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A Chef's Story
Personal Chef, Robbie B, grew up in a poverty-stricken, working class area of the West Midlands, in the UK. We’re not talking gangs and violence and drugs here, just extreme hardship, suffering and survival ‘against all odds.’ Everyone in the neighbourhood was either a tradesman or an engineer, and Robbie’s creative impulses were not encouraged.
With both of his parents dead by the time he was 16, Robbie realised he had a house to maintain and bills to pay. Many people twice his age have been defeated here, and it wasn’t long before Robbie found himself living in the cold and the dark in a house with no power. He learned to fight, to drink and to steal, and it seemed his life was set on a downward spiral. He was angry, terrified, and alone, but he was becoming hard, strong and resilient, yet it was his resilience that took over, surviving sometimes on impulse alone.
Robbie travelled to the South Coast of England in search of employment and found it in the form of kitchen work in hotels, learning the finer arts of the classically-trained chef. These times were interspersed with spells of homelessness, living on the beach, but Robbie was gradually turning his life around, finding his passion in the chaotic environment of the kitchen.
He travelled to California and later on to New York, where he arrived with just $10 in his pocket. He discovered the food scene in America to be a complete disaster, lacking the refinement of European cuisine, and set out to prove what he could to.
He met his wife in New York, and cooked at the Caxton Club for almost ten years, although life still wasn’t easy. Surviving a horrific knife attack, Robbie and his wife decided it was time to leave the city and move up-state, where he opened his own gourmet shop and catering business.
Robbie cooked for Michael Crichton for ten years, and has cooked for such names as Chevy Chase, Keith Richards, Paul McCartney, to name but a few, and the book details many anecdotes from these days, along with discussing the role of the personal chef in the homes of the rich and famous. The profession of chef is certainly a tough one, and Robbie tells his story with honesty and stoicism.
Written with vitality and a conspicuous absence of self-pity, ‘A Chef’s Story’ is imbued on every page with Robbie’s distinctive wry humour and endurance. He discusses what makes for a real plate, a real dish and his own favourite foods, both to cook and to eat. He feels that what is missing in American kitchens is culture.
Robbie rarely, if ever, cooks from recipes, believing he can always improve the dish by taking away or adding. “That’s the real chef! That’s the skill. That’s the difference between a Picasso and a house-painter. That’s the difference. And I would urge anyone reading these words that may be planning a dinner party for the weekend to give this a go. You’ll have a basic idea of what you want to serve up, so stand in your kitchen and go inside your head for a few minutes. Listen to that tiny voice that says try this or try that, and you may be very pleasantly surprised.”
The book finishes with Robbie describing his home and his family and the life he’s built for them against all odds.
With both of his parents dead by the time he was 16, Robbie realised he had a house to maintain and bills to pay. Many people twice his age have been defeated here, and it wasn’t long before Robbie found himself living in the cold and the dark in a house with no power. He learned to fight, to drink and to steal, and it seemed his life was set on a downward spiral. He was angry, terrified, and alone, but he was becoming hard, strong and resilient, yet it was his resilience that took over, surviving sometimes on impulse alone.
Robbie travelled to the South Coast of England in search of employment and found it in the form of kitchen work in hotels, learning the finer arts of the classically-trained chef. These times were interspersed with spells of homelessness, living on the beach, but Robbie was gradually turning his life around, finding his passion in the chaotic environment of the kitchen.
He travelled to California and later on to New York, where he arrived with just $10 in his pocket. He discovered the food scene in America to be a complete disaster, lacking the refinement of European cuisine, and set out to prove what he could to.
He met his wife in New York, and cooked at the Caxton Club for almost ten years, although life still wasn’t easy. Surviving a horrific knife attack, Robbie and his wife decided it was time to leave the city and move up-state, where he opened his own gourmet shop and catering business.
