Another one bites the dust...

I cenosfss I tinhk I danrk a fiar bit of blbuby on New Yaer's Eve.

Wehn I got up on Jnarauy 1st I cdunlot rmbeemer werhe I had prkaed my car.
My wfie took me dwon to the Yahct Marnia. We lkeood and sacehred otuisde our rstrarutnes but cudnolt fnid it.

So I sootd in fornt of our pzizirea and filkcied my ifrnraed key a cupole of tmies and "Hey persto!" smoe lgiths satrted falhisnig jsut osutide the Tpaas bar a hnudned yrdas aawy. Vrey rileleevd, I was.

"Now I rmebemer!"

I had rturenerd hree jsut atefr mdigihnt to fnisih off the clebearionts in Sniasph sytle with Slsaa and Snargia!

Capice?

The second service at the pizzeria went very well. We ended up serving 169 customers in the end. The Tapas bar and our Mediterranean restaurant, the original one did very well too.
I celebrated midnight at the latter. A glass of bubbly and a slice of cake which a customer had prepared for us.
Then some of our staff went with us to the Tapas bar for a dance.

I realised I hadn't had anything to each since midday when I had a light omelet and a salad. So I grabbed a slab of Brie and a slice of bread to shut my noisy stomach up.

Anyone for turkey?

Tasty leftovers...

Ah, Christmas, bloody Merry Christmas....

I always promise myself that the next one will be perfect.
This one was perfect...
Well, nearly... That is until one of our head-chefs was diagnosed with severe angina! The poor guy, a loyal employee of over 12 years, is now awaiting a triple-heart bypass operation.

As a result, the run-up to the Christmas was a very busy and stressful period for the rest of his team who had to work twice as hard to make up for his absence. I tried to help a little in the middle of dashing between three restaurants tweaking, smiling, shaking hands, kissing, troubleshooting, shooting troublemakers...

And you know, when chefs get stressed out and tired they suddenly turn into Prima Donnas in need of love, reassurance and motivation!
Motivation in the form of a bloody kick up the arse and a pat on the back.
Every Christmas I could write a tragicomedy!
In actual fact I could commit a tragedy.
Such as shooting half a dozen chefs, two or three customers before riding away into the sunset!

But Christmas being the season to be merry, I have decided to bite on a few chocolates and my tongue while letting the New Year begin in bloodless harmony.

Ahhhh... That was therapeutic. Thanks for listening.

Happy New Year to you all great listeners.

I took this photo in a Brussels Square after that famous November wedding.
For this contented dog, "Happiness is a bowl of tasty leftovers."

...

What's your carrot?

Marrakesh streets are used by buses, cars, motorbikes, mopeds, bikes, horse-and-carts, donkey-and-carts.
A mish-mash of vehicles that often renders driving a hellish nightmare.

The last time I was there I hired a car and drove a little around downtown MK but mainly on the open road towards the Atlas Mountains. I managed to drive around without scratching the hire car.
The truth is that there is seldom real risk of a serious accident as the traffic unfolds mostly at crawling pace.

Often, at peak times, that is between 8am and 11pm, many a two-lane street is transformed into a four-lane car park where one can dance the salsa to the sounds of the blaring horns, neighing donkeys and bleeting sheep...

Just another facet of colourful MK.

I doctored the above photo using Corel Painter and added a stick and a carrot. This is to jump to the next topic.
What is your carrot? What drives you?

Personally, the minute I find myself sitting still, either my body or my mind longs to be busy.
Busy contemplating the next enterprise, busy travelling in body or mind.
I just hate plateaux.
I don't mind mountains to climb, as in a new challenge.
I enjoy the odd slide, as in a thick slice of recreation, be it travel, partying or gourmet dining.

But plateaux, no thanks...
So, as far as I am concerned, movement, life and vitality... That's what drives me...

So, what's your carrot?

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A burning ambition...

Toffee baskets cannot stand the heat. The strands of caramel are so thin that by the end of a busy service those that have not been served will have begun melting.

So, every evening, before service I made a new batch. Luckily, the caramel itself can last a long time if it is kept covered and free from moisture.

As the syrup has to initially be heated up to 170° to turn into caramel, the handle of my faithful pan had got a little looser with the years.

The early Nineties. Thursday, 6.30pm. Service started at 7.30pm. So I was preparing my usual batch of baskets for the evening.

All of a sudden I felt a volcano erupt and rivers of molten lava spread over my left hand.

