David Yip looking back, photo David Yip
My mum is back! After leaving our family home a year ago, my mum has moved back in. During the year she was away, my eldest sister, Suzanne, returned home, having quit the pub she had run in Manchester to run our house. My dad had left this to my mum throughout their marriage. Once again, I am on the hunt for work when my dad tells me another one of the pubs he visits needs a chef. With their marriage now over, my dad moves away again to find work in Burscough.
The pub I am to go to is situated on Walney Island, a 30-minute walk from our house. Walney Island formed during the last glacial period and remained rural until the growth of Barrow’s industries. It is connected to Barrow by Jubilee Bridge, which was built in 1908. The following day, I walk to the pub and meet the manager, Harry. He explains my role is to assist the Head Chef and, as there would be only the Head Chef, a kitchen porter and myself, I would need to help in all sections. I start the following Monday.
The Head Chef is a woman, and her young son is the kitchen porter. The menu is simple pub food and nothing I haven’t cooked before. I am there two weeks before there is an argument between the Head Chef and the owner, and she walks out, taking her son with her. Harry comes into the kitchen, and I ask what happened, but he says he doesn’t know. He then asks if I can manage on my own until they find more staff. At 17, I find myself as acting Head Chef, responsible for everything in the kitchen.
We get paid cash each Friday. Harry had already explained my first week was a week in hand and I would get that should I decide to leave, as this is my notice period; therefore, my wage packet is for one week’s work. Opening the envelope, I discover I have been paid half of the agreed amount. Harry tells me the owner has said this is because my tax code is wrong and I will get it back.
The pub isn’t as popular as my previous place, which is a huge relief as I have to prepare, cook, and plate all starters, main courses, and desserts, then clean all the dishes and the kitchen before leaving after each shift. I work the next two weeks straight with no days off, and each week I am paid half my salary. Barrow has a tax office in the town centre, and my mum tells me to go there. I explain to them that I have recently changed jobs, and they ask if I had given my new employer my P45, which I tell them I had. After looking at the computer, the clerk returns to tell me that I haven’t been placed on emergency tax and my tax code is correct; therefore, I need to speak to my employer. I return to work and tell Harry everything I was told at the tax office, and he informs me he will sort it out to be in my next pay on Friday. Friday arrives and my wage is still 50% down. I’m fuming! I tell Harry I’m being made out to be an idiot, working without a day off, covering all sections in the kitchen, and yet my wages aren’t correct. Once again, he promises it will be sorted out the following week.
On Monday, I start planning for a small wedding party we are hosting on Saturday. They have chosen a cold finger buffet with some hot dishes and a couple of desserts for 30 people. I enjoy being in the kitchen on my own and, although it can be quite stressful when I have busy times juggling all sections, it gives me great satisfaction to know guests have enjoyed themselves and that is down to me. Before I know it, Friday is here. Finally, I will get my correct wage and be able to get a taxi home from work once in a while rather than walking or waiting to get on the bus, shattered after work. Harry usually comes into the kitchen each Friday lunchtime to pay me, and this week there is no sign of him. I ask the barman where he’s at, and he says, “He already left, will be back later.” I leave after completing lunch service and go home for a couple of hours. On my return, I start to set the kitchen up ready for the evening service. Harry arrives at 6pm, and I ask to speak to him. I ask why I wasn’t paid as usual, and he says, “Sorry, totally forgot, will sort it out in a bit for you.” Dinner service is slow, and I get to finish early. I change out of my uniform then head into the bar.
I wait for Harry to stop serving then ask for my wages. Leaving the bar, he goes upstairs to the office to collect them. I open the envelope at the bar in front of him and I’m amazed to see that once again my wages are wrong. He just stands there, shrugs his shoulders, saying he isn’t responsible. Leaving the bar, I return to the kitchen to collect my belongings. I walk into the bar and say, “Goodbye Harry, I quit.” He comes from around the bar and says, “You can’t, you’re the only one we have, what will we do? We have a wedding tomorrow!”. “No,” I tell him. “You have a wedding tomorrow, as I no longer work here.” I never receive my owed salary or week in hand and don’t hear from Harry again.
