Through the natural gloom of the bar I saw my friend’s dimples flourish as she let slip a quick smile. We had both tumbled into that place in which the other didn’t have to reply, as if the conversation could trot on perfectly well as a series of laughs and candle lit dimples forever.

But she continued her story:

“After my first shift I grabbed a snack and sat outside, Mike sat next to me and we chatted for a while. It was one of those totally weird master/student conversations. He saw that I was getting upset with the new menu, you know, having to adapt so quickly and all. He started giving me all this advice, like you don’t become a great chef until your first trip to the emergency ward. Regardless of how much sweat, of how many late nights and early mornings you work, regardless of all the tears — an extra something, he called it the ’missing ingredient’, is required of you before you can become a master in the kitchen; first you must literally bleed for it.”