The new chef created a stir. A pony-tailed young spunk in a leather motorcycle jacket, wide-shouldered and long legged, with eyes like chips of blue ice. He raised a nonchalant eyebrow in greeting and the kitchen froze, absolutely spellbound. With the exception of myself, the crew were all gay men. Eyes and nostrils widened; knives paused over chopping boards. The breathless silence was broken by someone going, “Oooooh-wee!”
The cry of admiration made the new boy blush and hearts melted or thumped harder. He wasn't just a beautifully carved chunk of masculinity - he was sensitive too. His look of confusion, the bright red flush on his face, was one of the only two times I ever saw him lose his cool.
He was good, fast and precise, working with us at the catering kitchen, prepping and going out on gigs with a team. Each morning the rumble of a Triumph motorbike heralded his arrival and he would enter the kitchen to a silent hum of appreciation. If he bent or squatted at work, the young ones would purse their lips in audible appreciation. The Head Chef, who hated any sort of vulgarity, would irritably gesture at them to bloody well focus on the task at hand.
The new boy played it cool but he knew he was making more steam in the kitchen than a Hobart 10 tray Combi Plus ever could. Moving with a measured grace, avoiding eye contact and casual conversation, he exuded a steely machismo. The boys loved it.
As time went by his smouldering persona did not change and I sensed his sex appeal was a big part of who he was. He'd polished his gift and any moment on his shift could have been a photograph. Standing with his hands on his hips thinking. Setting his lightly stubbled jaw in concentration. Working in a deft, unhurried way, his jacket sleeves rolled up, his strong forearms all suntan, tatts and blonde hair. Then suddenly, he'd look up and destroy one of the boys with an unknowable look from his baby blues. It was like Paul Newman reincarnated as a biker. This rare and highly desirable phenomenon became known in the kitchen as 'Blue Platinum'.
The uncharitable might have said he was a posey wanker, but he was harder and deeper than that, navigating a perfect mix of unconscious cool and blinding narcissism. The knock-out punch was the frisson of danger. It wasn't just the tattoos and motorbike - it was his whole demeanor. Just on the right side of surly he'd rather nod than speak. When he did speak his accent was suburban rough. Looking very capable of fighting hard, he’d zoom off through trucks, cars and trams like a demon.
The new chef, now unknowingly christened The Spunk, The Spunk, quickly worked out that I was the other straight boy in the place and in a quiet moment said, “Hey, are the chefs here all . . .” I nodded and asked him if that was a problem. A slight frown marred his easy shake of the head. The lusty admiration he was something novel, but if he had any phobic bogan tendencies regarding sexual orientation - it never showed. Keeping cool, he pretending ignorance of the effect he was having and the show went on.
Christmas was coming up and The Spunk asked me if I'd work with him on a Christmas Day lunch he had on outside of work. I had no bookings and agreed. It was six hours prep on the 24th and then four hours cooking and serving lunch. On the appointed day I made my way to one of the oldest R.S.L clubs in the country. The menu was classic Christmas fare - enough for eighty - and we prepped it up real good. The next day traveling through empty streets, the only passenger on the bus, I made conversation with the driver, a laughing Maori guy in a Santa hat who refused to take my fare. Lunch went down well and The Spunk and I had a knock off beer. We hadn't talked money and when he gave me eight hundred bucks for ten hours work I was most pleased.
As we sat in a back room of the clubhouse, he passed me a newspaper clipping. It told of a high-speed chase through central Sydney and into the suburbs. The police, on motorbikes, in cars and a chopper, had pursued an unregistered motorcyclist for nearly two hours - only to lose their quarry somewhere near Bankstown. I didn't have to ask him who this lunatic daredevil was. He gave me a faint grin, carefully refolded the clipping and slipped it back into his wallet.
Dangerous outlaw behavior is really not to be admired, but I liked this rebel tale told without words - and the roll of fifties. So, I also fell under The Spunks' spell. Having this daring character in the kitchen was pretty damn cool and I told friends about the Mad Max meets the Chippendales fella at my work. As the months went his skill and presence added to our general morale and we all felt lucky to have him.
One day The Spunk and I did a gig at a vineyard - a lunch for forty. Our two waiting staff were sharp diamonds, attractive and out-going and both young women were totally adept at flirting in a knowing, slightly predatory way. They immediately latched onto the Spunk, leaning over the pass, their amused eyes competing with their cleavages. Gorgeous smiles, cheeky quips and languid husky laughter enveloped our boy.
He went into overdrive, darting, stretching and pirouetting like a Nijinsky in steel-cap boots. Here was a real audience; not a mob of leery work-mates in the prep kitchen but fun attractive gals bubbling with confidence. Totally ignoring them as he worked, he was intent on winning this sexually-charged skirmish with moves not words. The waitresses went all out too, with a barrage of amused pouts, saucy asides and cheek-to-cheek hugging, occasionally rendered briefly silent by intense hits of Blue Platinum.
With this triple hit of pheromones and the double entendres flying, the entrees went out. Soon the mains were ready: salmon Coulibiac – whole fillets baked in crepes and brioche, and saddle of Spring lamb stuffed with baby spinach and macadamia nuts needed to come out of the ovens. As I got my carving station together, I looked around for my colleague. When the entrée plates started coming back, I went looking for The Spunk.
I found him in the staff toilet in complete red-faced disarray. Laconic at the best of times he was now mute and sporting a fixed smile. I pressed him, gently but firmly, super-aware of the lamb and salmon in the ovens, and got to the bottom of it. During one of his head-turning moves for the girls he'd ripped his tight chef's pants. How bad? He turned in the cubicle, showing me that crutch was ripped apart, sort of looking like chequered chaps attached to the waistband. Even worse - he had not packed, or even worn undies, for this shift. That's the sort of freak-out the client can't get wind of.
Reluctant to come out, he stood sheepishly in the stall. I felt sympathy, and some real dismay at seeing him like this. I couldn't do the service on my own. I needed a solution mega-pronto. Like me he was wearing a short waist apron that didn't quite cover the goods. It would only accentuate his problem I gave him my apron, which barely covered his bum and he tucked tea towels into both apron strings. It was primitive and looked silly, but it worked and returned enough confidence to The Spunk for him to pull off a good service with me.
It wasn’t until all the mains had out that the waitresses cottoned on to the implications of The Spunk's weird garb and his physically demure manner. They got it straight up and the flirting turned cheeky harassment. As they scampered around the kitchen, they tried to flip his towel, just crowing with laughter and not being good team players at all.
The Spunk's poise was being trampled on. He moved very damn fast around the kitchen – without raising his legs or bending. Huge laughter greeted this. The Battle of the 3 Sexys had become a rout and I had to step in - raising my voice until the girls triumphantly retreated from the kitchen.
The drive back to our kitchen went by in silence. In the car park, The Spunk quickly asked me if I could get his bike jacket from the staff room - then unload the van on my own. He wanted to cover up his shame and go home. I had no problems at all with that. Looked very grateful, he gave me a shoulder squeeze, then painfully asked me one more favour. Nodding at the kitchen door, he said, “Don't tell them what happened, aye?”
I assured him I wouldn't - but I did. After he'd left us and gone on to another job though. The boys loved it.