Haunted

The empty bar isn’t empty is it? The laughter of the day before, the anger, the words, the smells someone has attempted to wipe, sweep and spray away. At a bar I was cooking at before I left Paris I would arrive in the morning after going to the market. The guests and a few workers had left hours before. The room was dark. Sweat, booze and cigarettes lingered. It was not the first time I worked somewhere where as I put the vegetables away the room made me want to go home and have another shower. It’s difficult to work alone in a room and be inspired surrounded by the after party. Sometimes I’d get in and a cleaner would be there. Sweeping up the debris while talking on the phone. We would nod at each other but we didn’t talk as the phone call didn’t stop.

With the ingredients bought and ordered I’d leave to a coffee shop with a pen and paper and a list of what I had and start planning the menu. I don’t miss the stench of the night before. The planning of menus I do. Since last July, when the owners of Antiga Camponesa (now closed) fired me for no reason other than they couldn’t afford the salary the menus I plan are for one night in someone else’s kitchen. Each week for home I write down recipes I’ve read to cook for us and the ingredients, stick the piece of paper in my pocket and work my way through the list depending on my budget.

That job I had, it was a success, we cooked good food, we worked well, everyone was learning and the customers came each night. When set up for a stable position, when it’s works the rug gets pulled. When it happened to me first was when I was the chef of Martin, there was a lot of misdiagnoses before I had to stop working from the pain. I started writing more as I didn’t know what was happening. The words gave me control, gave me a sense of what I was. Sometimes it stopped the pain. After the operation, house bound I started to write more posts on instagram although I used to complain about the long posts. Views change when your life does. Since then I’ve had to stop myself from being hard on others and myself. Otherwise right now I could be filling pages with vitriol and love. There’s so much of ourselves now shared that it’s hard to know who is who. So much time wasted on things that don’t need to be thought of, talked about or listened to.

The sight of a bar without a person, including the barman reminded me to appreciate emptiness. I’ve stood in a venue after the band has left the stage and watched the roadies take away the equipment. I’ve been to visit football stadiums and jails. I’ve stood outside the house where James Joyce lived, where Mark Rothko and Burroughs lived, I’ve sat in the bar of the hotel where Joan Didion stayed. The world is haunted.