Chaotic World Of Surrey Cricketers
As the Head Chef in 2002 at The Surrey Cricketers in Windlesham, I couldn’t help but feel like I was living a real-life version of Fawlty Towers. The bar manager was an alcoholic whose relationship with the wealthy landlady was as puzzling as it was strange. I suspected she might have had a crush on him or owed him a favor from a previous liaison. Every night was just another opportunity for them to get drunk and show off to their friends.
When I first started, my second chef was unable to work independently and required constant supervision. He seemed like a good kid, but he had clearly gotten himself into trouble in the past. This was his last chance to try and get back on track.
The third chef to join us was from Liverpool — a true scouser who had a knack for getting into fights. He packed plenty of energy, always up for a good laugh and pint.
One time we found a gray squirrel stuck in the bedroom upstairs; it ended up in my room. I asked Ricky, the scouser, to guard one side of my bed, then try to trap the tiny creature when it ran out. I poked it with a broom and as planned, it ran to Ricky’s end of the bed where he had a box ready. When he saw the squirrel scrabble to jump up, Ricky made a high-pitched scream and leaped into the window frame — three feet off the ground! The squirrel escaped and ran down the stairs while Ricky clung desperately to the windowsill, so much for his gangster mentality and he would just grab it and take it outside.
It took several attempts before we could get the poor animal outside without disrupting service. Eventually, we managed to get back to work.
After several months, I had finally given the second chef a shot at running a morning shift alone. Everything was cooked and prepped when he arrived, so all he had to do was make sure the service went smoothly.
When I returned mid-service, one of the dishes wasn’t right. It was supposed to be a chicken liver salad with a red onion pickle, but what he served looked like leftovers from an animal food bowl.
When questioned, he said he couldn’t find the store-bought pickle and instead decided to sauté some brown onions in malt vinegar and use it instead. I made him taste it, much to his strong protest, and he spat it out everywhere as it tasted just as bad as it sounded.
On another occasion, he called me in a panic because the local butcher had come by demanding payments for nearly seven weeks of meat that had been supplied to the pub. I told him to contact the bar manager who had clearly neglected to pay these bills and wondered why the cuts of meat had gotten progressively worse lately.
In the kitchen, there was a joke that was used fairly often. When the waitresses came to take orders of freshly prepared food, a chef would hide a large bratwurst sausage in their pants zip and tuck it under the apron they wore.
As they went to grab the plate, They would say “wait a minute” and then wipe the plates edge with the apron and they’d lift the apron just high enough for the sausage to show, then wait for the waitresses’ usually embarrassed laughter or giggles before revealing that it was just a joke. This comedic moment led to great conversations when service ended and a funny ice breaker getting to know the waitresses and chatting to them after service.
One evening, I cooked dinner for Brian May of Queen music group amongst other famous people and this is also the place where I met my future wife.
We moved to Australia six months later and got married.
Must have been the Bratwurst sausage ;-)