I am only out of work for a week when my sister, Suzanne, who is working at a local hotel in Barrow on the reception desk, tells me the old head chef from there has left to work in the next town. He has offered to give me a full-time job as a Commis Chef, and living around the corner from our house, he will be able to take me to work.
The hotel is situated in Dalton-in-Furness, a small town once noted for having the most pubs in a small area. The hotel sits at the edge of town and has beautiful landscaped gardens overlooking a valley. The interior is sumptuous with ornate fireplaces in stunning lounges; a library leads from the bar, and the restaurant rooms have tables laid with starched tablecloths, napkins shaped into fans, large wine glasses, and polished cutlery you can see your face in.
Patrick, the Head Chef, picks me up from around the corner of our house and explains that we work from 10am until 10pm, five days a week. He also tells me that he expects me to pay petrol money, as I would be spending a lot more on buses and taxis if he wasn’t providing a lift. We arrive and park in a rear courtyard behind the hotel, and I’m introduced to the team. Once again, I am asked what I have done in my previous roles, and he laughs and says, “We don’t do things like that here!” Ninety per cent of everything on the menu is made fresh: no powdered soup or sauce mixes, no frozen bags of vegetables, with meat and fish being prepared on site. I realise very quickly that I know very little about a professional kitchen.
Patrick tells me he is going to show me how to prepare some fish for the menu. It is a fish caught locally from Windermere Lake: Windermere Char. He lays the fish on its side and, using a large knife, runs the back of the knife along the fish’s body to remove the scales on both sides. Using the large knife, he removes the head and puts it to one side, telling me this will be boiled up with vegetables to make a fish stock for sauces. He swaps knives to a thin one, explaining this is a filleting knife. He asks what knives I own, and I explain I don’t, as they have always been provided. “All chefs have their own knives and equipment, which they guard with their lives! So you need to get some,” he says, “but for now, use mine.” With the fish on its side, he inserts the knife at the fish’s tail and cuts through the belly up to its mouth. He then puts his hand into the fish and takes out all of the insides. He then turns the fish around so its spine is facing us and inserts the filleting knife into the middle of the fish, touching the spine, telling me to feel the bone with the knife and slice the flesh away from the bone the whole length of the fish. He repeats this on the other side, and we are left with two large fillets (the bones that are left to be used as stock). “Now,” he says, “here’s a little trick.” Using a potato peeler, the fillets are laid skin down and he takes the peeler to remove the bones from the centre of the fillets, using his fingers to ensure no bones are left in the fillet. He then portions the fillets up, explaining they should be of the same weight, stating as the fish is smaller towards the tail end, this fillet needs to be cut larger, but it will still weigh the same as the others from the middle.
Patrick tells me to start descaling all the fish and removing their insides. I’m to then call him over so he can supervise me filleting them. I’m pretty nervous but start by descaling all the fish first. The scales fly all over the place, some hitting my face, but I get them all done. Taking one of the fish, I remove the head with a large knife before swapping knives to a filleting one. I insert it at the tail and cut all the way up to its mouth. I put my hand in to remove the insides, and as I pull, the fish opens its mouth! I shout and throw the fish across the kitchen, saying it’s alive! Patrick comes over and shouts, “What the hell are you doing?” I explain what happened, and he says, “How can it be alive? It’s been laid there for an hour. Do you not realise the insides are connected to its head? So by pulling them away, you opened its mouth!” I feel like a complete idiot and go bright red instantly, the other chefs in the kitchen laughing their heads off.
When trying to find my way around the kitchen, Patrick asks that I grab him a wooden spoon. I ask, “Where are they?” He replies, “In the wooden spoon-ery!” So I ask, “Where is that?” He says, “Next to the metal spoon-ery!” I am left to discover them for myself before returning, and Patrick saying, “People are not here to look after you, they are busy themselves. Get accustomed to where everything is.” I go on to use this when we have new people start in the kitchens. During lunch services, I work with a local lady called Tracy, who is to train me on the section; she even has a dish on the menu called “Our Tracy’s Special Salad”.
