Clara's Corner

Here you'll find published editions of my monthly column about a day in the life working at Saint Kitchen.

My fork sinks into the salt beef sando just as chef says, ‘we’re going to debrief on the menu before we eat.’ Four pairs of eyes fall on me just before my mouth closes around my forkful of food. I freeze. Slowly, I ease away from it, and lower it back to the plate. 'No harm no foul?' I mutter sheepishly.

I lick the burger sauce off my knife so that it appears clean, and I sit a polite distance from the table filled with all the new dishes. Close enough to get the first bite of everything but far enough that I don’t seem like a pig. It seems everyone has a similar idea; we’re like a barricade of hungry animals.

Chef walks us through all the new dishes while my mouth hangs open. His words are garbled, like they’re travelling through syrup. Mh, maple syrup. Mh pancakes. The truffle sando is calling my name, the buratta replaces my irises, I can feel my heartbeat in my ear, all I can see is cheese. Sure, I’m lactose intolerant but that’s neither here nor there.

The chef counts down from three and we launch ourselves at the table, forks drag pancakes across plates, the buratta bursts like a volcano of deliciousness and the salt beef positively melts on the tongue. I tip the hash brown fries down my gullet and hide the bowl behind my back.

I eat until I feel sick, and even then, I have the candied peanut pancakes for dessert.

The new menu bangs, if I do say so myself.

My tummy hurts.

Hungover, bleary eyed and running on four hours of sleep, I find myself having to navigate my way to work THROUGH the Birmingham great run. People decked out in running gear with their coloured tags and big font numbers, coupled with sunglasses, headphones and bottles of water (three things I’m currently gripping for dear life).

Someone runs by with a speaker blaring P.I.M.P by 50 cent, another is dressed like an animal crossing character- oh, that’s a tail- and the ambulance service does a mighty job in all their gear, helmets and boots and a stretcher.

The rain starts to pelt me on my short walk, like I’m being mocked for my choices, and I collapse through the front doors of Saint like I’ve come from my own personal hurricane. We cheer on the crazies while I mainline coffee and orange juice- I also buy some toast which kind of saves my life- not to be dramatic.

People come in with their medals around their necks, having just run for over three hours in most cases, while I’ve walked into two table corners and broken a glass (to my boss: that definitely never happened).

On my short walk home, I spot the same medal wearers absolutely NECKING a pint at the pub around the corner.

Good on you.

Chef shouts, ‘We're sold out of the hummus and the black forest pancakes, five
portions of the croque monsieur.’ About fifteen minutes after we open.

Payday Sunday at Saint is unlike any other day of the month. Mainly because
everyone’s very happy, but also because suddenly everyone is living it up like a king.‘Yeah I’ll have an egg on that’ and ‘another coffee? Go on then.’ Or ‘I’ll take all the sausage rolls you have, please.’

Our tiny chef is frowning and waving a hand, ‘no more shakshuka or maple
pancakes, croque is back, one portion of hash brown fries.’

I’m running between tables, my work trainers are squeaking like a train off it’s rails every time I sprint around a corner. I run into a colleague and we both make a noise like we’re holding something hot.

I spill milk all over the floor and mumble ‘big spill.’ To myself like I’m a child and
stare at it for so long my boss cleans it up for me. Maybe I am a child.

‘Shakshuka is back, so are the black forest pancakes’

I sell the last portion of hash brown fries to three different tables and have to return with my tail between my legs and break the bad news. I stuff my face with a pastry in the back and drink some water like I’m in my own personal drought.

‘Who sold a hummus?’

Ah, fuck.

We lock the doors at four o’clock and I sit down and stare at my feet. My shoes are covered in my big milk spill from earlier, but we’ve sold out of almost everything and we’ve had a very successful day.

I sleep for ten hours.

I turn up to work like a whirlwind, hair still wet, toothpaste on my shirt and mismatched socks tucked into coffee-stained work shoes. I’m late and today is stock take. The one day a month the evil owner makes us count every coffee bean and gain of salt in the building. I imagine her cackling while she watches through her crystal ball.

