Down and out in Turku
Penniless and down on my luck monetarily speaking I walked into the first job that would provide me reasonable income in Turku, the job every small boy dreams about, and the profession every girl finds irresistibly attractive, dishwashing.
My thoughts were taken back to adolescent days, and leafing through the pages of Orwell’s seminal autobiography ‘Down and Out in London and Paris’, as my memory recalled his struggles as a plongeur in central Paris. For those whom their French is a little rusty, a plongeur is the most venerable of trades, dishwashing.
There is an inherent caste system in Hotels Orwell wrote in 1933: “Mangers-cooks-waiters-plongeurs”. Most in the restaurant trade would agree that Orwell’s succinct observation rings true today. Being a plongeur of some repute I wholeheartedly agree with George. Maybe I’m biased, maybe battle weary, or maybe the job today is as unrewarding now as it was back then.
I am not in any way equating the relative palatial surroundings of the 21st century kitchen I ply my trade in, to the hardships endured by Mr Orwell in the 5th Arrondisement in 1930s Paris, but the sentiment of connecting with the plight of those in undesirable working professions remains the same now as it was back then.
“This is not a job for white people!”
Was the cry from JP, a chef, I could not decide if he was joking, serious or a bit of both, he redeemed himself somewhat with a withering put down of his fellow younger countrymen:
“Young Finns are too soft, they can t handle hard work!”
In this short snippet, one gets a taste for the make up of the kitchen staff, rough around the edges, devoid of political correctness, but if you buy into their shipyard humour, jokes, sarcasm and tomfoolery, your day becomes a little more bearable.
JP is a man who cares not for your end of the conversation, only that his side is heard. Once, partly out of boredom and partly out of a challenge to take my mind away from the tedium and reality of my profession I saw how long I could make him listen to my anecdote, his attention span lasted a full 30 seconds.
JP comes with a bag full of stories, some you want to hear, some you don’t, but all of them you will hear!
Tomppa, the larger than life head chef, tattoos scattered across his arms, bearing the names of children, ladies, I know not what. He swears like a sailor, but in-between his jokes, which seem to come straight out of a 1970s comedy, now marked ‘content now considered racist!’ makes all under his charge feel appreciated.
The characters, anecdotes and camaraderie provide escapism for the weary plongeur, but still it remains a job for ‘non-whites’ and ‘non-Finns’, a phrase said tongue-in-cheek, but with a grain of truth in it. I shudder to think, but back in my native England I would probably be guilty of the same attitude if someone offered me a pot-washing job.
In the space of one year Orwell nigh on killed himself working in the brutal conditions endured by the less fortunate in 1930s Paris and London. I can safely say my situation does not come close to such experiences, nonetheless I feel I can claim a tenuous affinity with the socially conscious writer.
I see the attitude of some at work regarding my current profession; their haughty looks and dismissive attitude show that nothing much has changed in the years since Orwell wrote of his experiences.
“Never criticize a man until you have walked a mile in his moccasins.”
As I graft away in the kitchens for another six months the Indian proverb reminds me that it is not until we see and experience how others live that we can truly appreciate their hardships.
A job I never envisaged doing, a job as brutal as it is undesirable, but a job that gave me income when it was most needed. When I move on to pastures new, I will look back with a pocket full of memories and pride: pride in surviving, pride in a job well done, pride in the art of the humble plongeur!