with.

I have to say I'm gutted.