The Back Alley Life
written by: Mark Patterson
It was dark in the alley that night. Sometimes the restaurants would leave a light on, and that made it easier to root through the bins looking for food. Ah, well, it would stop some of the tramps from rummaging, but not me. I needed to find some food tonight, or I would have had nothing for two days.
I lifted out a bag and put it on the damp tarmac, and untied the knot at the top, spreading the package open. A large fish head with a backbone immediately caught my eye, and I pulled it free of some of the other rubbish. It had been poorly filleted, and there was a lot of meat left on the bones. The restaurant’s loss and my gain. I opened my backpack and put the skeleton into a plastic bag before going back to the rubbish bag. There were a few carrot tops and a pack of potato peelings. I added these to my haul as well.
Not much else of interest in this one, so I tied a knot and put it back in the bin. Maybe there would be more in the next container.
The door to the restaurant crashed open, and I froze. The owners don’t like us going through the trash. They say we make a mess. Some might do, but not me. I always clean up once I have gone through what they think is rubbish. I slowly turned my head to the light as two people came out. One was clearly not steady on his feet, his chef’s white jacket looked stained and dirty. The other was well dressed in a clean, pressed shirt and tidy hair. He must be the manager.
‘You’re fired, Mario! I can’t have a drunk chef on duty, and you are not suitably dressed to prepare food. Get out and don’t come back! Go!’ He pushed him away with a firm hand on his back. Mario staggered away, waving a finger over his head as he took a twisted road to wherever he was going to recover.
‘You! There by the bin. What do you want?’
I turned to face the voice.
‘Sorry, I was looking for some ingredients for tomorrow’s lunch.’
‘We are tired of your sort rummaging around and leaving the place a mess. It’s an open invitation for rats and other vermin, and if that appears, then so do the council inspectors, ever eager to dish out a fine. Go away and don’t come back.’
‘Sorry, Sir. I will go and thank you. I managed to get some good ingredients.’
I picked up my bag and walked towards the alley.
‘Come here, please, I want to see what you took from the bin. I might have something better to give you.’
I crossed the alley and stood next to him as the light from the kitchen bathed my face and the good smells from the kitchen tickled my nostrils.
‘Show me what you’ve got.’
I extracted the fish from the rucksack.
‘That was in the bin? Which one?’
I nodded in reply to the first question.
‘It was in the one numbered 12 at the end there,’ I pointed with my finger, ‘I also got these potato peelings and the carrot tops from the same bin.’
‘That’s not my bin, which is good news for me. I would fire anyone who left so much flesh on the fish. What are you going to make with it?’
I thought for a moment. In taking the fish, I had not given any thought as to what I would make, I just knew it would be food and tasty at that.
‘Well, the cheeks are still on the head, so I will cut them out. I’ll also take the rest of the flesh off both sides. That will give me 2 servings of protein. The carcass I will use as a base to make some fish stock. I was hoping to get some more vegetables. However, a few potato skins would be OK in the soup.’
The man looked at me for a bit.
‘You seem to know a few things about cooking food. What are you going to do with the carrot tops? You could put those in your soup.’ He smiled an encouraging grin.
I smiled back at him.
‘Yes, I could and maybe I will put some in, but the others I think I am going to do with a honey glaze. I got a half jar of honey a few days ago, which will do that job very nicely.’
‘Hmm. That’s a thought. And the potato peelings? What are you going to do with them?’
‘I have to do something with them pronto, as they do rot quite quickly. A good wash and a dry, and then I’ll fry them to make potato crisps. That will keep almost indefinitely in a dry place.’
He stroked the top of his head as if in deep thought before taking a step towards me.
‘Have you worked in a kitchen before?’
‘Yes, I was a sous chef for a few years before the pandemic, and the restaurant closed for good. It’s been hard since they re-opened to get a position, and I then had a fall and broke my leg, so I’m not as agile as I used to be.
‘But your knife skills, they’re still good?’
I pointed to the fish. ‘You wouldn’t see me leave flesh on like that, and it would certainly not have been thrown away. That has fish stock written all over it.’
‘Where are you staying? You aren’t dressed like the sort that rummages in a bin and sleeps rough.’
I smoothed my jacket with my hand to look a bit more presentable.
‘I have a room at a house. An old woman lives there, and she has a small room at the back. I stay there, and in lieu of rent, I work in the garden. It’s too hard a job for her to keep the garden tidy.’
‘Well, you saw I fired my chef tonight. I am going to put my sous chef in charge of the kitchen. He knows the dishes well, and he is creative. That means I need some more hands in the kitchen. Would you like the job?’
Of course, I would like the job. To get into a kitchen where I am at my happiest would be perfect. Better than rooting round in dustbins for some thin pickings.
‘I don’t need to think about it. Yes. I would be delighted to get back in front of the stove again. When would you like me to start?’
‘Not tonight. Our service is just about finished. Comer by tomorrow when I open at 10am. There will be plenty of time for mis en place. Do you have the right clothes?’
I thought of my kitchen, check pants and jackets hanging in the cupboard.
‘Yes, I do. The jackets have the name of the last place I worked on them. Maybe I can unstitch that.’
‘Bring it all tomorrow and we will have a look at it. My name is John Bingham. What’s yours?’
I extended my hand.
‘Fred Roussouw.’
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