Octopus Brains

5:00 a.m. is a nasty time to get up for work, particularly when nerves have resulted in roughly 4 hours sleep. I simply daren’t look in the mirror at that hour, nor any other hour for that matter. When it comes to how you look, a strategy of blissful unawareness has a lot going for it. Importantly though for this head-in-the-sand approach is that you must have at least one very close work colleague who will promptly alert you to any grave and socially unacceptable facial transgressions, such as sleep in your eyes, stray whiskers, nasal debris or spinach in the teeth. Of course on weekends (if you live alone) you’re stuffed, and you must bite the mirror-bullet, which is unfortunate as chances are you’ll be looking especially rough around the edges on a Saturday and/or Sunday morning.

After 3 hours at the office I did a Clark Kent in the Orewa public dunnies. Enter Poncy Corporate, exit Trainee Chef. A bit like Stars in Their Eyes: “Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be . . . . “ a complete failure no doubt. Incidentally, does anyone actually use baby changing tables in public toilets? They’re jolly useful for keeping an assortment of costume changes off worryingly wet floors. Likewise disability handrails – very handy for getting-legs-into-trousers balancing manoeuvres. I then drove 30 kms to Riverhead to begin Day 1 of Chef School Restaurant Work Experience, feeling refreshed, calm and confident. Ho, ho.

The Head Chef was very kind and immediately impressed me by roasting off chicken frames to make his own stock. Doubly impressed that he also had a batch of ciabatta underway, using the brewers yeast from their beer production (it’s a boutique brewery/fruit wine outfit as well as a restaurant). And trebly (is that a word?) impressed that he’d installed chickens (live) for egg production, albeit yet to lay, and had plans for a vege garden. All rather right up my culinary alley. (Oooh, that sounds gross, like alimentary canal or something equally intestinal). I thought to myself “I’ve nailed it. I’ll love it here and they’ll love me”. I made a mental note to check Riverhead property prices so I’d be able to nip home between shifts at the restaurant after they’d begged me to work there permanently.

Reality. Head Chef set me to work shaping, flouring, egging, breadcrumbing fishcakes, prepping Kiddie Burgers, slicing spiced beef, peeling/slicing roasted beetroot (very serious death-trap slicing machine), chopping garlic and parsley, butterflying prawns. I tried to work as fast as I could, eager to impress, but ultimately you just feel like an utter muppet, where’s this, where’s that, how does this work, is this the right size? Plus, unless you’re into limbo, being of hobbit height is of no advantage whatsoever, particularly in a commercial kitchen - benches at chest level (yes I know, that used to be higher), having to lasso overhead power leads to plug in machinery, and not being able to reach high (OK, medium) shelves.

My last job took the cake:

Sous Chef: “I’d like you to clean the octopus”

Me: “No problem”

I was thinking about those cute little ones you get in Asian restaurants, I mean they probably just need a quick rinse, right? The sous chef came out of the cold room with a 30 litre bucket full of octopus. Turns out there’s only two octopi to a bucket. When he emptied them into the REALLY deep sink they almost filled it. I mean seriously, they should have been in the Smithsonian. Minimum four feet long each. I’m sorry to be vulgar, but they looked the collective afterbirths of a herd of recent cow mothers.

Sous Chef: “First you turn the head inside out”

Me: “uh huh”. Watching intently, not sure if I should take notes. This could be one of those apprentice piss-takes.

Sous Chef: “Then you pull the brains out like this”.

Octopus: “brlooomghaphooomph” That was the sound of brains the size of footballs slurping into a bucket.

Me: “uh huh”.

Sous Chef: “Now cut this bit here, remove the beak and skin the whole thing. OK?”

Me: “Sure” Trying not to smile.

When you’re a virgin octopus cleaner, it takes roughly an hour to de-brain and skin two four foot octopi. It’s very laborious in the tentacle region. (Oooh, that sounded rude again). I couldn’t help chuckling to myself - a few hours earlier I was wearing high-heeled boots, my arse planted on a swivel chair in an air-conditioned office, glued to a computer screen and shuffling paper. Now I was elbow deep in pink/purple gelatinous gunk, my chef’s “whites” adorned with fish, beetroot, prawns, mince, and brains.

I trimmed the side off my finger 10 minutes before knock-off time (3:00 p.m.) but managed to conceal it in a paper towel and not drip blood anywhere. Except on my jacket, but that would have gone un-noticed, all things considered. At this stage pride did not permit requesting a plaster.

I drove back to Orewa and did another Clark Kent dunnie change. Unfortunately it’s a good few metres walk from the carpark to the public toilets, past the library, where I’m personally known due to constantly having a dozen food/gardening books out on loan. Or at least I used to, in the days when I had time to cook and read books about cooking. God only knows what the mild-mannered librarians made of me legging it from car to dunnies, a flash of white, purple, pink, red, brains, checks, clogs. Back to the office for another couple of hours paper shuffling, absolutely honking of seafod, garlic and sweat. Nice.

The octopus wasn’t a piss-take. Just before I left, the head chef gave me a sample of the de-brained, skinned, boiled and marinated end product and it was utterly delicious.

Squid Pro Quo?