In Nice, it was summer. I straddled out Wayne’s, a bar in which everyone dances on top of the tables after eleven. You drink beer (yeah, beer) and rock along with a live band. For about three months, I was there every evening (yeah on those tables). It was half past one in the morning and I took a taxi to Hotel de Paris in Monaco. Sounds pretty posh, doesn’t it? I’d really like to spend a night there, but I had to work. My shift started at three in the morning so I had about thirty minutes to sober up in the taxi. “Au travail, Jet du temps!” which was what I went by back then. Jet of the time. I was extremely tardy on my first day (yeah, Wayne’s) and I burned my wrist on an oven. It became a huge round sore. Like a watch. That’s why I got that lovely nickname. Not.

I worked at the hotel’s bakery. At three in the morning I would start rolling croissants. I think about five hundred of them. Afterwards, I made sure that three hundred mini éclairs got a layer of icing and I had to put lids on freshly baked macaroons. I would finish at the bakery at around eight in the morning if everything went according to plan. In my chef’s whites, on kind of unflattering clogs and my high paper hat, I’d walk to the breakfast garden with a trolly of warm croissants and sweet rolls.

Enrique Iglesias had just ordered coffee, a very obese sheik winked at me and the dog of the gentleman that lived in the hotel (I believe he was a very well to do doctor) got his own omelette on a plate. Yes, the dog. I’d stand outside at ten in the morning. I usually took the bus to Nice to recover on the beach. Only to prepare again for Wayne’s…

After two months at the bakery, I was sent ten floors up to restaurant Le Grill. The most, most, most beautiful restaurant I’ve ever seen. The blue interior, the view of the sea, the roof that opened when it was nice weather, the silverware, and the balcony on which people were allowed to smoke a cigarette. Everything was gorgeous. I worked there for two months in the kitchen and two months as a waitress.

My first day in the kitchen of Le Grill, I received a new white hat. I immediately cut off a bit of the top, otherwise I’d bump into all the low-hanging pots and spoons because I’m kind of tall. I was then presented fifty live lobsters. Whether I wanted to spear a gigantic needle (of about 25 centimetres) right through their entire bodies. They’d stay nicely straight when cooked. HELL NO! I’m really not a wiener, but this went too far. Thankfully, I got to help the very nice Jean-Paul with avocado, tomato and sea crab tartlets. I became Jean-Paul’s assistent for the following weeks.

After the kitchen, I went to work as a waiter. Whether I, on my first day, no less, wanted to help carry a chair. A red velvet chair with golden arm rests.

“Pour le roi du Maroc”.

What the fuck? The king of Morocco had his own chair. A bit over exaggerated, right? I saw him sitting there that night. And yes on that chair. The only thing I was allowed to do was to put a small stool next to him. He’d put his royal bag on it. I could smell him and gave him a nod. But the king wasn’t all that spectacular. I was more impressed by Bono (of U2), who called to see whether we could stay open a bit longer, only to trudge in with Penelope Cruz four hours after closing hour. He ordered the Chef Signature menu. Eight courses. I can go on about this for at least another year. Just as long as my time there. If you ever win the lottery, book a room (€1100) and dine at Restaurant Le Grill. And please tell me what you thought about it?