I screamed with pain but had the sense to plunge my hand into a container full of cold water. When I took it out, some of my fingers were already covered in blisters. An agonising fire raged inside my fingers. The handle had come off the pan and toppled all over my hand.

Karen immediately took me to the local hospital. I held my throbbing hand out of the car as she sped through the streets. A doctor gave me a shot of morphine. The pain subsided a little. He bandaged my hand and I returned to work. Being right-handed I managed to serve 50 or so diners with the help of my two young commis-chefs.

After a restless night, I got up to agonising pain, the effect of the morphine having waned. The blisters now looked like over-inflated pink balloons. Back at the hospital the doctor insisted that I had to go to the burns unit at another hospital in a neighbouring town. There, the consultant announced he would keep me in for two days.

"Who the f… is going to do the cooking?"

Two days later, Saturday evening, 8pm I was sitting with a friend of mine and my young son at a restaurant some twenty miles away, wondering how my two commis-chefs were coping with a full house.

Karen came home well after midnight. I waited up for her.

"They did sixty-two customers! And not a single complaint!"

I felt both elated and disappointed at the news.

Disappointed that I was no longer indispensable to the operation.

But I was secretly happy. Happy that I was no longer tied to the stove.

My accident marked a defining moment in my life.

The moment when I realised that I was free to get out of the kitchen and plan for the future...

Nowadays, I look at my slightly scarred hand and thank my lucky stars I hung my apron up a long time ago.

Photo: "Mauna Loa." Online Photograph. Encyclopædia Britannica Online.

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What a basket to make...

A couple of years after opening my first restaurant, twenty-two years ago, I decided to introduce a few new desserts.

While scouring cookery books and magazines I came across Toffee Baskets in the Australian Women's Weekly


I tried to make some but the caramel kept turning into fudge. I researched the subject and discovered that success depended on many factors.

-The pan had to be totally free from grease.
-The quantities of sugar, water and vinegar had to be accurate to nearest hundredth of a unit.
-The syrup had to be simmered until every single grain of sugar had melted.
-Then and only then could the syrup be boiled until it reached the right temperature.
The test was, if a tiny quantity of syrup was dropped into cold water, it would immediately solidify and become a ball...

Worse than brain surgery...

After a few pounds of wasted sugar, I got the hang of making these intricate baskets using the back of a ladle.


I served two baskets per person, one filled with lemon sorbet and fresh fruit and the other on top to form a nest.
Twenty years on and it is still one of our most popular desserts.


My next post will be “How this toffee basket may have changed my life…”

Two Blogging Years...

Two years on and this blog has been rated for general audiences.



Does this mean that people between 7 and 77 can log on without fear of having their minds warped by the content of my posts?

I started blogging because it was a novel way of wasting time. Most of you faithful blogfriends have been there for the ups, the not-so-ups and the downs...
You see, I often make the running of three restaurants sound like a walk in the park and it would be if I did not have to employ staff, feed customers, or just get back to work after my holidays.

When I started over 22 years ago, it was a challenge, a way of looking after myself, Karen and the kids. The first restaurant came at a time when the town was devoid of decent ons, so what I had learnt in a couple of pizzerias, came in handy. I began aiming for the stars and improving, got rid of the pizzas within a month of opening and got the place noticed by a few guides.
What does one do after such a cushy start?
Simply look for the next challenge.

Today, after a few moves and openings, financially it can be attractive to have three restaurants, ego boosting too, because of the recognition.

But I did not really mean for life to go so fast! And that's when the dreamer in me rises to the top.

Travel lifts my spirits and liberates me. Spain is exciting, the South of France, enchanting, Marrakesh, magical... And every time I go somewhere I want to stay for ever.
Art fascinates and transports me... I want to do everything, from mosaics to drawing, sculpture to painting...
Reading enchants me and tempts me to write in a language that is not mine, even though it is the only language I feel comfortable with.

















If this blog goes slightly quiet it is because this dreamer is dreaming of turning his dreams into reality, one at a time...
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Crouching Tiger...

A few of our chefs go golfing on Mondays when the restaurants are closed.
I have played on and off in the past and so, when I invited myself to join them, one even let me have his old golf set for a few quid.

Yesterday morning at ten, three of them were waiting for me at the local golf course. I hired a pair of shoes and a trolley, bought a bottle of water and off we went. We spent a few minutes practising on the putting green and then we attacked the first hole. Well, it turned out to be elusive. My ball could not find it. A par four turned out to be an 7 over-par. For those who have not yet fallen in love with Tiger Woods, it took me 11 stokes instead of 4 to get the ball down the hole.
At one stage I thought I was about to collapse with pains in my legs and in my right arm and shoulder. It took a bar of Snickers after the 9th hole to stop me throwing the bar towel.