Robbie cooked for Michael Crichton for ten years, and has cooked for such names as Chevy Chase, Keith Richards, Paul McCartney, to name but a few, and the book details many anecdotes from these days, along with discussing the role of the personal chef in the homes of the rich and famous. The profession of chef is certainly a tough one, and Robbie tells his story with honesty and stoicism.
Written with vitality and a conspicuous absence of self-pity, ‘A Chef’s Story’ is imbued on every page with Robbie’s distinctive wry humour and endurance. He discusses what makes for a real plate, a real dish and his own favourite foods, both to cook and to eat. He feels that what is missing in American kitchens is culture.
Robbie rarely, if ever, cooks from recipes, believing he can always improve the dish by taking away or adding. “That’s the real chef! That’s the skill. That’s the difference between a Picasso and a house-painter. That’s the difference. And I would urge anyone reading these words that may be planning a dinner party for the weekend to give this a go. You’ll have a basic idea of what you want to serve up, so stand in your kitchen and go inside your head for a few minutes. Listen to that tiny voice that says try this or try that, and you may be very pleasantly surprised.”
The book finishes with Robbie describing his home and his family and the life he’s built for them against all odds.
101 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 29, 2013
12 people want to read
About the author
Karl Wiggins
25 books322 followersKarl Wiggins – Author, humourist, raconteur and (unfortunately) master of dysphemism
I'm an author with seven books on Amazon Kindle, and I'll state right from the start that I have a particular aversion to fellow authors who befriend you and then immediately message you saying, "You might like my book ..... check it out."
I don't do that. If people wish to know more about my books the information is here to read, but I won't invade your personal space (not to mention precious time) with pleas to check out my own books
My goal, my life’s ambition if you like, is to give direction to comedy, purpose to satire. And this is probably why I write the way I do, in order to use self-deprecating, piss-taking humour to bring to the fore situations that just don’t stack up. To demonstrate that serious issues can be approached with humour.
Embarrassingly, a number of the reviews for my books seem to involve people losing control of their bladder; “Anyone who is a bit saucy, very fond of boobies and doesn't mind peeing slightly when they laugh too hard, this is the book for you!” “Best not to read this book on the train if you have a full bladder because by the end of your journey you will have a damp patch in an embarrassing place.” “I have to admit that I wet myself twice while reading it but this may in part have been due to my age and a couple of bottles of a fine St. Emilion,” “Due to the laughter you owe my secretary one clean pair of knickers.”
Two reviewers have even suggested I should tour as a stand-up comedian; “I found myself laughing out-loud and even sharing segments with my spouse ….. I think Karl could tour as a stand-up comedian,” “Mr Wiggins has views on life that are expressed in a manner worthy of any stand-up comedian.”
So my scribblings do seem to raise a smile and a chuckle, and either way you look at it, that has to be a good thing. Hardly any subject is taboo to the Englishman when he’s laughing, and this often seems insensitive to other cultures, but the bedrock of the British sense of humour is a strong sense of sarcasm and self-deprecation. The British can be very passionate – and if you doubt that try going to a football match - but that passion is hidden deep in our humour so that other nationals often fail to recognise the deadpan delivery and are never quite sure if they’ve been involved in a serious conversation or just a little bit of friendly banter.
Having said that my style of writing is now appealing more and more to the American market, and I write a regular column for a newsletter in Copiague, Long Island, New York. I’m really enjoying connecting with the people over there.
Interestingly enough, my writing style has been compared to two people, both now dead, Charles Bukowski and Socrates. Their names keep popping up in reviews; “Mr Bukowski, meet Socrates. This is an exceptionally amusing collection of observations of daily life,” “The prose style reminded me quite a lot of Charles Bukowski’s short essays and observations,” “It reminded me a lot of Bukowski’s novels, but particularly Factotum and Post Office,” “Had me laughing out loud several times, which doesn’t happen often to me. It reminded me a lot of Bukowski’s novels,” (I swear those are two completely separate reviewers), “Karl Wiggins is like a contemporary Socrates.”
