Mark set about a task he had carried out for his mother many times. The clean, neat cuts were delivered with a skill Terry would never learn to master. By the end of the day, although exhausted, Mark did not feel quite as tired as he had in the past.
At eleven that night the maître chef de cuisine threw off his hat and barged out of the swing doors, a sign to everyone else they could also leave the kitchen once everything that was their responsibility had been cleared up. A few seconds later the door swung back open and the chef burst in. He stared round the kitchen as everyone waited to see what he would do next. Having found what he was looking for, he headed straight for Mark.
‘Oh, my God,’ thought Mark. ‘He’s going to kill me.’
‘How is your name?’ the chef demanded.
‘Mark Hapgood, sir,’ he managed to splutter out.
‘You waste on ’tatoes, Mark Hapgood,’ said the chef. ‘You start on vegetables in morning. Report at seven. If that crétin with half finger ever returns, put him to peeling ’tatoes.’
The chef turned on his heel even before Mark had the chance to reply. He dreaded the thought of having to spend three weeks in the middle of the kitchen, never once out of the maître chef de cuisine’s sight, but he accepted there was no alternative.
The next morning Mark arrived at six for fear of being late and spent an hour watching the fresh vegetables being unloaded from Covent Garden market. The hotel’s supply manager checked every case carefully, rejecting several before he signed a chit to show the hotel had received over three thousand pounds’ worth of produce. An average day, he assured Mark.
The maître chef de cuisine appeared a few minutes before seven thirty, checked the menus and told Mark to score the Brussels sprouts, trim the French beans and remove the coarse outer leaves of the cabbages.
‘But I don’t know how,’ Mark replied honestly. He could feel the other trainees in the kitchen edging away from him.
‘Then I teach you,’ roared the chef. ‘Perhaps only thing you learn is if hope to be good chef, you able to do everyone’s job in kitchen, even ’tato peeler’s.’
‘But I’m hoping to be a...’ Mark began and then thought better of it. The chef seemed not to have heard Mark as he took his place beside the new recruit. Everyone in the kitchen stared as the chef began to show Mark the basic skills of cutting, dicing and slicing.
‘And remember other idiot’s finger,’ the chef said on completing the lesson and passing the razor-sharp knife back to Mark. ‘Yours can be next.’
Mark started gingerly dicing the carrots, then the Brussels sprouts, removing the outer layer before cutting a firm cross in the stalk. Next he moved on to trimming and slicing the beans. Once again he found it fairly easy to keep ahead of the chef’s requirements.
At the end of each day, after the head chef had left, Mark stayed on to sharpen all his knives in preparation for the following morning, and would not leave his work area until it was spotless.
On the sixth day, after a curt nod from the chef, Mark realized he must be doing something half-right. By the following Saturday he felt he had mastered the simple skills of vegetable preparation and found himself becoming fascinated by what the chef himself was up to. Although Jacques rarely addressed anyone as he marched round the acre of kitchen except to grunt his approval or disapproval — the latter more commonly — Mark quickly learned to anticipate his needs. Within a short space of time he began to feel that he was part of a team — even though he was only too aware of being the novice recruit.
On the deputy chef’s day off the following week Mark was allowed to arrange the cooked vegetables in their bowls and spent some time making each dish look attractive as well as edible. The chef not only noticed but actually muttered his greatest accolade — ‘Bon.’
During his last three weeks at the Savoy, Mark did not even look at the calendar above his bed.
One Thursday morning a message came down from the undermanager that Mark was to report to his office as soon as was convenient. Mark had quite forgotten that it was August 31 — his last day. He cut ten lemons into quarters, then finished preparing the forty plates of thinly sliced smoked salmon that would complete the first course for a wedding lunch. He looked with pride at his efforts before folding up his apron and leaving to collect his papers and final wage packet.
‘Where you think you’re going?’ asked the chef, looking up.
‘I’m off,’ said Mark. ‘Back to Coventry.’
‘See you Monday then. You deserve day off.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I’m going home for good,’ said Mark.
The chef stopped checking the cuts of rare beef that would make up the second course of the wedding feast.
‘Going?’ he repeated as if he didn’t comprehend the word.
‘Yes. I’ve finished my year and now I’m off home to work.’
‘I hope you found first-class hotel,’ said the chef with genuine interest.
‘I’m not going to work in a hotel.’
‘A restaurant, perhaps?’
‘No, I’m going to get a job at Triumph.’
The chef looked puzzled for a moment, unsure if it was his English or whether the boy was mocking him.
‘What is — Triumph?’
‘A place where they manufacture cars.’
‘You will manufacture cars?’
‘Not a whole car, but I will put the wheels on.’
‘You put cars on wheels?’ the chef said in disbelief.
‘No,’ laughed Mark. ‘Wheels on cars.’
The chef still looked uncertain.
‘So you will be cooking for the car workers?’
‘No. As I explained, I’m going to put the wheels on the cars,’ said Mark slowly, enunciating each word.
‘That not possible.’
‘Oh yes it is,’ responded Mark. ‘And I’ve waited a whole year to prove it.’
‘If I offered you job as commis chef, you change mind?’ asked Jacques quietly.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because you ’ave talent in those fingers. In time I think you become chef, perhaps even good chef.’
‘No, thanks. I’m off to Coventry to join my mates.’
The head chef shrugged. ‘Tant pis,’ he said, and without a second glance returned to the carcass of beef. He glanced over at the plates of smoked salmon. ‘A wasted talent,’ he added after the swing door had closed behind his potential protégé.
Mark locked his room, threw the calendar in the wastepaper basket and returned to the hotel to hand in his kitchen clothes to the housekeeper. The final action he took was to return his room key to the undermanager.
‘Your wage packet, your cards and your PAYE. Oh, and the chef has phoned up to say he would be happy to give you a reference,’ said the undermanager. ‘Can’t pretend that happens every day.’
‘Won’t need that where I’m going,’ said Mark. ‘But thanks all the same.’
He started off for the station at a brisk pace, his small battered suitcase swinging by his side, only to find that each step took a little longer. When he arrived at Euston he made his way to Platform 7 and began walking up and down, occasionally staring at the great clock above the booking hall. He watched first one train and then another pull out of the station bound for Coventry. He was aware of the station becoming dark as shadows filtered through the glass awning onto the public concourse. Suddenly he turned and walked off at an even brisker pace. If he hurried he could still be back in time to help chef prepare for dinner that night.
Mark trained under Jacques le Renneu for five years. Vegetables were followed by sauces, fish by poultry, meats by patisserie. After eight years at the Savoy he was appointed second chef, and had learned so much from his mentor that regular patrons could no longer be sure when it was the maître chef de cuisine’s day off. Two years later Mark became a master chef, and when in 1971 Jacques was offered the opportunity to return to Paris and take over the kitchens of the George Cinq, Jacques agreed, but only on condition that Mark accompanied him.