My First Job| Working In The Kitchens
At the beginning of my summer holidays, being a University Student we have very long summers, I got a place in a kitchen at a "Work Experience Centre". I had always thought working in a kitchen would be fun and an interesting experience, as I have always enjoyed cooking and baking. But when I entered those kitchens, on the very first day, I knew it was not the place for me. I was meant to work there for about three months. I lasted about 2 weeks, at the very most, and some of those days I had off as they were holidays. To be honest, I can't remember how many days I actually was there for but it was nothing close to the amount of time I was meant to spend.
Long story short...I hated it.
Why you ask?
Let me explain!
First of all, I never really wanted to go in the first place. It is hard to explain and I don't really want to go into that but I had to be persuaded to go after being given the placement. And, when I got there, things started to go downhill. Before I continue, I must say, I really liked the "head" chef, as he was very funny and encouraging but I must say the Swiss are not always the best at explaining things, especially to someone, like me, who is not fluent in their language. Yeah, you guessed it, this job that I had landed myself in was all in french and I, sadly, am not fluent. And that is where one of the biggest problems lay.
Let me start at the very beginning of this story.
When I arrived, on the first day, I was taken by one of the centre's organiser people. She was a really nice lady but my french was, and is not, the best to have a good conversation with someone like her.
So, she explained to me what I had to wear and we went over to a part of the building where I would get the uniform I needed to work in the kitchen. This uniform consisted of a pair of black trousers, a white button up chef shirt, and the most uncomfortable black boots I have ever put my feet in. The first thing that went wrong on my first day, was with the uniform and it was one of the most embarrassing things that has ever happened to me. So, in charge of the uniform at that particular time and day that I was there was a young man, of about my age. He did not smile once. So, I had to give my clothes size and foot size to him so he could pick out a uniform set that would fit me. The first and second time did not fit, the shoes were too small and the vests were not the right size, for some reason. This young man, had to go back and forth trying to get sizes that fit. Finally, that was done, and I put everything on. But, the look on the young man's face was not a happy look at all. I felt so bad, and nervous. I was sure from that very moment that the rest of the day would go badly. And I was not wrong.
When I arrived at the kitchen, I was explained what to do by the "head" chef, and he was really nice. He understood that my french was not the best, and tried his best to explain things, using a few English words he knew when he could. But of course, he could not stick to my side the whole time so he introduced me to this young lady, and told her to help me. Almost immediately I forgot her name, and she was rather cold towards me, especially after being told that I spoke very little french. When I asked her for help, she would point and not give any real help. And, she talked to the other young workers in the kitchen about me, thinking I understood no french at all. I was ignored, and made to feel unimportant. It was from then that a wave of anxiety came across me. I told myself everything was going to be alright. I told myself I could do everything that I put my mind to. I had the help I needed, if I called for it. I made up my mind firmly that everything would go well. It didn't.
After learning where everything was in the large kitchen, I was set to peeling carrots. I had to peel about 30 carrots in 25 minutes, or less. The quicker I was, the better. They had to be perfect, because the carrots and all the other food that was prepared in the kitchens, was for us workers, everyone who worked in that centre, and for nearby schools and businesses.
The carrots I peeled took me a full half hour to peel perfectly, if not longer. My hand was shaking, because I was so nervous and my heart was beating out of control. The longer I took, the more I panicked. The other young workers, in the vegetable section, watched me and whispered to each other on how slow I was. The girl, that was set to help me, kept showing me how to hold the peeler, as if I had no idea how to do anything. I felt like they thought I was stupid. Everyone, but the chefs, talked to me slowly and pointed at things, as if not speaking french meant I was slow and dumb.
Eventually, I got to move on from carrots. But almost everything I did, I messed up somehow. But, I kept telling myself everything was going to be okay, even though what I told myself did not seem to help at all. My heart was out of control, I felt hot, my chest hurt, and my hands felt sweaty. I kept going off to get water, to try calm myself down, which helped for a little but as soon as I got back to peeling potatoes or preparing some other food, I started to feel anxious and panicked again. The worst part was, I had no idea how to explain my feelings to anyone, so I stayed quite.
The only thing that I did well, the entire time I went, was making the vanilla pudding pots. And the only reason I did so well, was because I followed the simple instructions given to me. But even then I felt as if I was babied a bit. The young girl, that always seemed to be watching me, had to point out every little thing to me, for example telling me a heating hob was hot, after I turned it on, and then trying to explain to me what hot meant in french.