The only reason I persevered to the end was that I did not want to be a wimp in front of these fit twenty-something year-old chefs. If one of them had handed me a frying pan there and then I would have dropped it. The only thing I still had a strong grip of was my honour.

When the last ball went into the 18th hole, I could hardly breathe a sigh of relief. I should have been inside an oxygen tent. Words failed me to congratulate the winner.

At four o'clock, I dragged myself and my trolley back to the car. By then I could barely lift my golf bag.
"How many bloody clubs, balls and tees does one really need!"

Six hours after I left my favourite chair, I got home and collapsed back into it.

Karen suggested I take a bath.
"But the bathroom is bloody upstairs!" I thought.
I prefer showers but Zoe has got me a bit worried. She claims showers make you gain weight.

I mustered a bit of courage and made my way to the first floor. The climb was so painful I felt like planting the Algerian flag on the landing.
I started filling the bath and climbed into it.
I dozed off a few times in the hour I spent in the soothing warm water, lovingly rubbing my painful shoulder and jellyfied calves.
After a few thoughts of encouragement I persuaded myself to get out of the tub. Persuasion is one thing. Action is another.
With the wall to the left of me I had to use my sore arm to lift myself out. I screamed. No one heard. I managed to grit my teeth and clambered out.

Arriving at work this morning, instead of heading straight to my office, I bravely made the excruciating walk to the kitchen. The chefs were already hard at work. I straightened my shoulders and back and waltzed in.

"Next Monday, then, if you're up to it, lads?"

Floods of tears...

June 2007. Floods, floods, floods!

Who's been crying over Tony Blair?

Tony's out... Let's celebrate with a Gin and Tonic... Gordon's gin... Yes, he's bloody in!!

Nothing changes...

Do I sound bitter? I sent off my VAT return today...

The ripple effect...

Last night I nearly forgot that only a few days ago, it was so cold we had to turn the heating on at the restaurants. I nearly forgot the arctic temperatures, because last night we finally got a glimpse of our elusive summer.

As I got to the lock gates, a small fishing craft was coming back into the marina. It left a beautiful ripple in its wake. I can never resist a ripple so I got the camera out and snapped, snapped!

Our diners are "subjected" to this great spectacle on a regular basis.
I often joke on with some of them by asking where they have "parked" their yacht... Funnily enough a few of our customers come from all over the North East to spend a few hours on their boats.

During the summer, many foreign yachtspeople visit our restaurants. Moi, the unfulfilled Sinbad, having only sailed on merchant ships during my student days, I always end up quizzing them about their intrepid voyages.

Last year, a Greek couple stopped by on their way up to Scotland. I used what little Greek I remembered from my sailing days, and the man, a retired sea captain, what Spanish he remembered from his South American runs, and we ended up having a delightful conversation.






















Today, I am quite excited! A Blogfriend is visiting one of our restaurants!

Ambition...

There must be a Viennese bakery in every big city in the world. This one is in Murcia.
I took the photo below as a tribute to Merisi's delightful photos of Vienna.























Over the last 7 days I have interviewed many 16-year old school leavers to replace our members of staff who are heading to university.
We usually offer these young people part-time work for the two years they attend college.
Every June, I spend a few days meeting future doctors, solicitors, teachers, etc...
A few years ago, one in every four interviewees wanted to study criminal psychology. I have a feeling that Cracker's popularity had something to do with it.

Television has a lot to answer for.
When Gordon Ramsay began swearing on air, some of us worried that it would put kids off becoming chefs, but on the contrary, the "F-word" attracted many to a catering career.
Whenever I ask these budding chefs where they see themselves in the future, the ambitious ones always reply that they would like to have their own restaurant.

This takes me back to my student days when I washed up at a local pizzeria and daydreamed of opening a coffee shop and calling it Café Crème...


...

A short escapade...

Carcassonne is a fortified French town, in the Aude département in the former province of Languedoc. It is separated into the fortified Cité de Carcassonne and the more expansive lower city, the ville basse. It has been added to the UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites in 1997. And for a good reason: La Cité is a truly awesome sight from wherever you stand.

Nowadays, it is full of good restaurants (My favourites are Le Saint Jean and Le Pont de la Tour), bars, hotels and souvenirs shops.











