The Chef With No Hands

Yes. It is I - the chef with no hands.

I guess I shall go ahead and recount the incident, that’s all anyone ever want to hear about anyway. Not about my executive position of head potato peeler at the prestigious Guy Savoy in Paris, or the fact I worked under the legendary Wolfgang Puck as his right hand garçon de trash (trash boy), or the fact that I was once head chef at the esteemed L'appendice in Mayfair. No no, they want to hear about the time I julienned my own hands.

It was during the morning prep of my restaurant L’appendice (#304 on Trip Advisor’s London’s Best at the time). I had just injected a throng of young, up and coming chefs into my brigade. Partly because of my veracious need to impart knowledge, partly because they cost much, much less (especially if you make them bring their own lunches). It was this fateful morning, whilst grappling with the invigorating lack of experience these hungry young chefs possessed, that my life changed forever.

I was applying extra tutelage to a young comme chef by the name of Etienne. Having only spent a mere several years working inside of some of France’s most overrated kitchens, gastronomically speaking, the boy could be what’s classed as a dumb baby idiot. But to a mentor such as I, his density was merely a representation of the rock that I, much like Michalangelo, would chisel and craft until my very own David was revealed. I was demonstrating the correct way to julienne a carrot, a task that requires the attainment of a monk like focus and precision. First, I sliced the carrot into flat baton, then swiftly into even sized matchsticks, or matchsticks. Seeing Etienne so enraptured by my skill and precision, I took the opportunity to show him how real chefs slice. I then, in one unbroken movement of the head, looked up from my work (still slicing) to yell at the kitchen porter for his lack of speed. Despite my harsh grilling unto the boy, an impressed gasp escaped his mouth as he lay witness my astonishing display of dexterity. My laser like focus was broken however by the sudden shrillness of Etienne’s feminine scream. Interrupted, I looked down to see that Etienne’s outburst had caused me to not only perfectly julienne the carrot, but also my entire left hand. I doubled back, woozy from Etienne’s mistake. The amount of lost blood was sizeable, and what’s worse, my feet began to slip on an unrelated spill of red jus. I barely had time to scold the culprit of the spillage before my right hand found itself steadying upon a ripping hot cast iron skillet. Despite my dilemma, I still managed to thrash my hand away from the scalding heat precisely after a perfect sear had been achieved.

Due to my nerve endings being fried into a beautiful fond, I had no way of knowing that one of my previous students, who was now (correctly) looking away as he sliced a mound of fresh basil, would continue to slice into my now beautifully browned right hand - shredding it right to the joint.

Amidst the screams and chaos, Etienne had the supreme negligence to grab both stumps and return them to the ripping hot skillet, searing both wounds shut. Although this saved my life, it was a mistake. I began to educate Etienne on the importance of adding aromatics to the pan whenever searing. But before I could - I had blacked out.

After the accident the owner of the restaurant, Monsieur Galmond, implored me to not only close the restaurant for a number of days, but have me take an indefinite break from my duties. He was incredibly fearful that news of the incidents “gross negligence” could spread, both disgusting and deterring our somewhat dwindling clientele. I scoffed at the weakness of his spirit. However he continued to insist I take a short sabbatical on permanent basis - going so far as to offer an overly generous severance should I never show my face again. It was a gracious offer from a concerned old friend. I refused, countering with my own offer. I was to double my duties - overseeing every aspect of service, as to ensure there not be even the slightest dip in quality - surely then there would be no cause for concern. “Oh My God.” Galmond said, his face going pale in agreement. “Oh My God.” He repeated. So it was settled. After all, Galmond knew just as much as I - a Chef De Cuisine’s work is never finished.

Operations continued largely as normal. My disfigured stumps were now dressed and bandaged to perfect functionality. And once my dressing’s failed to forestall the profuse weeping of my wounds onto the work surfaces, I doubled the protection with elasticated Marigold gloves - the gloves having the advantageous effect of making it look as if I still had hands. Whilst beneath the latex were my open and unhealed wounds, to onlookers I was nothing but a chef hard at his la profession. As was custom before the accident, I continued to walk from table to table making small talk and shaking hands with our satisfied guests. However, Monsieur Galmond soon made it explicitly clear that my talents were required in kitchen at all times – certainly not yet able to trust his fledgling brigade.

As with all creative pursuits, the pain when working was extreme. Gastronomy is a tactile art form and I was determined to use my stumps to touch, feel and experience the food in the same way that I had worked before. Because contact with any item would cause searing pains that would often lead to weeping, a multitude of different painkillers were required to work. This cocktail de vie would often cause intense drowsiness, so espresso every four to five minutes was also necessary. Admittedly, working in this way was a fresh challenge. Due to my inescapable lack of hands, any implements required to work such as knifes, whisks etc. would need to be duct taped to my stumps in an Inspecteur Gadget like fashion. This process in itself would cause a degree of pain that required a break of ten minutes to recover from. Once my screams had subsided, and Etienne had dabbed the sweat from my brow, I was ready to work. At a rate of one sliced carrot to an hour, I was making significant gains in workload over what any doctor had ever anticipated. With each passing day, I was increasing in speed and agility. I had high ambitions of hitting two carrot per hour the second week, and then hopefully back to normal the week after that, however, that’s when my dreams were dashed. 

Galmond caught me at an admitted weak point - on my lunch break as I screamed through my daily plate of corn on the cob (I love corn on the cob). He told me that, up to this point, he had indulged my new working habits out of respect (as well as a legal inability to dismiss someone on the grounds of workplace injury). But now, unfortunately, my screams were raising questions from customers. I was halfway through explaining the many advantages of investing in soundproofing equipment when I was stopped, and he told me that my services were no longer needed at L'appendice. I tried to reason with him through a very restrained level of screaming/pot and pan swiping, casually reminding him that without me this restaurant would be nothing. To my distaste, Galmond began to yell, accusing me of what he called “a Rube Goldberg machine of misjudgement”, labelling both my personal teaching style and the intricacies of the accident as “near impossibly erroneous”. Suddenly brandishing a butcher’s knife, he demanded that I leave L’appendice effective immediately.

I began to cry triumphant tears of indifference. In all honesty L’appendice had been holding me back all these years. An esteemed chef such as I had no business working in a restaurant that was only #304 on TripAdvisor. I defiantly stormed into the kitchen and went to roll up my chef’s knives. Having achieved this task after several minutes, and taking a few more minutes to recover, I bid farewell to my loyal brigade. I was touched to see that, out of supreme respect, the chefs refused to look at me or even acknowledge that I was leaving. All but Etienne however, who chose to maliciously hold the door open as I exited. Unmarked, I took to the streets with a newfound sense joie de vivre. After all, the head chef of L’appendice was back on the menu.