Every chef has a freezer. Mine is a 4 metre by 3 metre cube, set to minus 18, with a single stool and a shelf for contemplation. I have wept there for the loss of a perfect hollandaise, a lost mentor and a dropped crème brûlée.
The cold is a comfort. The silence is a gift. The only disturbance is the faint, humming conversation of 80 kilos of frozen mackerel. Sometimes, if I listen closely, I swear they are saying ‘there, there.’ I have a rule that no chef shall be disturbed in the freezer for less than ten minutes. It has saved three marriages and one very fine fricassée.
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