The Morons are Winning.

Thankfully, this past week has been very busy compared to last week.

There are things about my existence I have learned to accept, like that I can’t make plans or get excited about anything because something will inevitably go awry or I’ll fuck something up and the whole thing will collapse. Nor can I rely on anyone else for anything, mainly excitement or change or adventure because it is very likely the people I know will forget or get distracted by a shinier idea or we all work together and we aren’t bad people so we won’t burn the place down so we can all run off somewhere amazing for the weekend.

I don’t drive, nor do I have any interest in owning or directing any money into a car, so I don’t go very far and if I do it is frustrating.

I also have a weird thing about not wanting to be alone but loving being alone at the same time, and likewise I hate talking but also love telling stupid stories and there is never a happy medium for either.

It also seems that I rarely experience the things others do — while sure I live in a big, bustling Metropolis far away from my hometown, there are people in this city right now doing the same thing I am except they have normal jobs and aren’t social weirdos, so they party and travel, things that as a chef and a loner I don’t really do.

Therefore, it is clear that I both love and hate my job. I look forward to making delicious things but loath doing the mundane or boring or overly complex or overly simple jobs. I love going to work because the people I work with are weirdos and fun but everything is broken and I’ve made 15 batches of choux since moving here and only two have come out to my standards and ever time I bitch and moan about the Commis I manage to fuck up something incredibly simple and then I hate myself.

Okay, I know, this is a bit mellow dramatic, but I’m a patissier, we cry when we make 10 batches of uneven choux, its what we do.

Another thing I am trying to accept is that no matter how much I try to make something tasty and pretty, my efforts will be quashed somehow.

Here are two pieces of evidence to support this fact:

  1. A black currant bavarois with Crème de Mûre marinated fruits
  2. Nougat Glacé with Marmalade (had to use up that marmalade from the Fakewells I was hocking) and Raspberry.

I had these on the menu this weekend as specials. I think three Bavarois sold all weekend, and the Brits wouldn’t bite at the Nougat Glacé (which we adverted in the English Frozen Nougat — apparently still too confusing bordering on possibly gross sounding). Instead a lot of this happened:

No joke, Sunday night during the closing ceremonies I sold 7 Vanilla ice creams.

In all honesty, I hate putting Vanilla on the ice cream menu because I fear this is what will result; with all the effort and time put in to creating delicious flavours and interesting combinations and everyone sticks to boring old plain Jane stuff. Part of me understands going for what you know, wanting something that comforts you, but come on. Eat vanilla ice cream at home. Or in Brighton walking along the pier with your grandma. Or when someone dreadful comes to call and all you have on offer is this:

I’m at the point where I don’t know why I even bother. I should just get a desk job to quash the varicose veins that are developing on my already so-pale-I’m-see-through legs.

Oh well. At least I have found a place that serves milk beside my coffee, instead of dumping a cup in a turning it nice a white and flavourless. Because, lets be honest, colourless things have very little flavour.

And guess what has no colour?

VANILLA ICE CREAM.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s