Everything on the section is a lot more detailed than when I worked at a tavern. We don’t simply cut tomatoes for garnish; they are cut into six, then each wedge has V-shaped cuts inserted into them which are pushed forward. Lemon wedges are cut, ensuring there is no centre white pith remaining. The flesh is cut away from the zest three-quarters of the way down. The zest is then sliced all the way up before it is curled back onto the flesh, looking like a spiral. Spring onions are sliced at the tops and placed into iced water so the ends curl, the same being done to celery stalks. Cucumbers aren’t simply sliced. They are cut the whole length down across their belly, then cut down to small portions. Each portion is sliced across the back edge three-quarters of the way down, then each slice is bent into the next one, creating a fan. When preparing salad garnishes, we don’t lay lettuce on the plate. We use our hands to make bouquets that stand upright. Then, using the prepared salad vegetables, these are placed onto the leaves. Tracy tells me, “People eat with their eyes; they don’t want to see things spread out across a plate looking flat and a mess, they want to see something that looks inviting, so that’s why we give them a focal point.”
Although I didn’t think it possible, this hotel is a lot busier than the Tavern, with us being packed at every lunch and dinner service. We host private lunches and dinners for the “big wigs” from the pharmaceutical company, shipbuilding company, paper mill, and many other thriving businesses, running up hundreds of pounds on expense accounts. The family celebrations seem to be endless, and I wonder where all the people come from each day. I have been in the kitchen one week when, one day assisting Patrick preparing desserts, a lady walks into the kitchen, looks me up and down, and says, “Who are you?” Patrick says, “Pauline, this is David. David, this is the owner, Pauline. And Pauline, be nice because he’s a great worker,” to which Pauline answers, “We’ll see!”
Pauline is a formidable lady. Having just returned from holiday, it is the first time we have met, although the staff had told me many stories. She is a perfectionist and demands the highest of standards everywhere. If she is not in the kitchen watching food go out, she is in the restaurant checking tables are laid correctly, or in bedrooms checking up on the housekeepers, also working in the gardens growing a selection of vegetables we use, tending to the many flowers and shrubs. At dinner service one evening, we have plated starters up when Pauline comes into the kitchen. She takes the pre-portioned buttered granary bread I have prepared from a container, looks at it, and asks, “Who cut this?” Tracy and I don’t answer. She then says, “It’s too big.” I turn and whisper to Tracy, who laughs, causing Pauline to stare at me. Tracy says, “Tell her what you said.” I stand there speechless. So Tracy says, “He said, make your mind up; two days ago it was too small.” Pauline looks at me and says, “Yes, you’ll be fine here,” winks at me, and leaves.
I meet my first girlfriend at work. Not being able to tell my family I am gay, I agree to start dating when asked out. I tell myself I am doing no harm, as the relationship is platonic. Her father doesn’t agree with our relationship, despite never meeting me. He is a manager in a large factory and believes his daughter can do better than dating a Commis Chef. I don’t understand this, as he allows his elderly mother to work at the hotel as a kitchen porter. Our relationship doesn’t last long.
Patrick and Tracy are very thorough and start to teach me all sections within the kitchen. We make our own mayonnaise, and I learn to make sauces from béchamel, plus meat and fish stocks. Fresh soups are made from an array of ingredients. I’m shown how to prepare steaks from whole sirloins, portion whole chickens, bone and roll legs of lamb. I make meringues, cheesecakes, brandy baskets, and many other desserts, all of which I put into my recipe book. Tracy shows me how to make our signature Marie Rose sauce. It is not how I’ve been shown previously, only mixing tomato ketchup and mayonnaise together. This recipe is a lot more detailed, and I’m told never to give it to anyone!