At break and lunch time on my first day, and throughout my whole time there, I was ignored and talked about, as if I was not there. I felt uncomfortable sitting at the table, and I started to skip lunch so I could spend time alone in the changing rooms. Then, on my first day, to end the day, I changed out of the uncomfortable shoes, as my feet were killing me, and changed into my ordinary shoes. Back in the kitchens, I slipped on the wet floor. You would think, that if someone slipped, and fell, you would help them up or at least see if they were alright. Nope! Everyone who saw, did nothing. I was even told to just get up and continue what I was doing.
The rest of the time I was there was basically the same. Except I never slipped and fell on the wet floor again. But everything else did not go well. The carrot peeling took longer not quicker each time I did it, I burned the chick peas, I was too weak and tired to grind the beans in this grinding machine thing. I felt worthless and thick the whole time I was there. And on top of that I was felt anxious and started having panic attacks. I would continue to calm myself down with cups of water, or try to spend time alone, now and then, in the bathrooms, which just started more comments among the girls. The girls started thinking I was taking drugs or something, as they kept asking me if I had tablets or something, but I had no idea how to answer them or talk to them about how I was feeling, and they would just go back to ignoring me.
The worst part about working in the kitchens, after the people treating me like a baby or explaining things to me really slowly when it was already obvious, was washing up. Each time I had to carry dirty dishes, or bowls or anything and help put it in the machine to wash them my hands would shake, and I would start to panic. I was always worried that I would break something, and above the sink was a sign that had an amount of money per item, for example something like 5 CHF next to a picture of a cup. So, each time I was in the kitchen I was constantly worried I would drop something and be charged. I even started disappearing to get water or go to the bathroom, to try hide the fact I had washing up to do.
I would break down back at home when explaining my day to my mum, and after refusing to get out the car one morning, to go in to work, my mum called the centre and told them that I had decided to quit.
I am glad that I left, and I feel much better mentally about things, and I never want to work in a kitchen again, unless it is at home cooking for family and friends. But I do admit, I miss going out every day and seeing the chef, and hearing him trying to practice his English.
I hope that I find another job in the future, that I will find easier and that will be much better suited for me.
Oh, and one more thing, if you ever feel anxious or have a panic attack don't do what I did, and not tell anyone that is around you. Because, I am sure there will be someone who will be very willing to help you and get you the help that you need.
Long story short...I hated it.
Why you ask?
Let me explain!
First of all, I never really wanted to go in the first place. It is hard to explain and I don't really want to go into that but I had to be persuaded to go after being given the placement. And, when I got there, things started to go downhill. Before I continue, I must say, I really liked the "head" chef, as he was very funny and encouraging but I must say the Swiss are not always the best at explaining things, especially to someone, like me, who is not fluent in their language. Yeah, you guessed it, this job that I had landed myself in was all in french and I, sadly, am not fluent. And that is where one of the biggest problems lay.
Let me start at the very beginning of this story.
When I arrived, on the first day, I was taken by one of the centre's organiser people. She was a really nice lady but my french was, and is not, the best to have a good conversation with someone like her.
So, she explained to me what I had to wear and we went over to a part of the building where I would get the uniform I needed to work in the kitchen. This uniform consisted of a pair of black trousers, a white button up chef shirt, and the most uncomfortable black boots I have ever put my feet in. The first thing that went wrong on my first day, was with the uniform and it was one of the most embarrassing things that has ever happened to me. So, in charge of the uniform at that particular time and day that I was there was a young man, of about my age. He did not smile once. So, I had to give my clothes size and foot size to him so he could pick out a uniform set that would fit me. The first and second time did not fit, the shoes were too small and the vests were not the right size, for some reason. This young man, had to go back and forth trying to get sizes that fit. Finally, that was done, and I put everything on. But, the look on the young man's face was not a happy look at all. I felt so bad, and nervous. I was sure from that very moment that the rest of the day would go badly. And I was not wrong.
When I arrived at the kitchen, I was explained what to do by the "head" chef, and he was really nice. He understood that my french was not the best, and tried his best to explain things, using a few English words he knew when he could. But of course, he could not stick to my side the whole time so he introduced me to this young lady, and told her to help me. Almost immediately I forgot her name, and she was rather cold towards me, especially after being told that I spoke very little french. When I asked her for help, she would point and not give any real help. And, she talked to the other young workers in the kitchen about me, thinking I understood no french at all. I was ignored, and made to feel unimportant. It was from then that a wave of anxiety came across me. I told myself everything was going to be alright. I told myself I could do everything that I put my mind to. I had the help I needed, if I called for it. I made up my mind firmly that everything would go well. It didn't.
