I get excited about things, and often very quickly.  I make no apologies for this.  It’s part of who I am.  But unfortunately, it does often result in me speaking before thinking.  Which in turn often results in me having to make apologies.  Sigh.  Every now and then though, I do manage to restrain myself.  This week was one of those times, but it was a very near miss!

After a year of trying other things, I have recently returned to a job at a cafe where I had previously worked for four years.  It has felt like coming home, and seeing all the regular customers again has been a real treat.  Thankfully, I’ve managed to remember most of their names.  And the names that I haven’t been able to recall on the spot have usually popped back into my head again at some stage, either later that day or at some other random time.  

A year is quite a long time and there have been some noticeable changes.  Little baby customers are now toddlers, toddler customers are now little people who drink “fluffies”, and the little people customers are now not our week-day customers at all because they’ve grown into big kids who go to school (sad face). 

Of course, there have been some changes amongst the more grown up clientele as well.  It has been precious to hear their stories and see their photos – the happy and the sad.  It is a community that is dear to my heart.

One thing that has not changed is poached eggs.  Ah the drama that is poached eggs.  I can generally pull off a pretty good one, but each egg is its own adventure and many an unknown chicken has received insults when the egg produced has proved noncompliant.

I do remember having a conversation about egg poaching with a gentleman customer a few years ago.  He was a regular orderer of poached eggs and on this particular occassion had brought some friends with him, who he then proceeded to tell all about how good our poached eggs were.  Poached eggs were then ordered.  Oh the pressure!  Thankfully, the chickens had provided compliant eggs that day and our reputation remained intact.  The customer had quizzed me on the tricks of the perfect poached egg.  I confidently gave him a few pointers.  Of course, I didn’t let on about the actual amount of angst that goes on behind the scenes and around the boiling egg-water pot.  Nor the amount of hard-working chickens that have been verbally assaulted in the process!

Then a few days ago, a gentleman customer came into the cafe, and I had a very strong feeling that I had seen him before.  I knew his face well and I recognised his voice.  There had been some changes – he was certainly greyer than before and, strangely, rather shorter than I remembered.  Where did I know him from?  I had met so many people during my year away from the cafe.  Was it someone I knew from another job, a French class, church, or maybe just the supermarket?  He did seem very familiar, but how well did I actually know him?  And did he know me?

I mulled this over, while I made up his order of grilled cheese on toast.  He and his companion seemed genuinely pleased with this simple dish as I placed it before them and I very nearly asked him where I knew him from.  Very nearly, but not quite.

Upon returning to the cafe kitchen, it suddenly dawned on me.  He was the gentleman customer who had asked me for tips about poaching eggs.  Aha, that was it!  He had obviously wanted to try another dish today, but yes I had previously blessed him with my egg-poaching knowledge.  I wondered how he had progressed with his own egg-poaching journey?  I considered asking him, but then decided against it.  It is not an easy skill to master after all and I wouldn’t want to embarrass him in front of his companion.  

Things were busy in the kitchen, and the gentleman and his friend left without me seeing them go.  I didn’t think too much about the encounter again, until a while later my boss (Mr Big Heart), came into the kitchen and asked if I had recognised the TV Master Chef judge who was in earlier.  What?  Who?  My head did a wee spinny thing and the puzzle pieces that had so nicely formed the whole egg-poach-chat-man picture jumped right up, twirled around and landed down again, but this time into a picture of the Master Chef judge.  Yes, it was him.  The man I had served a simple grilled cheese to (it was what he had ordered, after all) was in fact a judge on the Master Chef television series.  And the very same man that I had come oh so close to casually saying “Hey, I’m back working here again, and I remember you.  You’re the guy who asked me how to poach an egg!  Have you managed to “crack it”?  Snort, chuckle, slap on the back (no, I would never have actually slapped him on the back – or would I?…). 

Horror upon horrors, can you imagine it?  It could have easily been so bad!  I know myself, and it really, really could have been awfully, awfully bad.  Want-the-floor-to-swallow-me-up kind of bad!

But it wasn’t.  Thankfully, mercifully I had on this occasion restrained myself.

Gosh and golly was I ever glad.  I think Mr Big Heart was probably very glad too.

And to bring in a French connection I will say this – learning French is not easy, and even though one day it will hopefully be my second language, I will probably always have to think a bit before I speak it.

For me, and for everyone else, this will be a good thing. A très, très good thing!

Bon appétit