A kitchen porter in the Alps.

One day I woke up in a small village that was coated with champagne powder in the heart of the French Alps. A ski resort located between Beaufortain and Val d'Arly; Les Saisies. It is a tourist destination that people gravitate towards, those who appreciate the beautiful landscapes and breathtaking views of the perfectly textured surrounding mountains. I sat alone on the wooden balcony of my chalet, enjoying the peaceful scenery of nature with a thick blanket wrapped around my body as I carefully drank my coffee with two hands, to prevent the warmth of the java from exuding into the thin cold air. It was hard to believe how lucky I had been given a lifetime experience to be on a mountain that touches the sky. However, there was a catch twenty-two in earning my rightful place on Mont Blanc; to be employed as a 'kitchen porter' in an unpleasant chaotic French cuisine restaurant. And I had never learned even the most basic skills to work in a kitchen.

The refection from the sun on the untouched snow pins my eyes at the doorstep of the chalet. The brightness was disturbing. I was snowblind for a few seconds and rubbed my eyes until my sight came back. I slowly trample my way down the hill to La Cuisine de Chez Jean. The thought of a fourteen-hour shift in a kitchen cleaning dishes and cutting onions was more painful than the uncomfortable cold temperature. There was a constant crunchy sound under my boots as I zig-zagged down the shallow hill, leaving a trail of fossil-like imprints and walking into a cloud of my own breath. Passing by the cheerful people in the village, it was easy to tell the difference between the locals and tourists; The tourist carries their skis awkwardly, laughing and speaking in their native tongue. The locals speak French and wore proper mountain clothing. When I entered into the locker room, the Head Chef was the only one in there and he was changing into his uniform as I greeted him, "Bonjour. Comment allez-vous chef?" He only gave me a one-word answer,"Oui" He was in his early thirties, very lean and, quite odd for the times, had no tattoos. He disapproved of many things in life and he did not like many people, especially Parisiens or foreigners. The only exception for me was because I was an Australian who spoke French. He never had accounted for someone from a far different background and gave in a risk as he desperately needed someone to cut the ingredients for long hours, six days a week.

The moment the white apron was over the body and the strap was tied into the shape of rabbit ears, the pressure, and the heavy load of stress never stopped in the galley. There was absolutely no time to take up a chair for any task. I walked to my station without a word to the other staff and began each day with a knife and a wooden chopping board to prepare the fiesta. Peak dining times were the most chaotic hours and the moments the chefs chose to abuse each other verbally. The kitchen team had given me a nickname, The English. All-day and all night they would aggressively yell at me to hurry, "L'Anglais dépeche-toi! or when the I had to prep and cut vegetables in a timely matter, the chefs would scream out"Anglais! Couper, couper! Allez!" and my favourite one that struck my nerves angrily to clean the pots and pans like a machine, "Anglais! Bouge ton cul! Et nettoyer les outils de cuisine. Allez! Vite!" There were countless cuts on my hands from the sharp blades and burns from pulling the pans off the stove and scrubbing the grease away. Walking within the narrow passages and avoiding bumping into the corners of the benches to stave off bruising proved difficult. The kitchen always felt like a hot Turkish bath and after one hour on the tile floor, the alcohol from the night before had sweated out of me. At the end of the night, my body stunk from a mixture of food and sweat with aches and pains from head to toe. My feet were swollen to the size of balloons. It was a wonderful feeling of relief when the shift was over and I was ready to drink and forget the misery. Life in a kitchen was hell and I hated every bit of it.

There was only one purpose to for me to take up a position of a kitchen porter, that sought the opportunity to ski on the perfect spiral slopes of the French Alps during my time away from the kitchenette of cursing, The moment I had been airlifted up to the top of the mountain, passing over the village in the cold crisp air as I observed the magical view from the chairlift, my heart began to pump with the adrenaline of excitement before reaching the end of the lift. When I arrived at the summit of the mountain, all the tension throughout the cuts and burns were absolutely forgotten. Shredding down the slopes was a combination of exhilaration and a sense of freedom, escaping from reality; there was no better feeling than shifting side to side down the ski run with a big smile across my cheeks. When my skis crossed over one another and I tumbled down a few meters in the snow, the pain was bearable and I would laugh with joy as I clicked the heels of my boots back onto the narrow skis to complete the run. The physical pain felt more rewarding compared to the nasty psychological trauma in the cook's room. The one day of freedom to glide down the freshly groomed slope kept me returning back to the kitchen; If I had walked away from the responsibly of a kitchen porter, it was clear that the skis would be packed into the bag and stored into the closet until another window of opportunity.

A chef is known to be an artist creating unique flavors in their dishes before they are demolished and consumed by an individual. However, for certain people, there was more than one reason to grip a frying pan and accept torment from a head chef. My housemate was from a very poor and dangerous neighbourhood in Paris; Saint-Denis. Le chef disapproved of him and called him, Le Parigot; the Parisien, and Xavier hated the name. Xavier got caught up with drugs in his young life. He opened up to me on a flake falling night after a few drinks too many. He told me with a crooked voice that cooking le boeuf had given him a reason to escape from his problems at home and if he had not learned the trade of "Un Boucher", he would have most likely died from a heroin overdose. The cuisine was his only savior and cooking gave him an unexplainable spark of a new higher passion, roasting a cow rather than a rusty spoon. The kitchen kept his addiction and struggles detained. It was a long road of recovery for him but he had something to live for and the tension in the kitchen kept him focused on the poêle.

After three months of working in a nerve-racking kitchen in France with an arrogant tattoo-less head chef certainly had killed my appreciation for food. The kitchen hands aren't employed for their appreciation of food. There is a gap that is disconnected between the chef and the customer; the kitchen porter is the middle man.They are slaves who witness how the food is prepared and see the presentation of a dish in a restaurant has a lot of anger hidden in the meal behind closed doors. The patron sitting under the dimly lit table will never fully appreciate the food when it arrives in front of them, nor who was bullied and insulted to feed them. They cut the artwork into a mess and jam it into their mouths as they gobbled it down to the stomach with a feeling of satiety at the end of the course, sooner or later, the meal is flashed out from the rear end of the body...