Unless someone murders it, of course.
Many years ago, back in the days of power cuts and soaring petrol prices, yes, I am talking about when I were a lad, I had a Chelsea Football Club mug. Today I realize it was hideous, both in appearance and price, a price my Grandfather paid because he knew I didn’t just want it, I needed it. Without this mug I would waste away and die a miserable lonely death.
Naturally, I was upset when my brother poured thinners into it so he could rinse off his paint brushes and an argument ensued. When Father stormed in to separate us, he ended the argument by dashing the mug to smithereens on the kitchen floor. For a young lad and ardent Chelsea fan in the days of Peter Osgood and Bonetti the Cat and losing to Sunderland in the FA Cup final, this was very nearly a mortal blow. They hadn’t invented Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in those days so what I was suffering from back then was a lack of an ability to pull myself together. I never believed I could feel a material loss so keenly again.
Victorinox knives are so good, so well made, proud but mortal owners are leaving them to their offspring. With my new restaurant nearly finished, I had to have a set. Sharp knives aren’t dangerous in the kitchen, blunt ones are. Cooking should be a pleasure, not a chore and good quality tools and equipment, as they do in any trade, make all the difference. These knives would not only be my companions for life, I would hand them down to little Alex.
So just how do you destroy one of these knives? Easy, you just lend it to an Angolan to cut a fish up.
My Victorinox 7.7123.25 drop forged steel chef’s knife. A full set of these 7 series knives requires many beer tokens.
How did she do that much damage to my knife? I haven’t a clue. Clearly she was dissatisfied with the edge and sharpened it as they do all knives here on a bit of concrete. You have to be giving it some stick, though, to actually chip chunks out of the blade chopping a bleeding fish up.
Marcia, did I say Marcia? I meant this anonymous but fairly typical Angolan (when it comes to handling decent tools) could not understand why I was so dismayed. The restaurant is not even open yet and she has destroyed my big chef’s knife.
I was as gutted as the fish. I was as sad as when I gathered up the shards of my Chelsea mug all those years ago. Someone I loved so dearly had done this to me. How could they, my companions for life?