I’m sure both Socrates and Charles Bukowski would turn in their graves. But then again, maybe not.
My books;
'You Really are full of Shit, Aren't You?' is my latest and possible my favourite. It's an agony uncle / advice columnist style book, but unlike most agony aunts I cut them no slack.
I'll be the first to admit that 'Dogshit Saved my Life' and 'Calico Jack in your Garden' are not to everyone's taste, but the reviews are good, so I seem to be hitting the right note.
'Shit my History Teacher DID NOT tell me' kind of speaks for itself I guess, as does 'Grit - The Banter & Brutality of the Late-Night Cab Driver.' I drove cab in b
I'm an author with seven books on Amazon Kindle, and I'll state right from the start that I have a particular aversion to fellow authors who befriend you and then immediately message you saying, "You might like my book ..... check it out."
I don't do that. If people wish to know more about my books the information is here to read, but I won't invade your personal space (not to mention precious time) with pleas to check out my own books
My goal, my life’s ambition if you like, is to give direction to comedy, purpose to satire. And this is probably why I write the way I do, in order to use self-deprecating, piss-taking humour to bring to the fore situations that just don’t stack up. To demonstrate that serious issues can be approached with humour.
Embarrassingly, a number of the reviews for my books seem to involve people losing control of their bladder; “Anyone who is a bit saucy, very fond of boobies and doesn't mind peeing slightly when they laugh too hard, this is the book for you!” “Best not to read this book on the train if you have a full bladder because by the end of your journey you will have a damp patch in an embarrassing place.” “I have to admit that I wet myself twice while reading it but this may in part have been due to my age and a couple of bottles of a fine St. Emilion,” “Due to the laughter you owe my secretary one clean pair of knickers.”
Two reviewers have even suggested I should tour as a stand-up comedian; “I found myself laughing out-loud and even sharing segments with my spouse ….. I think Karl could tour as a stand-up comedian,” “Mr Wiggins has views on life that are expressed in a manner worthy of any stand-up comedian.”
So my scribblings do seem to raise a smile and a chuckle, and either way you look at it, that has to be a good thing. Hardly any subject is taboo to the Englishman when he’s laughing, and this often seems insensitive to other cultures, but the bedrock of the British sense of humour is a strong sense of sarcasm and self-deprecation. The British can be very passionate – and if you doubt that try going to a football match - but that passion is hidden deep in our humour so that other nationals often fail to recognise the deadpan delivery and are never quite sure if they’ve been involved in a serious conversation or just a little bit of friendly banter.
Having said that my style of writing is now appealing more and more to the American market, and I write a regular column for a newsletter in Copiague, Long Island, New York. I’m really enjoying connecting with the people over there.
Interestingly enough, my writing style has been compared to two people, both now dead, Charles Bukowski and Socrates. Their names keep popping up in reviews; “Mr Bukowski, meet Socrates. This is an exceptionally amusing collection of observations of daily life,” “The prose style reminded me quite a lot of Charles Bukowski’s short essays and observations,” “It reminded me a lot of Bukowski’s novels, but particularly Factotum and Post Office,” “Had me laughing out loud several times, which doesn’t happen often to me. It reminded me a lot of Bukowski’s novels,” (I swear those are two completely separate reviewers), “Karl Wiggins is like a contemporary Socrates.”
I’m sure both Socrates and Charles Bukowski would turn in their graves. But then again, maybe not.
My books;
'You Really are full of Shit, Aren't You?' is my latest and possible my favourite. It's an agony uncle / advice columnist style book, but unlike most agony aunts I cut them no slack.
I'll be the first to admit that 'Dogshit Saved my Life' and 'Calico Jack in your Garden' are not to everyone's taste, but the reviews are good, so I seem to be hitting the right note.
'Shit my History Teacher DID NOT tell me' kind of speaks for itself I guess, as does 'Grit - The Banter & Brutality of the Late-Night Cab Driver.' I drove cab in b
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