I say good morning to my manager who loudly responds with a two hundred and FOUR, two hundred and FIVE- as he counts his way through a pack of napkins.

I make an ice coffee for myself and then search for some straws which sees me rip open a brand-new pack and spill it all over the counter. My managers head whips around when he hears the tumbling of hundreds of paper stock he now needs to count. In an attempt at forgiveness, I regale him with tales of my latest adventures before he puts his headphones on while looking me dead in the eyes.

I force upon him a hug because I feel fragile today and he’s sweet enough to hug me back, still counting over my shoulders- we’re on six hundred and NINE, six hundred and TEN- you get the picture.

PS. This is satire, and my manager is an angel pop girly pop.

For those of you that have been to Saint Kitchen, you’ll know we had a mini Christmas tree on display (the clock struck 00:01 on the 26th of December and I broke in to throw it out of the window, only to find my manager setting it alight.)
Anyway, said small tree was adorned by a plethora of handmade clay ornaments (otherwise known as the bane of my existence).

As per our managers orders we were forced to stay behind after work, force fed pizzas we didn’t have to pay for, and drink mulled wine made by our own chef. All in all, a truly miserable experience. The fact that we were there for multiple hours, laughing and drinking, means nothing.

But see, one of the chefs made Patrick Star (of the iconic show SpongeBob) and I, lacking any thoughts of my own, decided to make SpongeBob. One colleague whips out a detailed and thorough copy of Remi the Rat from Ratatouille, you know, the notoriously famous Christmas film? While others flood the table with beautiful bagels
and doughnuts, I’m trying desperately to make a yellow square - just a square.

Someone makes a coffee with latte art while I get clay under my fingernails. Someone makes a stocking, while the clay tool breaks between my fingers, now bits of wood are stabbing SpongeBob. Is that a miniature bobble head of the 118 man?

I give up.

I am summoned for my bi annual catchup via an email filled with pleases and thank you and a thumbs up emoji and it makes me sick to my stomach.

I order Turkish eggs for lunch and feel so anxious i can only stomach three cookies afterwards. I have four coffees rather than eight, I even threaten to switch to decaf which earns a gasp from a colleague. A wet rag is pressed to my forehead. My vision goes blurry, the brownies have doubled. I need some sugar.

My palms are sweating, knees? Spaghetti. Heartbeat? Audible from under the floorboards and what not. The lights have been dimmed, a single spotlight falls upon me in the emptiness of Saint Kitchen. Hands? folded in my lap- very demure if I do say so myself.

I run through anything I’ve ever done since I joined the SK team a year ago. ‘Offered a table a wug of jater’ ‘backed into a child that was behind me’ ‘slipped on a cracked egg and created the visual sensation of cutlery in flight’ ‘played peekaboo with a child and made him cry’ ‘said have a good day to someone who just walked in’

Another spotlight thunks and my manager is illuminated. She smiles. “You’re doing a great job, and we love having you here.”

I eat two more cookies on the way home and have a massive sugar crash. Or a caffeine crash. At this point, who knows.

PS. I LOVE MY JOB

PSS. I WAS NOT FORCED TO INCLUDE THAT.

In light of the kitchen being a man down, I generously volunteered my services (harassed one of the chefs) and was promptly placed on the smashed avo station.

Those of you that know, know our avo is the best in town (this is not a paid promotion) so I had some top dog standards to live up to. So, I whack an apron on, waist? Snatched. Smack those food prep gloves like a surgeon in greys anatomy- 10 ccs of lime juice- stat! Hygiene? Priority. And then I get to work, grit my teeth, and exercise those guns. Avo? Smashed it.

I fight back tears the following morning when the new chef introduces herself, I clearly did not impress with my skills. What do I do now, go back to making coffees? ? I’ve had a taste of the grass on the other side, the good life where they water their lawns with evian (still not a paid promotion). The new chef makes my lunch, and I sob into my -delicious- smashed avocado, too heartbroken to enjoy it.

It occurs to me, gradually, as the tears subside, that, this batch of avocado is mine! I’m staring at my own two hands when I begin to understand the arrogance surgeon feel, knowing people are because of them.

Not to be dramatic.