When greasy Joan doth keel the pot
by Veronica Orme
Public health inspectors have recently again drawn attention to the appalling conditions prevailing in some of our catering establishments and the revolting concoctions served up to mostly apathetic customers. My own experiences while working as a waitress in the West Country may therefore be of interest.
About a year ago I was employed in one of those Olde worlde ' cafés, with a black and white façade outside and low ceilings, darkened beams, uneven floors and twisting staircases inside. Its surroundings were such that, in summer, the offer of ' traditional English fare ' could not fail to attract the hordes of tourists, both native and foreign, who thronged the neighbourhood.
For the first few days things went smoothly enough, but as I soon discovered the ideas of food preparation and personal hygiene among the staff were also 'olcle worlde,' in fact the kitchen maids and in particular the cook could easily have been taken for reincarnations of the greasy Joans who keeled the pot in Tudor times. Like everyone else in the establishment it was not long before I clashed with the cook who reigned su
preme in her dungeon-like kitchen. When from the servery I shouted an order down into the steamy depths for "roast beef and two veg " all too often I would be met by the bellowing response: "Piss off, you'll 'ave to bloody wait!" One soon got used to these outbursts from the twenty-year-old cook who, heavily moustached, her neck and breasts covered with what she proudly claimed were ' love bites' and weighing nineteen stone, would retreat at the slightest provocation into the one staff lavatory and plonk her enormous buttocks down there for half an hour at a time. How long the customers had to wait until their meal reached them depended very much upon her whims or upon what inducements the proprietress felt inclined to offer her. When I first started work, the other waitresses warned me never to attempt to use the lavatory for at least half-an-hour after the cook had left it. Their warning was superfluous for the fact that the toilet' opened directly on to the kitchen ensured that the stench of frequent defecations was wafted over the plates on which meals weer in course of preparation. Frequently the lavatory was left unflushed or blocked up and one day it actually did overflow into the kitchen. The cook was not the only perpetrator of these frightful odours, her several slatternly assistants with their permanent fag ends drooping from their lips and scattering ash over the food, also made their contribution. The washing of hands after using the lavatory was far from being regarded as advisable by some of the staff, possibly because the ' towel ' provided for drying was itself invariably filthy.
In general, I got on well with the other waitresses who were the usual motley selection, although one or two of the older professionals resented my arrival, saying to my face that I talked 'posh' and fancied myself a bit too much for their liking. They frowned upon my vain attempts to introduce some standards of hygiene, such as when I used more than my allotted quota of dishcloths or discarded food items which had dropped to the floor. In the fetid heat from constant cooking and the humid western climate, practically all the staff suffered from BO. Perspiring heads and hands were mopped with the same greyishwhite cloths with which they wiped the dishes and plates. Knives and forks, if they looked off-colour, were hurriedly spat upon, then rubbed brighter on the grimy sleeves of overalls or across broad West Country bottoms.
'Fresh' cream cakes and pasties were simply put back into the fridge overnight and served up next day mingled with the new supplies while ice for cold drinks was often, if the cubes were empty, simply scraped with blackened fingernails off the sides of the fridge.
One or other of the waitresses was invariably suffering from a streaming cold and within earshot of the customers violent sneezes exploded over the uncovered food . . . the cook was subject to cuts on her hands which although plainly festering were left uncovered and one kitchen help, a girl out on licence from a remand home, was rumoured to be suffering from VD.
During the rest periods or after work, in the miserable cramped staff room, the waitresses stood about in their underwear, passing adverse comments upon each other's figures or making cackling references to the cook's gross obesity. When the latter removed her overall as was her wont during cooking, to stand in a tattered bra and vast snagged tights, the reek of stale sweat was sickening . . there was a troll-like aspect about her although like many fat women she could be seized by sudden spells of good nature, despite her foul mouth. At more friendly moments she would talk about her 'finance' who she was determined would this time marry her and be the father to the child she was carrying. She had, she asserted, been 'in the club' five times but 'got rid of it ' with the aid of ' slippery elm.'
