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The Ivy
6.45 A.M. THE IVY. The day begins. The head plongeur — the chief washer, wiper, mopper, shifter, lifter, stacker, peeler, plucker and muttering-swearer - unlocks the heavy green double doors of the tradesmen’s entrance and goes down the stairs, two at a time, past the service bar, the wine cellar, the condiments cupboard, the chef’s glass-walled office, to the kitchen.
Outside it’s chilly, down here it’s warm. The conserved heat of thousands of dinners. A successful kitchen never knows what it is to be cold. Neon flickers and chunters over the room. Everything rests at attention. This kitchen looks like the engine room of a beached battleship, all iron and steel pipes and ducts, thick and corrugated, worn rough and smooth by use. It is a room that shrugs off the word ‘design’, like oil on a hot pan. It defies order or elegance. The equipment squats like sideboard sumos, nutted and bolted, defending their small territories.
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