Carcassonne is surrounded by beautiful countryside, most of which is vineyards producing great wine such as Minervois and Blanquette de Limoux.






























Le Canal du Midi meanders its way through Carcassonne, Narbonne...

The indoor market (Narbonne)

It's only Goodbye, Carca... A la prochaine!

Easter Weekend...

This scene out of my office window is repeated every Easter.

The quiet car park is taken over for the weekend by a giant Scottish funfair. From midday till seven pm the noise is horrendous. It puts me off work! Any excuse, you see! So,I usually spend the Easter weekend just like every other day, escaping into cyberspace.

I would love to go camping. or do something more energetic but I soon go off the idea.

Last night I went to see my friends, Didier and Phil in their new restaurant. I had a few beers with them, then Phil and I went to his new house for a small house-warming party. A couple of glasses of Chateauneuf du Pape later, I decided to get a taxi home. (2 am.)

I tried to unlock my front door but it was bolted from inside. Knocked, banged, raged then grabbed the taxi back. Luckily the driver had been counting his money while I tried to wake up the neighbourhood.

I headed back to the office and tried to go to sleep balanced between two chairs. It felt like camping except that I had an espresso machine nearby.

The Marina this evening.

..

I hate cooking...

Last night you would think you were in St. Trop!

Well, some of you lot might be but up here, at the first sign of sunshine our friendly Northerners begin to strip to the waist and grab every available seat around the Marina.

At around 7pm I left the Pizzeria for the strenuous seven-minute walk to the Tapas Bar.

I snapped things as I went along, seagulls, yachts, clouds, water...

The outside seats, out for the first time this year, were all taken. I gathered that the restaurant would be busy.

After saying hello to the bar staff I went to the kitchen. A trio of headless chickens were running around as Adam, my son barked orders. Just then, I remembered that Kevin, the head chef was off for his grandmother's funeral.

When we opened the restaurant over 14 months ago, I worked in that kitchen for three weeks with Kevin until I felt he was ready to go it alone with his young team.

Last night I felt sorry for the young chefs on their first solo flight so I grabbed an apron and a T-shirt and dived in head first. Adam went back to the tables and I began unravelling the knots.

There were about nine orders on the go with at least a dozen tapas each. Gambas Pil-Pil, Chorizo al vino tinto, Patatas Bravas, etc...

I asked Philip, the young second chef to shout out the tapas. I did the hot ones, his helpers did the rest and between the four of us, we sent all the back orders within twenty minutes. And all that time the kitchen printer kept churning out more orders.

I helped for another half-hour, took off the apron and the dripping T-shirt and slumped in Adam's office for five minutes.

What I had just done was not cooking. I had hated every minute of it. Torture would have been more pleasurable.

Why? Why?

Don't get me wrong, I love cooking! I last worked full-time in my own kitchen over 11 years ago. Cooking then was a pleasure.

I got in at 9am at the latest, well before anyone else arrived. I knew exactly where everything was. My knives. My pans. My stocks. My sauces.

Last night, I felt I was lost on an alien planet.

"Where are the serving spoons?"

"Where is the f..... olive oil? The salt? The pepper?..."

"Never again!" I told Adam on my way out. "If I am ever to work in a kitchen again, it would have to be full-time. But as I have no inclination of doing that, I will never step into a working kitchen again."

I left the Tapas Bar and strolled to our third restaurant still steaming.

Tastes and Colours...

Last Christmas, as a present to the Pizzeria, I invested in an Ipod after pinching the idea from my son who runs the Tapas Bar.

I have a varied music collection ranging from Algerian Rai to Salsa, Nina Simone to Jacques Brel, Zucchero to Zulu Drums, etc... So, one evening I uploaded around 150 songs onto the Ipod and linked it to the restaurant sound system.

At the start of the shift, all the staff need to do now is to switch both on, press Shuffle and Bob's your uncle. Music all night long...

But judging from the comments on the right, you can tell that we cannot please all the people all of the time... (I love Barry White but I'd rather be doing other things to his music than stuffing myself...)

De gustibus et coloribus non est disputandum...

Top Left: Alan, one of our young porters must have bribed his sister...

What kind of music, if any do you like listening to in restaurants?

Human bin...

I sit in my office, surfing the internet, doing bits of work, doodling, faxing, pretending to work, telephoning, paying suppliers...

And then a member of staff comes in bearing gifts...
"This was a mistake! Would you like it?"
Who am I to refuse food or drink?
The total sum of these mistakes is extra pounds.

