You Can’t Soar With The Eagles Dressed Like A Seagull.

My head chef had told me straight up “Make sure your jacket is ironed and pressed or don’t show up”.

Too easy I thought, ironing a jacket is gonna be the least of my worries.

I had finally gotten an apprenticeship, and under the chef who had taken me under his wing when I’d first arrived in the big smoke of Melbourne, after leaving the convict state of Tasmania, or Launceston to be more specific.

I was a 17 year old stoner that needed cash for a roof over my head and some crumbs for a bit of weed, and Greg had my back the moment I rolled into a 400 seater function centre and dominated the pot wash without so much as a whimper.

“Just put the untouched long necks up this end chefs, I’ll deal with them” was about all I had to say when I was dishy. I could stash away a few leftover beers from the tables to enjoy on my way home after work.

Two years later, after fluffing about as a dish pig, I was back where it all began and all I had to worry about was ironing my jacket.

I rolled in on the first day, got changed, walked into the kitchen and Greg completely lost his shit.

“What he fuck did I tell you?! Get the fuck out!”

“But ch-”

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen, go home and sort your shit, or don’t come back.”

“But ch-”

‘”Fuck off.” he said.

A four hour round trip then, fuck you chef, I’ll sort my shit and you can fucking pay me to, I thought.

I would’ve left just past 8 am and rolled back in around 12-ish and he pulled me straight outside, chested me up and asked me why the fuck I was wasting his time!

I mumbled something about wanting to be like him and hopefully a good chef one day.

‘You’ve got to look the part, where did you go, the fucking casino? You’re in the sink for the rest of the day, make sure your shit is sorted tomorrow.”

I would’ve spent an hour on my jacket that night and for the life of me it still looked the same as when I first rolled in that morning. This was some sort of test and I wasn’t bailing.

These chefs were elite, still, 20 years later I hold them in the highest regard, more than most other chefs I have ever come across.

Steve was the executive, Carl was the head chef, Donna was pastry and Greg was a casual when I first started with them.

Word on the street was that Greg used to be the executive chef at the main kitchen of the MCG and had taken a step back for family reasons, yet had taken the main gig here at Rivers a few years later.

The next morning, I rocked up half an hour early, before anyone else I had thought, but everyone was waiting.

“Don’t even put that shit on, give it here, this is how you do it.” My chef then proceeded to show me how to properly iron a piece of clothing, steam and all, while I was mocked by the whole team.

I have almost never felt so humiliated in my whole life, yet never more eager prove my worth to these chefs.

If you can’t respect your jacket or your own appearance then what hope does your food have?

Crispy whites with sharp as a Shun pleats was like the secret password, a code card into a bank vault, it’s all a chef needs to know about another chef- most of the time anyway!

That sort of attitude would get most people bashed or heckled where I’d grown up, especially me, and I thrived in this environment.

I had next to zero self respect when I was in my late teens. These guys must have seen something in me as a chef though, they had put me on, but getting me cleaned up was and is the foundation of any human being becoming a chef.

Looking sharp as fuck has been the foundation of everything I have done in the kitchen ever since.

If you want to roll with the big dogs in cookery then you’ve gotta look sharp! Probably the same thing in most professions though in reality.

Our current chef attire dates back to the 19’th century.

Marie-Antoine Careme, a popular French chef, is the cat apparently responsible for the dress code.

The Mighty toque were common place between the 13th and 16th century, but he wanted to unify the profession, so he set about designing something that would unite us all.

White was chosen to represent cleanliness, as it exposes one’s care towards the subject.

It makes perfect sense!

Growing up my old man had never really cared too much about pulling me up over my appearance, I was a scruffy kid, especially during my teenage years. As long as we had a roof over our heads and healthy food on the table, that’s what was important around the Nicol table! Not having a mum about definitely contributed to my appearance back then, but we had all the other basics covered.

Generally not giving a fuck made me a perfect fit into kitchen life back then, as long as I got paid and worked hard nobody ever really gave me any grief and I never gave them any either.