One evening before dinner service, Tracy calls in sick. I am to run the starter section on my own. One of the starters is a poached pear, served with cream cheese and salad. The pears are poached in red wine with cinnamon and cochineal to colour them red; they are then cooled, ready to be used. I plate four of the pears up, with them standing up whole beside a crisp salad garnish and cream cheese piped on the side. Pauline enters the kitchen and asks why they are there. I tell her it’s for a table which has come on. She turns and shouts, “Service!” No front-of-house staff arrive. Again she shouts, with no response. She begins to pace up and down the service area until finally a waitress arrives. She shouts, “Where have you been?!” The waitress says it’s busy and she has come as quickly as she could. Pauline shouts, “Not good enough. Look at these starters!” She then grabs a pear from the plates and throws it straight at me, shouting, “Not good enough, do these again,” as all four pears bounce off my body. I am shaking and stand there shocked. “Hurry up then, guests are waiting,” she shouts. I can barely prepare the salad garnishes again as I’m shaking that much. The starters go out, and Pauline tells me, “Don’t let me see food sitting around here again.” Tracy doesn’t return to work, and at 18, I’m promoted to Chef de Partie in charge of a section.
For my birthday, my mum presents me with a briefcase. I open it up to discover it is a set of knives. She tells me to lift the tray holding the knife selection out, which reveals everything I could possibly need. It is full of peelers, different types of piping nozzles, Parisienne scoops, oyster knives, a canelé knife, zesters, and a steel. My mum tells me years later that the briefcase was returned to the shop by someone who no longer wanted it, and my mum got it with a large discount. I still own it to this day.
Going out to celebrate my promotion, I am approached in a bar by a woman who asks me to buy her a drink, which I do. She then says, “Let’s get out of here.” Two hours later, I am no longer a virgin. She tells me that I spent all night grinding my teeth whilst asleep, which I’m also told by other future female partners I date. She is a single mum, ten years older than me with young children, and we date for a year before it ends with her telling me she wants more commitment.
My elder brother is to be married, aged 19. As money is still sparse, I help out with the wedding cost, paying for the wedding cars. He’s to marry Sonia, the youngest child of Doug and Jean Kelly, who have lived opposite us since we were children. Thirty-five years on, they remain happily married with four children and two grandchildren of their own.
At work, Pauline continues her tirades for the next two years until one day Patrick has enough. Having had boxes slung at us and dishes flung through the air, she throws a plate, hitting him in the face and knocking his glasses off. He collects his knives and tells me to follow. Dropping me off at home, he tells me that’s it, he won’t be going back. I am sat at home when, an hour later, there is a knock at the door. It’s Tom, Pauline’s husband. Tom is a great guy, who is very laid back and always has a smile on his face and a joke to tell. I run upstairs and hide in my room, telling my mum to say I’m not in. After a couple of minutes, my mum calls my name. Tom is sat in our back garden, and my mum explains that he wants me to go back. I tell him it isn’t normal, what Pauline does to us and the way she treats us. He agrees and says things will change, but for today, we are fully booked this evening and he’s just lost two chefs. I ask about Patrick, and Tom tells me he won’t be asked back. Knowing I have lost my lift to work, Tom tells me they will pay for taxis as the bus service isn’t reliable. I agree to go back, and Tom drives us back to the hotel. On entering the kitchen, Phil, the Sous Chef, is preparing the main course section for the evening; he asks if I’m ok, and I go back to my prep. As dinner service starts, Pauline walks into the kitchen wearing a long white coat; she tells Phil she will help with main courses and ignores me. Despite agreeing to pay for my daily travel, Pauline starts to complain about it, so I re-start driving lessons and pass first time, aged 20, buying myself a brand-new car.
Our new Head Chef, Paul, changes the menu from the start and likes things to be done his way. Phil is reluctant, being set in his ways, and they clash constantly. I am asked to go into a meeting in the lounge with Pauline, Tom, and Paul. They tell me that things aren’t working out with Phil and want me to be their Sous Chef. I ask what will happen to Phil, and they say he will be offered my lower position of Chef de Partie. I accept, then leave the meeting, asking Phil to go through. He returns five minutes later, followed by Paul, collects his knives, shakes my hand, and says, “It’s been a pleasure, mate,” then leaves. At 20 years old, I am now the Sous Chef of one of the most noted hotels in Cumbria.
We introduce a Carvery night twice a week, the first in the area, which is hugely popular. Guests help themselves to an array of salads, seafood, breads, and cold meats, before being served an intermediate course of soup or sorbet. They then come to the Carvery and can choose from three meats, which I carve to order, helping themselves to the side dishes. The meal is finished with desserts and coffee. The most popular dessert is Sticky Toffee Pudding, which guests declare is the best they’ve ever eaten. The recipe remains a closely guarded secret, with me only passing it on to one other chef and my family.
