It was summer in Nice. Wobbling I walked out of Wayne's, a bar where after 11 o'clock everyone is dancing on the tables. You drink beer there (yes, beer yes) and rock along to a live band. I stood there for three months, every night (on those tables, yes). It was one-thirty in the morning and I took a taxi to Hotel de Paris in Monaco. Sounds poopy chic, huh? I would love to spend a night there, but I just had to work there at the time. At three in the morning, my shift started. I had half an hour to sober up in the taxi.

‘Au travail, Jet du temps! That's how I was called there -Jet of time. In fact, I was very late on my first working day (yes, Wayne's yes) AND I burned my wrist on an oven. It immediately turned into a huge round burn. Like it was a watch. Hence that incredibly cute nickname. Not.

I worked in the hotel bakery. At three o'clock I started rolling croissants. I think about five hundred of them. Then I was allowed three hundred mini éclairs coated with glaze, and lids on freshly baked maracons paste. If I ran on schedule, I was finished in the bakery at about eight in the morning. In my white tube, on rather clunky clogs and wearing a tall paper chef's hat, I then walked to the breakfast garden with my trolly full of warm croissants and sweet rolls. Enrique Iglesias had just ordered coffee, a very fat sheikh gave me a wink and the doggie of the gentleman who lived in the hotel (I believe a very rich doctor) was just getting his own omelette on a plate. The little dog, yes. At ten in the morning, I was outside again. I usually caught the bus back to Nice to recover on the beach, only to get ready again for Wayne's

After two months in the bakery, I found myself ten floors up -in restaurant Le Grill. The very, very, very best restaurant I have ever seen. The blue interior, the sea view, the roof that opened in nice weather, the silver cutlery and the balcony where diners could smoke a cigarette. All equally beautiful. I worked there for two months in the kitchen and two months in service.

On my first day in the kitchen at Le Grill, I was given a new white hat. I immediately cut off a piece of the top, otherwise I would run into all the hanging pans and spoons, as I am quite tall. Then I got a tray with fifty live lobsters in front of me. Would I like to thread a gigantic needle (I think about 25 centimetres) through their bodies from back to front? Then they would stay nice and straight after cooking. HELL NO! I'm really not a sissy, but this went too far for me. Luckily, there was a very nice Jean-Paul who let me help him make tarts with avocado, tomato and sea crab. I became Jean-Paul's helper those following weeks.

After the kitchen, I went into service. Whether I, on my first day mind you, briefly wanted to help carry a chair inside. A red velvet chair with gold railings.
‘Pour le roi du Maroc’. What the fuck, the king of Morocco just has his own chair. Bit excessive don't you think? That night I saw him sitting. Indeed on that chair. All I was allowed to do was put a small stool next to him. He then put his royal bag on that. So I was allowed to get very close for a moment. I could smell him and give him a nod. But actually I didn't find this king very spectacular. I was more impressed by Bono (of U2), who called if we could stay open a little longer and ended up popping in no less than four hours after closing time along with Penelope Cruz. He ordered the Chef Signature menu. Eight courses.

I could really talk about this for another year. Just as long as I worked there. If you win the lottery one day, book a room there (from €1100) and dine at Restaurant Le Grill. Then tell me how it was?