The gym has become so boring on my own.
So I started swimming. But I stink of chlorine for the rest of the day.
Customers will ask: "Have you been bleaching tripe?"

Now, I have come up with the ideal form of exercise! Walking...


You see, my restaurants are placed in a triangle around the Marina.
So I have decided to park my car outside the Tapas Bar then walk to the other restaurants. Seven minutes one way and four the other. I started this routine three days ago and I am really enjoying it.




















On occasions my walk wobbles a bit due maybe to an unplanned Mojito stop at the Tapas Bar.
I sometimes stop and snap the moored yachts.

Ah... I wish the restaurants were somewhere on the Med... Notice the imaginary palm?

I am sailing...

I know, at least by sight, most of the customers who frequent my restaurants. After all, I have met some of them while they were still being carried in their mothers bellies...

Two couples have been coming to our restaurants EVERY FORTNIGHT for the last TWENTY YEARS bar holidays. Is this a record? I am honestly very flattered, but what kind of a life can it be when you know exactly what is on your agenda every other week?

What happened to spontaneity?

There are also those customers who come to celebrate their anniversary and insist on the same three-course meal every year. "I stick to what I know!"

What happened to the sense of adventure?

One has to really keep an open mind when running a restaurant. After all, if you really dissect the whole concept, it is like inviting strangers into your dining room, day in day out.

The only difference is that they are paying customers who can afford to be critical if your food or service are not up to scratch. On the other hand if they are complimentary, then it means that you've done your job.

My motto has always been:

"The customer is always right...until he's left!"

Within the confines of the restaurant, this has to be the only rule. The worst thing one can do is antagonise a customer. If I am told that a fillet is tough(!?!?) then the fillet is bloody tough and I am changing butchers in the morning!

All that unhappy customers want is to be proved right in front of their partners or guests. And all you need to do is agree with them this once and you've won them for life.

On the whole, over the last twenty two years I have met some great people, from all walks of life, all corners of the Globe... I believe that if you remember to put yourself in the customer's shoes, you are half way there.

The one single thing that sometimes spoils a good evening is when someone says:"So, where do you keep your yacht, then?"

I feel like saying: "If I had a yacht, I'd be on the Med right now, instead of listening to you!" but instead I just smile as I put the money in the till.

I think I should keep a copy of the above photo in my pocket for the next time someone asks that question.

But honestly, when things are right and the sun is shining inside my heart, my job is plain sailing...

Love it!!!

(The Royal Yacht Britannia on her way down the River Clyde. Copyright Scottish Media Newspapers)

Slaving over a hot stove...

There are days when I enjoy running restaurants as much as a trip to the dentist's.

Yesterday was one of them.

Our 22 year-old French 3rd chef rang me:
"Je ne peux plus travailler dans des conditions pareilles!" (I can't work under these conditions!)

He explained that there was a horrible atmosphere in the kitchen between the head-chef and the second-chef.
The former, an old friend he has been working with me for the last 11 years, while the latter 7 years. A bit of an achievement when you consider that catering staff are some of the most nomadic workers in the world.

I went over to the restaurant and listened to all three chefs.
The problem had started Saturday lunchtime.
The restaurant had been very busy but at 2pm the head-chef got changed and left the others to get on with preparing 21 desserts, a job that took over half an hour.
The second-chef got even more irate when the head-chef arrived back at work at 5.50pm instead of 5.30pm.
"No respect! I am sick of this!"

What do I do?

Shall I scream and curse and stamp my feet?
Shall I kill one of the chefs and get back to the stove myself?
Shall I sell up and go on an extended holiday?

Argh, decisions, decisions!!! I abhor confrontations.

Needless to say, I think I defused the situation by listening to all the arguments in a mixture of English, French and Algerian...and then suggesting that they sit down and work it out among themselves.


























I doctored this photo of the Alhambra and added a ray of sunshine...

Where the North Sea Meets the Med...

Saturday night. The bar before the onslaught.

Sunny Sunday Morning. The restaurant before the onslaught.

I have been taking a few photos to update one of my restaurants website.

The bar is decorated in North African style with lot of arches and the restaurant is airy Mediterranean with columns and bright tiles for dado rail and lots of wrought iron.
The chairs are also wrought iron and rattan. Very heavy and rather uncomfortable for old ladies bums, I have been reminded. We keep a couple of cushions behind the bar for those sensitive backsides.

Cosy seat...














Sunny North Sea...