David, with proud members of his family. Photograph Margaret Yip
by David Yip
After seven years living in Gran Canaria, I returned home with a couple of suitcases to live in Barrow. Once again, I sold everything I owned—from my car to my TV and even a full tropical fish tank.
My younger sister, Diane, knowing my plans in advance, bought a house so I would have somewhere to live. We set about stripping and redecorating the whole house. Meanwhile I was looking for work.
I went to an interview in Cartmel Village for the position of sous chef. The village was famous for its sticky toffee pudding, but now the place also had a Michelin-star restaurant. This would be a good way to ease me back into working in a professional kitchen.
The hotel was a manor house in something of a time warp. It had an ornate lounge and a traditional dining room which was laid out laid with crisp white linen and polished silver.
The owner’s son explained how the hotel works and what my duties would be. Comfortable with my sexuality by then, I told him that I was gay, and he replied by saying, “I’m a recovering alcoholic!” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I kept quiet. He asked why I was applying for the post of sous chef, and I explained. He offered me the position straight away.
I bought an old car which I had seen parked on a road with a “For Sale” sign on it. The car overheated on the first trip to my new job, and I knew it wouldn’t last long.
The head chef, who explained that the menu was written down each day and that the hotel mainly catered for residents. Guests all dined at the same time, and met for pre-dinner drinks in the lounge before going into the restaurant. The menus needed to be approved by the owners, who were in their seventies and traditional.
For the first time I designed the menu and gave it to the owners for their approval. They came into the kitchen ten minutes later and told me to remove all spice from the food, but said that otherwise they liked the menu. I explained that Hungarian potatoes without the paprika would not be the same.
‘Then we’ll call them something else.’.
I found my boyfriend work as a front-of-house manager. His restaurant was in Barrow town centre, just a fifteen-minutes from the house. We settled into our new life, and, for a while I enjoyed living with my sister and her partner. But my boyfriend started staying out late most nights drinking with his work colleagues and often came home drunk, waking up the whole house. This could not continue. We all had long working days and that he was being very selfish. When things didn’t change, after six months, I decided to move out.
I contacted the lady I had rented my first-floor flat from before I left for Gran Canaria. She had a two-bedroom house available, which I rented. Taking two weeks off work, I fully decorated and furnished it.
Browsing Facebook one day, a message popped up from my former boss at The Hotel. The message was from the owner’s daughter, Paula, the general manager. She said she had heard I was back in Barrow and looking for work. She wanted an assistant manager.
The Hotel had changed. Now they had a courtyard restaurant, and the kitchen had doubled in size. Paula’s mother explained that journalists from a national newspaper, stumbling across the hotel had asked for permission to feature it in their newspaper. The business got busier, attracting guests from all over the country. She asked me what I had done in Gran Canaria and if I was going back. They didn’t want me there for a short period of time. I was back home permanently. They offered me the job.
When I told my boss at Cartmel I would be leaving, he just said, “Working front of house is completely different to what you are used to. I hope you know that?” And I said: ‘Working in Gran Canaria for years, dealing with drunk tourists every night has prepared me for anything!’
I went shopping and bought several designer suits. I was looking forward to the challenge.
On my first day at The Hotel, they introduced me to the staff and I went into the kitchens to meet the chefs. To my surprise there was the sous chef who was there in the years I was there. He was now the head chef. Another chef said, “I know who you are!” and laughed. Then he said, “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything—your after-parties are legendary!” I smiled and put my fingers to my lips.
My 40th birthday arrived, and Suzanne and Diane, had arranged for my boyfriend and I to go to Gay Pride in Manchester. They booked an overnight stay in a hotel. When my boyfriend disappeared in the middle of the birthday celebrations I decided that was the final straw and we broke up. My sisters were furious with him.
The Hotel holds a monthly ‘Ladies Lunch’, and I had been working there for three months when I was approached by one of my boss’s friends. She had clearly been drinking:
“I wasn’t sure about you coming back, David, after what you did when you left all those years ago, but I’m glad you did, as you’ve made a big difference.”
Confused, I asked what I had done. “Paula told us that when you left The Hotel, you raided the cellar. That the police were called, and that then you threw the bottles into fields so you shouldn’t be prosecuted.”
Gobsmacked, I asked her to follow me, and she said, “Where?” I said we were going to have a chat with Paula.
She panicked and said, “No, we can’t do that.”
”If these are the lies being spread about me, I want this situation resolved today.”
“Are you saying it didn’t happen?”
“Let’s go find out!” I said.
“I can’t believe it was all made up.”
“Then you don’t know your friend that well, because when I left, she contacted all suppliers, telling them not to supply me—and you can ask them that yourself. She tried to ruin me.”
We struck a deal. If I didn’t mention this to Paula, she would made it known that the lie about the raid on the cellar was untrue.
She held out her hand, and we shook on it and she left saying: “What a terrible lie to tell about someone. “That’s just terrible.”
She asked me what I was going to do about the rumours, and I said, “Make sure everyone knows the truth!”
My sister Linda was moving to Qatar with her family. She handed me their two cars, BMWs, which had not been fully paid for yet, but still had some equity in them. She told me I could use the money to buy my own car. I went to BMW with Terry, her husband, and purchased a 1 Series BMW.
A local business, known for sourcing premium ingredients from nearby farms, proposed a partnership to host a charity event at our hotel. The owner, a friend of my boss, believed our venue was ideal for his concept. The plan was to host a charitable dining event featuring menus prepared by renowned Michelin-starred chefs. All proceeds from ticket sales, priced at £100 per person, would be donated to support local causes. Several top chefs agreed to participate.
The event was a significant success. It featured culinary stars. Photograph courtesy of David Yip
The event was a significant success. It featured culinary stars like Angela Hartnett, Tom Aikens, Paul Ainsworth, and Simon Rogan, each preparing their own dishes. This collaboration not only raised money for charity but also successfully returned The Hotel to the public spotlight. It was a genuine pleasure to work with everyone involved.
My boyfriend no worked at the hotel, we advertised for a bar manager, and I met Chris. Although quite young, he had worked in hotels for a number of years, and so I offered him the position. The restaurant manager, Chris and I became good friends. We began socialising after work regularly, eating out in local hotels and restaurants before heading back into town.
During these evenings out, people would sometimes ask Chris if he was my partner. He’d always reply, “Gay guys can have male friends, you know, and that’s what I am.” I loved that—despite his youth, he didn’t care what people said. He was simply happy to be seen out with me, as my friend.
We decided to take a trip together to the big smoke: London! We booked a hotel for three nights and set out to see the sights. We visited all the top hotels—the Savoy, the Ritz, the Dorchester, and Claridge’s. We dined at Michelin-starred restaurants, including one in The Shard, drank champagne in Harrods, and just had a great time together.
…he didn’t care what people said. He was simply happy to be seen out with me, as my friend. Photograph David Yip
During a night out in Barrow, we met some people who introduced themselves. One guy told us he was the Head Chef at Abbey House, and I replied, saying, “That’s my old job.”. He asked my name, and I told him he should come and work with us, as our head chef had moved on. He called the next day, and after interviewing him, he accepted the position.
Unfortunately, after a while the first cracks started to appear at work. It seemed my boss had not learned her lesson. I had to fend off suppliers chasing their outstanding accounts and pay staff from my own pocket to stop them leaving, taking the money back when I could.
I could sense big changes lay ahead.
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