Like other professions, being a waitress is subject to occupational hazards and one day, when I was hurrying with a tray of tea for a man and his wife, the massive head of the cook peered up at me from the kitchen, waving a newspaper: "'Ere 'as your 'usband got a big penis? 'Cause there's a lot about it in the Mirror . Taken aback by this unexpected query, I was seized by a fit of nerves, so much so that when arranging the tea things for my customers, my hand suddenly slipped and a cascade of hot scalding tea splashed over the lap of the man, soaking all the front of his trousers. I can still see his face before me now, as with a terrible screeching ” Aaah! " he staggered to his feet. His wife cried out: "My poor, poor darling!" and glared at me as if I were a murderess when With the aid of a cloth I tried vainly to repair the damage. Hopelessly, I handed the cloth to the indignant wife who dabbed gently at her poor darling's injured front. Actually, they were quite decent about the mishap but I doubt if they ever entered the café again and they certainly did not leave me a tip!
It is now a familiar adage that the English do not mind what they eat as long as they get it speedily and I found that few customers had any discernment, otherwise they would soon have realised that what Was often passed off as 'fresh ' had in fact been in the fridge for days, been taken out and put back again. The Americans were the politest, the most tolerant and the best tippers (bless them). Admittedly, one American woman, after waiting a full hour Upon the cook's tantrums, did once lose patience, suddenly seizing a bun from a stand and running with a shout of indignation from the café. The wealthy West Germans, always correct in their manners, thanking laboriously when leaving, rarely left so much as a brass pfennig. Along with the Dutch their gluttony in demolishing vast meals as if these were their last upon earth, with a dozen cream cakes for sweet followed by a grand finale of herring roes (I) filled me with amazement. Rudest and meanest of all were the French and one day all hell broke loose as the outraged proprietress argued furiously with a French 'family who claimed the right to consume their own food on the premises (the ultimate sin in the eyes of café owners everywhere). The best tip I ever received came from a funeral party who sat down to a huge meal of fried chicken, T-bone steaks and so on and who were very jolly, presumably in anticipation of a division of the spoils. I recall how fascinated I was when one of the partypushed a large cream cake to one side and the principal mourner reached out for it, saying: "I'll have that .
Excluding the special treatment shown the cook the owners treated the staff in an offhand, tyrannical manner, playing upon their fears of being unable to find employment elsewhere, at least out of season, in an area where unemployment grew daily and women often needed to work as well as their husbands, to make ends meet.
The increasing flow of obscenities from the cook became an intolerable irritant which reached its peak one day when I was impatiently awaiting a meal for a favoured customer. A dish, with vegetables neatly arranged, came whizzing up the hatch but closer inspection revealed in place of the expected pork chop, one of those disgustingly realistic heaps of excrement such as can be obtained from practical joke shops. My violent protests brought only the guffaw from the troll, "Gawn, serve it to the bastard, he'll eat shit if 'ee smiles at 'un! " Remonstrations from the proprietress brought shrieks of fury: "Give me my fuckin' cards, then! And sod the bloody fuckin' dishes . Whereupon the troll kicked out in all directions, smashing down piles of accumulated crockery. But as far as really getting her cards was concerned, she knew she was safe since the proprietress was too mean to pay the higher wages demanded by a more sophisticated cook.
The culmination of my horrific experiences occurred on the same day when the bishop, who occasionally came in for lunch, had his wallet stolen in the café. The uproar caused by this incident had eventually died down, the last lunches were being served and the cook was 'singing' in the basement in growling undertones: "I was born under a wandering star " when there issued from her a succession of even louder shouts, bellows and general obscenities than usual. The proprietress, her husband and oafish son dashed outside the café and seized by the arm a woman who was bent over the kitchen grating. It seemed that this lady, in passing down the side alley, had suddenly felt very sick and glimpsing a nearby grating on the pavement had taken the easiest way out and vomited in rich measure down it. It was in fact the kitchen area before whose open windows half a dozen late servings of roast beef were laid out ready for the customers. The spatterings of vomit were liberally distributed over the meat. Needless to say, upon the instructions of the proprietress the meat was not thrown away but merely rinsed clean,' reheated and then served up to the waiting customers who, blissfully ignorant of what had occurred literally under their noses, ate their lunches with relish. I decided there and then that I had had enough of being a waitress and tendered my resignation.
My last memory of the cafe is of the enormous cook flat on her back, roaring and howling when after slipping on the kitchen floor she found herself unable to raise her nineteen stone upright again, and which took the combined efforts of a policeman and two other males to achieve. Draped over the washing-up machine were her enormous holed tights, "drying off," as she called it, "after an accident."
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