How many times have you passed by a small restaurant you didn’t even notice it was there? I know, hundreds. Often unnoticed, sometimes ignored. Far from the flashes, the fancy town, the new trends and designs. But full of flavours, experiences and fighters. And my story started in one of those.
It’s almost 2pm. I’m worried about being late again. I’m Spanish, I gotta set up a different standard; people love to remind us of stereotypes. Here we are, in front of a long, but surprisingly exciting, Saturday shift. I’ve been working in a kitchen for years, and I still don’t know what to expect out of a Saturday night; the stories I have could fill a book.
Anyway, I made it on time. Daniela, my boss, is already there. She’s the closest I have to a mum in England, but she doesn’t like me to say that. She thinks I’m calling her old. Proud of her Latin-American heritage, she’d been trying to bring those vibes to the heart of Abbeydale Road for more than ten years. With success. A “hola” and a hug, as usual, and I walk into my “office”.
Andy, the head chef, is getting changed. He’s from Meersbrook, but he can cook better than any Latino chef while speaking the truest Yorkshire you’d ever heard – “You reyt, love?”. Indeed I am, let’s cook.
Small kitchens have a soundtrack. Something chill to start the shift, maybe Oasis. It never fails. But we’re approaching 3pm. Blades are playing on the radio, and Blades are religion. From the “Morning Glory” to the “Greasy Chip Butty”. The whistle blows, and, at the same time, Nelson, the kitchen porter, walks into the kitchen. He’s a big guy, he’s from Honduras, he’s improving his English, and he’s pure. The calm character every kitchen needs.
Daniela has prepared all of us a glass of gazpacho. “Gazpacho” is a humble term to refer to a Bloody Mary made by Latinos. It’s a Saturday opening tradition. and we must keep it. Nelson gives me a hand prepping as much food as I can; yesterday was a really busy day, and we need to get ready for another hectic shift.
We’re still quiet. A couple of tables walked in and they’re now having a quick bite. The kitchen shakes in celebration for a couple of seconds: Blades are 1-0 up. There’s another little earthquake in the restaurant, as Dani’s two little children and husband run in to briefly visit and wish her good luck. As mentioned, family is at the very core of these places.
The first bookings start to arrive, and we’re almost ready for the battery; it’s then that the restaurant gets slashed by the waves of a shout. Foderingham saved a penalty in the 92nd minute. Some people asked questions; others, just celebrated. If it’s a great day for Sheffield United, it is for us too. An unwritten rule.
We’re starting to get busy. I need caffeine to work, and I already had a couple of cans of Monster and I’m awake but nervous. And this is the exact point when somebody asks for the salt shaker. Top tip: do not do this at any restaurant. Believe me, we get paid to season your food. Please, don’t ask for a shaker, don’t make us feel useless. And please, please, please… Don’t ask for ketchup either. That’s even worse.
Whatever will happen in the next two, or three hours, is the closest to our personal Vietnam: stress, violence, swearing, fire, PTSD. You aren’t really conscious of how you can actually get it done. Until you get it done. Then, the peace after the storm. The kitchen seems to be crushed by a tornado. And you feel drained, hungry, thirsty… but satisfied. Very satisfied.
After a massive plate of food (a weird feeling, to eat the same food you’d been serving and hating for hours) and finally approaching the end, let’s sip into a well-deserved pint of Mahou. We’re planning the orders, getting ready for the next week. Just to sit after, enjoy a drink or two, and totally forget about it for a couple of days.
That’s the key. After the storm, you don’t sit with your workmates; you sit with your friends, your family. The bond is so strong, so different to anything you would experiment anywhere else. No artificial personal relationships; you must row together. We’re in the same boat, even though we’re looking to reach different ports.
So, anytime you pass by one of those restaurants, remember this letter. And have some food, a drink and a chat, or just look at them and smile. If you need a job, think about asking. Because those places are the key to understanding this city. Real people offering true experiences. Real people being themselves and making you part of their journey.
La Mama being La Mama. Sheffield being Sheffield.