When I was a kid, I used to work in the kitchen of a local pub. It was a small, well-respected little outfit tucked away in a bucolic village somewhere in the Peak District. It was run by a chef that, once upon a time, worked in restaurants that held Michelin Stars. Older, greyer, with less patience and less time for the pretence of it all, he moved away from the city and into the peaks to quietly get on with a more authentic and honest sort of cookery.
From the age of 12 until I the age of 18, I ascended from the rank of pot wash (or kitchen porter, if you want to be fancy) to chef de partie – below minimum wage for most of that because, well, who’s going to pay an underage kid the correct amount, right? At the end of every week, I’d drag my greasy, sweaty self to the bar and the chef’s wife-cum-publican would take a handful of notes, stuff them into an envelope, and send me on my way. I’d head straight to the local Forbidden Planet or GameStation (CEX wouldn’t come along until a bit later) and start perusing all the second-hand games the store had got in over the past week.
Sometimes, it’d take two weeks’ wages to afford something particularly amazing – I remember picking up both Final Fantasy 12 and the official Prima Guide for under £50, once – but it was worth it. I’d worked hard for the money, and I’d be damned if I’d waste it on something shite like Spyro: Enter the Dragonfly again. I’d need to have more discretion now, spend smarter. I was nearly an adult, after all.
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