Sipping Sprite on Milk Crates
A childhood watching the culinary art of my father
There is an Anthony Bourdain stock image quote that Dad often reshares with me on Facebook:
"You can always tell when a person has worked in a restaurant. There's an empathy that can only be cultivated by those who've stood between a hungry mouth and a $28 pork chop, a special understanding of the way a bunch of motley misfits can be a family”.
Bourdain is the only ‘famous’ chef my dad, Nick Arnold, doesn’t loathe. He sneers at stocky celebrities on MasterChef in pristine white jackets that waffle about sangria-poached venison or duck blood and rosemary pannacotta. Yes, he thinks Gordan Ramsey and Jamie Oliver are crocks of shit. He says they haven’t even touched a frying pan in twenty years.
Dad is a real chef. He has sworn and sautéed his way through London’s fine dining scene, Windsor Castle, and to his café in Martinborough, Café Medici.
After being shamed for his dyslexia, he left school at 16 and was given two career options by my grandmother: Taxidermy or culinary school.
Dad’s 40-year love affair with culinary arts is a tumultuous one.
The six-foot-tanned Englishman is a walking mosaic of his life on the line. His arms are engraved with white scolds, fingernails yellow from mincing garlic, a twisted back from lifting heavy potato pots, buckled knees from hand scrubbing lino floors and a faulty heart valve from four decades of brunch service.
Dad’s culinary career was my childhood. I was sitting on metal benchtops before I could walk. One of my earliest friends was a pretty, blonde waitress who gifted me a Little Einsteins bed set.
Dad opened our family café when I was 5 years old. A beaming tan bungalow building on the corner, lined with Italian oil paintings and a vine-draped courtyard.
In the early days of Medici, Mum was working at the hospital, so Dad took on the challenge of looking after two children under age 6, whilst simultaneously running a new café and catering company.
After school, my sister and I would sip Sprite sitting on milk crates. As night fell, we’d fall asleep in the back of Dad’s car during service, only wake up in the morning, somehow in our beds.
Once, I asked Dad what his job would be if he wasn’t a chef. He said a doctor, which always confused me because he’s shit at Maths and Science (something I unfortunately inherited).
But Dad has sacrificed his life for the service of others. 50th birthdays, golden anniversaries, memorials, and most rotary functions — Dad has done and seen it all. Whether it is paella for 70 people, a whole spit-roasted pig or a Barbie princess cake (for my 6-year-old self), he pours devotion into every meal.
Though he enjoys serving others, it’s taxing. Dark bags under his eyes, or seeing him knocked out on his bed still wearing his chef jacket, are common scenes.
Often, cooking is all he can think about. Going out to dinner can feel like stepping into his office as he takes out his black leather notebook, scribbling about shellfish allergies and how many sourdoughs he must order in the morning.
He once told me this kind of life is lonely.
On one of our long patio talks in Martinborough’s summer heat, he told me some people only see him through his service.
Despite cooking in the homes of the aristocracy, where they will coo and applaud, they still see his souffles and braised lamb as his identity.
But that’s the life of hospitality. It’s a hushed, sometimes fucked-up association, built on an understanding of the beauty of a crisp beer after a long shift, or the joy of fries from a metal bowl.
Dad’s colourful community is banded by his utter love for food.
The loyal Martinborough crazies who barge into the kitchen unannounced to see him. The butcher who will put his hazards on to have a beer with mid service. And Mum, who has worked every function by his side and happily eats toast with him at 2am.
He’s taught me all that I know about food and what it means to serve others. He taught me the best brownie recipe is gluten free. Never get cross with food. Your vendors, friends, even co-workers can become family. And always buy your garlic peeled in bulk.
Older now, with salt and pepper hair, he tells me he’s too old to be a ‘chef’. His feet are too slow to dance to other chef's rhythms, and his words jumble up long dockets. But 40 years is a love too deep to turn from. Like the crack head to the pipe, he craves the rush.
His love lies in his vast cookbook collection, three trophies from Wellington on a Plate, and the baking career of my sister, Olivia. His love for food is sprinkled, chopped and sautéed into every meal I make.