The Grand Liberty.

When I was employed by Wal Mart I was told that I needed to keep my tongue in check. Professional companies would never hire a girl whom owned a mouth like a sailor. I realise now that, that comment is a complete load of shit.

A Chef's favourite word is fuck. A Chef's favourite extra curricular activity is getting tattoos. A Chef will always drink a beer at the end of his shift and a Chef will always intimdate his new employees by aggressively belching out orders, very quickly, in a cockney accent and then summing it all up with,

"Ghot dat? Good. Yer goin' to get fist fucked tonight. Fucking things will be fuckin' flyin' at yah. So put yer fuckin' head doawn, shut yer fuckin' gob, do a good fuckin' joab and will 'ire you the fuck back."

What the fuck did you just say sir? 'Cause I just heard a complete sentence where fuck functioned as all the word devices.

Or at least that's the way it is at the Grand Liberty.

I worked for Executive Chef Michael Ewing last night. It was a grand fucking time. Intimidating, but a grand fucking time.
The event was for a British film that I had never heard of so obviously, none of the randoms in it I had never heard of either. The party was held in a gigantic tent just outside of Roy Thompson Hall at 10 PM sharp. There were a few fans sitting outside the gates, but nothing overwhelmingly elaborate. City TV showed up. I hope I'm on TV.

I arrived at Glenn's appartment at around four thirty. I was nervous. I had managed to find my way to his appartment all on my lonesome and was quite proud of myself for doing so.
I haven't been around many gay people in my life. Perhaps I was nervous because it was three men who were living together, as a married threesome, one of which was in a gigantic motorized wheelchair. Perhaps it's because there were pictures of naked men hanging on the walls. Perhaps it was the enormous bed with a very delicate quilt on it. I have no idea, but I was a tad uncomfortable and for some reason, felt very guilty for it.

Anyway, Glenn's partner John drove us to the Grand Liberty. We arrived on time (sort of) and from there were stashed in the back of a cube van (and I quote: Like a bunch of dirty Mexicans), and driven to the location of the party.
It was explained to us that the majority of the people attending were either going to be madly drunk or madly high on crack cocaine. This would mean that they were there for the booze and not the food and that suited me fine.
The night started with a lot of prep work. I had to plate desserts, clean up spills, fold linens and peel stickers off of billy bee honey bottles for the purpose of malt vinigar. Sounds tedious, but I loved every fucking second of it.
As the night progressed, I met more and more people who seemed rather important. My favourite chef was a man named Mark who literally used, 'fuck' at every available opportunity. I enjoyed that far too much. I also enjoyed a fellow named Matt who had a tattoo of a harp on the side of his neck and mutton chops. I wanted to throw him on the floor and sex him like a wild beast. Unfortunately, I doubt that would have been possible (he was huge) and I doubt that it would have done me any good as I was trying to make a decent first impression.

At around eight Glenn and I were told that we were going to be working in the Pub tent. It was then that we had the pleasure of meeting the biggest knob I have ever known.
Jason was a short, little, WHITE man with the tiniest hands I have ever seen. He was definitely lacking something (whether it be brains or balls) because everything on him that was abstract or a physical extra was gigantic. The gold cross hanging from his neck, his $1500 knife set, his Chef's jacket, trimmed with black and a neckercheif to match and finally, his mammoth fucking ego that was definitely not deserved.
At one point he walked into the tent and said to Glenn,

"Is it just me, or are the women they have serving the booze fucking amazing?"

Glenn looked at me, I looked at Glenn and then I burst out laughing. The knob asked,

"Did I miss something?'

And Glenn retorted with,

"Well, unless Anna's a dyke I doubt either one of us would notice 'cause I'm gay."

And so the knob felt like a knob and left the tent with a bruised ego and I was quite happy with that. He later returned to help us peel the stickers off the honey bottles. He did this with a serving spoon. Idiot.

So Glenn and I ran the food to their appropriate stations for three hours. Fish and Chips, Shepards pie, Bubbles and Squeak, Crab Bisque and Lamb Stew. It was ridiculous amounts of fun and I enjoyed it enough to want to do it always. Actually, running reminded me of working for Wal Mart. And actually, for once, I'm quite thrilled that I worked for Wal Mart in all of it's awful conditions because being in a kitchen with ovens blarring, is nowhere near as hot as working in a trailer for eight hours.

At one o'clock we started cleanup. By one thirty everything was being torn down. By two o'clock I was handed a beer and asked to stay later. By three o'clock, I was sitting in the back of a cube van, waiting to unload it back at the Liberty so I could go home. I worked a ten hour shift for them and it felt like two hours. It was amazing.

I was in bed at five and what a glorious feeling it was to be in that pile of fluff.

I want to work for this company. I don't particularly want to work the hours, but I want the experience.

I wonder if they'll hire pastry chefs.