I was coming from an environment where, for the most part, you were more focused on irrelevant shit that gained you no self improvement and was going to lead me into trouble if I kept it up. Kitchens were and are a place to express and harness oneself in a way that is very rewarding for someone that doesn’t gel with normal shit.

I always knew what was going on for the most part in school, it just bored the living daylights out of me. Kitchens were different, they challenge you! plus you get paid.

It ended up taking about seven years and multiple head chefs, but I finally got qualified.

Tafe Tasmania decided to give me apprentice of the year! “What the fuck was going here?” I thought at the time.

It took another seven years before I would have a crack at being a head chef, and what better place to go and do that than my old home town.

To say the least, it didn’t end well, my first head chef job, yet we achieved what we were hired to do.

Head chef life is exactly what people had always told me it would be… Fucking hard work!

My biggest failure in failing at my first head chef gig I had thought was establishing a foundation of self respect that I had hammered into myself nearly 15 years earlier.

My first year apprentice was a disco junky that probably didn’t even know what an iron was. The kid had skill, but being a DJ two nights a week was always going to be trouble.

If the team were able to commit themselves to the standard of nearly worshiping their uniform like I had done, we could have achieved anything!

Six months later and I was burned out. I had spent most of my savings attempting to buy a restaurant, my wife had left me, and the apprentice would still routinely roll in looking like he had slept in the local monkey park.

These days I have come to realize that our jackets are way more than just 65 percent polyester and 35 percent cotton.

They are a fucking statement to everyone that has something to say about my profession, who has not worked back to back 18 hour days in high pressure environments! If you can do that, keep clean and deal with all the other drama that seems to unfold at the same time, your food is gonna be good, and you’ll know I’m switched on!

Kitchen life is without doubt a high pressure, stressful environment with lots of vices right at your fingertips waiting to help you wind down from a 200 person function on a hot summer’s night. It’s also very hard to keep your shit clean and tidy when you’re still blind from last night.

I’ve always gone for the polyester/cotton combo when picking a jacket, but I’ve always wondered what would be the best combo, the sort of attire that the Ramsey’s and Adria’s of the world don.

I only knew one chef that had ever acquired tailor-made uniforms, my old sous chef from cradle mountain, and big Stu always looked sharp as fuck!

Being a settled Head Chef I had recently looked into getting some tailor-made get up that would be a bit more modern.

I have never and probably never will follow trends, but I need to move with the times, as what doesn’t evolve becomes extinct, or something like that.

I have come across a company called Ready2Rock Hospitality Uniforms, run by a woman named Bec, who has started something to give people options when it comes to trying to keep cool in a hot and sweaty workplace!

The dreaded chafe has never really been an issue for me. I’ve been called grasshopper on more than one occasion, I’m too whippy to put any weight on. Yet many chefs spend to much time blowing the cornflour budget.

The crew over at Ready2Rock are nearly as frustrated as Corey Taylor, so they’ve done something about it.

I got a medium size, short sleeve white jacket, black buttons, with this black ventilation panel on my back that allows my Scapula and latissimus dorsi muscle breathe. The fabric on this cloth is majestic though. It’s made from a similar material to one of my Kathmandu jackets I had a few years ago. Snug feel, light, water seems to bead on it. It’s very nice to say the least.

I got a pack of jelly beans thrown in too, with a pen, sticker and free postage.

With wash and care instructions like “Take the bloody pen out of the pocket!” and “Simply whisper ‘you’re the best’ to it before washing” you know this Chef knows her Chef attire.

Have a look at these guys http://www.ready2rock.com.au and snap one up if you’re in need of a modern or tailored uniform to suit a professional chef.

keeping clean and having respect for your jacket is the very foundation of any good chef worth his wage.

Next time your at a cafe or restaurant, check out the chefs presentation and the window seals, if a buisness and it’s workers can look after the little thing’s, the big stuff will be sorted!