After learning where everything was in the large kitchen, I was set to peeling carrots. I had to peel about 30 carrots in 25 minutes, or less. The quicker I was, the better. They had to be perfect, because the carrots and all the other food that was prepared in the kitchens, was for us workers, everyone who worked in that centre, and for nearby schools and businesses.
The carrots I peeled took me a full half hour to peel perfectly, if not longer. My hand was shaking, because I was so nervous and my heart was beating out of control. The longer I took, the more I panicked. The other young workers, in the vegetable section, watched me and whispered to each other on how slow I was. The girl, that was set to help me, kept showing me how to hold the peeler, as if I had no idea how to do anything. I felt like they thought I was stupid. Everyone, but the chefs, talked to me slowly and pointed at things, as if not speaking french meant I was slow and dumb.
Eventually, I got to move on from carrots. But almost everything I did, I messed up somehow. But, I kept telling myself everything was going to be okay, even though what I told myself did not seem to help at all. My heart was out of control, I felt hot, my chest hurt, and my hands felt sweaty. I kept going off to get water, to try calm myself down, which helped for a little but as soon as I got back to peeling potatoes or preparing some other food, I started to feel anxious and panicked again. The worst part was, I had no idea how to explain my feelings to anyone, so I stayed quite.
The only thing that I did well, the entire time I went, was making the vanilla pudding pots. And the only reason I did so well, was because I followed the simple instructions given to me. But even then I felt as if I was babied a bit. The young girl, that always seemed to be watching me, had to point out every little thing to me, for example telling me a heating hob was hot, after I turned it on, and then trying to explain to me what hot meant in french.
At break and lunch time on my first day, and throughout my whole time there, I was ignored and talked about, as if I was not there. I felt uncomfortable sitting at the table, and I started to skip lunch so I could spend time alone in the changing rooms. Then, on my first day, to end the day, I changed out of the uncomfortable shoes, as my feet were killing me, and changed into my ordinary shoes. Back in the kitchens, I slipped on the wet floor. You would think, that if someone slipped, and fell, you would help them up or at least see if they were alright. Nope! Everyone who saw, did nothing. I was even told to just get up and continue what I was doing.
The rest of the time I was there was basically the same. Except I never slipped and fell on the wet floor again. But everything else did not go well. The carrot peeling took longer not quicker each time I did it, I burned the chick peas, I was too weak and tired to grind the beans in this grinding machine thing. I felt worthless and thick the whole time I was there. And on top of that I was felt anxious and started having panic attacks. I would continue to calm myself down with cups of water, or try to spend time alone, now and then, in the bathrooms, which just started more comments among the girls. The girls started thinking I was taking drugs or something, as they kept asking me if I had tablets or something, but I had no idea how to answer them or talk to them about how I was feeling, and they would just go back to ignoring me.
The worst part about working in the kitchens, after the people treating me like a baby or explaining things to me really slowly when it was already obvious, was washing up. Each time I had to carry dirty dishes, or bowls or anything and help put it in the machine to wash them my hands would shake, and I would start to panic. I was always worried that I would break something, and above the sink was a sign that had an amount of money per item, for example something like 5 CHF next to a picture of a cup. So, each time I was in the kitchen I was constantly worried I would drop something and be charged. I even started disappearing to get water or go to the bathroom, to try hide the fact I had washing up to do.
I would break down back at home when explaining my day to my mum, and after refusing to get out the car one morning, to go in to work, my mum called the centre and told them that I had decided to quit.
I am glad that I left, and I feel much better mentally about things, and I never want to work in a kitchen again, unless it is at home cooking for family and friends. But I do admit, I miss going out every day and seeing the chef, and hearing him trying to practice his English.
I hope that I find another job in the future, that I will find easier and that will be much better suited for me.
Oh, and one more thing, if you ever feel anxious or have a panic attack don't do what I did, and not tell anyone that is around you. Because, I am sure there will be someone who will be very willing to help you and get you the help that you need.
That was very well said. Your mental, physical and emotional health is important. You are important. Keep trying. You'll make it 😃
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