Work consumes my life, with the days being long, stressful, and tiring. I have terrible pains in my stomach that take my breath away and have dizzy spells regularly. One day at work, I wake up on the kitchen floor having passed out. I’m taken to hospital and asked lots of questions. I tell the doctor about the pains in my stomach and the dizzy spells. I’m told I will be kept overnight so they can complete tests. The doctor informs me I have stomach ulcers, probably caused by stress, which they will treat me for. He then asks about my diet, what I eat in the mornings and throughout the day. They have discovered I have an extremely high metabolism and tell me, “We don’t recommend this to many people, but such is your metabolism that you need to eat as much junk food as possible. Your body burns calories at a very fast rate, so things like toast, cereals in the morning are no good; you need to eat fatty full English breakfasts to stop the dizzy spells, as you’ll always struggle to gain weight. Stop smoking, join a gym, and drink Guinness!” I do everything they ask. I immediately quit smoking, join a gym, and try to drink Guinness, but hate it. After 12 months, I don’t put on an ounce, so quit the gym, start smoking again, and keep eating as much as possible.
After four years at the hotel, our head chef is leaving. During his time there, he has witnessed Pauline taking a raw side of salmon from the fridge and dumping it onto a table in front of a guest who complained hers wasn’t fresh; a junior chef having a large meringue Pavlova smeared on the roof of his car by Pauline, in front of wedding guests, when he answered her back when she gave him direction; Pauline’s daughters fighting in the restaurant at our New Year’s Eve Ball, where guests paid £100 per head, ripping their ball gowns off each other’s backs; suppliers changing regularly, stating their bills aren’t being paid, discovering that word quickly spreads to new suppliers, who deliver on a cash-only basis.
Because of his departure, I am promoted to joint Head Chef, aged 24.
My boss is going away to Spain and suggests I join them for the second week. It is my first holiday abroad, which I look forward to. The villa is in Marbella and it’s beautiful. I quickly get bored of lying around by the pool and go for a walk. Finding the beach, I walk some distance before turning a bend on the coast. I am left stunned; it’s a gay nudist beach! I decide to strip and settle down to read my book. I am interrupted a while later by a man around my age who asks me for the time in English. I sit up and ask how he knew I was English; he says, “You’re the only guy here reading a Catherine Cookson book!” We decide to meet up again the following day. Returning back to the villa, we go to the clubhouse. Whilst using the toilets, I see they have vending machines on the wall. I don’t want to be discovered using them and quickly insert the coins before quickly putting the packet in my pocket. Going back to the beach the following day, I meet up with my new friend. I tell him I’ve brought something with me. Going into my bag, I retrieve the packet of condoms, only to discover the packet has a picture of a crocodile holding a brush. In my haste the night before, I had used the wrong machine and bought a disposable toothbrush and toothpaste! It is my first encounter with a man, and for the first time, I feel I’m being honest with myself.
Returning back to work, we are told that Tom is ill; his leukaemia has returned. He passes away 12 months later at the hotel. Sadly, his sister dies not long after. Pauline decides to open another restaurant with her brother-in-law in the next village and asks that I head the kitchen. I agree to go with the condition that I answer to Pauline only, as I don’t want to be caught in the middle of two bosses, to which they both agree. It is my first position as Head Chef, solely responsible for a brigade and the running of the kitchen. The new restaurant is to be a full-time carvery restaurant. Arguments start almost immediately, with Pauline disagreeing on how the place should be decorated and furnished. I try not to get involved, concentrating on setting up the kitchen. We open to being fully booked from the start. In August 1997, my team are in early preparing for a sold-out Sunday service when an announcement comes on the radio. Princess Diana has died in a car crash in Paris. The phone starts to ring and doesn’t stop until 95% of our bookings cancel.
After working for Pauline for nine years, I hand in my notice. I can no longer work being caught in between two bosses who don’t agree on anything. Pauline tells me that without Clarence House I will amount to nothing, and with that, doesn’t speak to me again.
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