A 7-minute read

One evening, at a rather grand black tie dinner, I watched a man who had clearly enjoyed one too many drinks decide that a waiter was responsible for everything wrong with his evening.

"This grilled cheese is cold and tasteless, and your service is as slow as a turtle with a broken foot."

Now, I have eaten some questionable grilled cheese sandwiches in my time, but I have never felt the need to hold the waiter personally responsible for the decline of Western civilisation.

The young man stood there, took the criticism without a word, collected the plate, and walked away with his back straight. I found him a little later, standing quietly near the kitchen doors, away from the noise of the dining room.

I told him not to waste another moment worrying about people like that. Then, because I have always believed a little laughter can rescue a dreadful evening, I told him a joke.

"Do you know the difference between that gentleman and a frog?" He shook his head. "One is green with rage, disliked by everyone, and covered in warts. The other is a frog."

He laughed. Properly laughed. The sort of laugh that starts somewhere in your stomach and catches you by surprise. For a moment, he forgot about the unpleasant man at the table.

A little later, I caught sight of myself in a mirror. There I stood, a rather rotund James Bond in a white dinner jacket, polished black shoes, and a Perry Ellis belt pulled so tightly around my waist that the designer's name had practically been embossed into my belly button. In my hand was a club soda, masquerading rather unsuccessfully as a martini.

Less 007 Spectre, more 007 Buffet.

A Bond built for the casino buffet rather than the baccarat table. I had to laugh. And then, standing there in my ridiculous finery, I found myself thinking about a very different time in my life.

Celebration, Florida

When I first arrived in America from England, I had two thousand dollars in my pocket, no Green Card, and an enormous amount of optimism.

I had trained hard as a chef, won a few awards, and been fortunate enough to receive recognition for my cooking. That helped me obtain permission to remain in America as a chef of extraordinary ability. Unfortunately, extraordinary ability didn't automatically provide everything I needed to establish a working life. It would be five long years before my immigration paperwork and Social Security arrangements were finally sorted out.

During those years, my former wife and I rented a little garage apartment in Celebration, Florida, not far from Kissimmee.

Money was terribly tight.

We took whatever work we could find. Pulling weeds in the Florida sunshine, washing and waxing cars, cleaning houses, and scrubbing toilets. Only a few months earlier, I had been running a restaurant, reading rather flattering reviews, and making my first television appearances. Now I was kneeling on somebody else's bathroom floor, armed with a scrubbing brush and a bottle of cleaning solution.

Life has a wonderful way of reminding you that yesterday's applause doesn't necessarily pay tomorrow's rent.

I was never ashamed of working hard. My grandmother had raised me to understand that an honest day's work was something to be proud of, whether you were cooking in a beautiful restaurant or scrubbing somebody's toilet. But I'd be lying if I said my pride didn't take a few knocks.

There were mornings when I'd catch myself thinking, "I'm a chef. What am I doing here?" And then I'd feel rather foolish for thinking it. I think what hurt most was the feeling of being stuck. I knew what I could do in a kitchen, but I couldn't get on with doing it. There were days when I wondered whether coming to America had been the right decision. But I never wanted to give up.

Our suppers were simple. Rice bowls, mostly, with whatever vegetables we could afford. A little onion, perhaps some carrots, a handful of greens. I would cook the rice carefully, season the vegetables, and try to make something lovely from very little.

I had cooked elaborate meals in professional kitchens, but in that little garage apartment I discovered just how much pleasure could come from making something good with almost nothing. We were trying to build a life, and sometimes that meant finding happiness in the smallest things.

Those years taught me a great deal about people. Most of the people we met in Celebration were wonderfully kind. I still have dear friends there, and the town will always have a special place in my heart.

Seth and his family were among the greatest gifts those years gave me. They didn't seem particularly interested in what awards I'd won or which restaurants I'd worked in. They were interested in me. They invited me into their home, included me in family life, and treated me as though I'd always belonged. I never felt I had to impress anyone or explain why my circumstances were so different from what I'd imagined.

I could simply be Jon.

Somewhere along the way, I became their family member from across the pond. When you're far from home, sometimes the greatest kindness isn't someone doing something extraordinary for you.

It's someone making room for you in their ordinary life.

But, of course, not everyone was quite so generous.

The Patio

One afternoon, a wealthy homeowner hired me to clean his patio. Not with a pressure washer, you understand. With a small scrubbing brush. Every single brick.

It was one of those Florida afternoons when the heat seems to rise from the ground and settle on your shoulders. My canvas shorts were soaked through, my knees were aching, and the bricks appeared to stretch towards the horizon.

The homeowner stood nearby, holding a glass of iced tea. I remember the sound of the ice cubes clinking against the crystal. He watched me work. He never offered me a drink.

After a while, he turned towards a guest and said, loudly enough for me to hear, "It's good to know he's finally earning his keep."

I didn't look up. Part of me wanted to say something. I could have told him about the restaurants I'd worked in, the awards I'd won, and the life I'd left behind in England. But what would that have achieved? I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing that his words had affected me. So I dipped my brush into the water and moved on to the next brick.

He saw a man cleaning his patio. He didn't see the years of work that had brought me to America, the dreams I was trying to build, or the person beyond the scrubbing brush.

“I didn't think cleaning a patio was beneath me. I thought the way he treated someone cleaning his patio was beneath him.”

Eventually, after five long years, the news I had been waiting for finally arrived. I was visiting friends at their home in Phillips Landing when I received my approval in the mail. I opened the letter and read it. Then I read it again.

And I cried.

Not a discreet little tear, either. I cried with sheer joy and happiness. I showed the letter to everyone. My friends were absolutely delighted. There were smiles, congratulations, and the wonderful feeling that people who had watched me struggle were now sharing in something I had dreamed about for years.

I had my Green Card. Extraordinary ability, it turned out, had needed five years of very ordinary patience.

I have been fortunate enough to enjoy some wonderful experiences since those days. I've cooked for remarkable people, travelled to beautiful places, and found myself in rooms I could scarcely have imagined while scrubbing bricks in Celebration. But I wouldn't trade those years. They introduced me to people whose kindness I will never forget.

Thank You

Which brings me back to that dinner.

These days, whenever I attend an event, I find myself paying particular attention to the people who make the evening possible. The waiters carrying trays through crowded rooms. The cooks working behind kitchen doors. The cleaners who arrive long before the guests and leave long after everyone has gone home.

I know something about their work. And I know what it feels like to stand in front of someone who doesn't bother to see you.

Even when I don't take a canapé from a passing tray, I try to look the person carrying it in the eye and say thank you. Two little words. They cost absolutely nothing. And yet I know how much they can mean.

Before that evening ended, one of the young waiter's friends came over to thank me for cheering him up. It was a lovely gesture, although I hadn't done anything particularly remarkable. I'd simply treated someone the way I would hope to be treated myself.

It reminded me of Seth and his family, of the people who opened their doors to a young Englishman with very little money, and of the friends who celebrated when that long awaited letter finally arrived.

I still love a grand evening. I love the good food, the conversation, the laughter, and the excuse to dress up like an overweight secret agent who has misplaced his Aston Martin. But I never want to become the sort of man who forgets what it feels like to be on the other side of the table.

And every so often, when someone is unkind to a waiter or dismissive towards a cleaner, I find myself remembering that patio in Celebration.

The Florida sunshine.

The scrubbing brush in my hand.

And the ice clinking in a crystal glass.

A question for you: How do you treat the people who can do nothing for you?