the story of L’Anglais – Part 1

Ah, it’s on days like these that I think back to my time spent working in the kitchen at Club ______. You see, I was the celebrated soup chef and the kitchen was my castle. It was a time when the soup de jour didn’t just mean soup of the day.

If you craved a nibble while sitting back in a garden of a dim lit underground bordello, I was your guy. Pol Pot came thirsting for Pho, I provided, blood red with bird’s eye chilies no doubt. Napoleon faime for the borscht he never discovered after failing to pass Leipzig – the garcon got served. Mussolini even shelved his nonna’s zuppa fredda alla menta recipe for the Club’s very own, Flattering, but I owe most of my knowledge to the lovely Giada de Laurentiis and her spice bundle technique.

Well, I could just wax on and on about soup, but I really wanted to explain how I first met L’Anglais. Back then we only knew him as Trent, but that’s another story innitself. Trent held down a full spectrum of jobs in the short time we worked together. First he was the lowly scrubber aka dish pig. How he used to bitch and whine about the excessive gruyere from my signature soupe a l’onion. All I could say was the people demand gratine.

Next he graduated to booth scrubber: with the dj spinning short radio edits to maximize profit, $10/song private show involve plenty of haste and waste, as Trent oft lamented. I think he was just angry concerning the diminishing returns on his hard work. Did I mention Trent never received a paycheck the entire time he worked at the Club – he simply took pay in the form of 2 songs per hour worked and grazed at the buffet for nourishment. Towards the end of the night, the dj’s often switched from mp3 to vinyl, so they could manually speed up songs and rarely does a staggering drunk figure out they aren’t listening to the chipmunks soundtrack.

On a normal night, Trent would not sleep a blink. The job did not allow it. Lucky for him, there were times when one or two from the local roster would grant him a couple minutes of mid day shut eye in their basement tanning beds. I suppose that partly explains his rich, near-Polynesian glow.

It wasn’t long before it came to be known that Trent was a natural with the hockey stick and that bumped him straight to the upper echelon of peeler bar jobs: the panty catcher. At a time when most pros were switching to carbon or composite, Trent stayed true to wood – Sherwood, obviously. “Composites give me cement hands, with wood, I’m like a log free from the log jam.” Huh? Sometimes his scrambled thoughts could be blamed on his mixed Anglo-Franco upbringing, but often times not.

Then, in the midst of a hostile takeover bid from local triad, HA management was forced to restructure internally and Trent’s pension benefits were tossed aside in the process. I should mention, upon signing his contract the medical benefits were paid up front in the form of 1 rock, 1 bud, 1 bag a day while the pension clause included a lifetime allotment of 2, 2 song shows per day, ’til death, non-transferable, unfortunately.

Without guaranteed daily ladies to usher him to his death bed, Trent hit the road in search of a new career…


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