Heat, Humidity, and Humility: Perseverance

First kitchen that nearly broke me wasn’t in the UK. It was back home in Bermuda.

Little hotel restaurant, tiny line, big heat. The kind of heat that sit on your shoulders and whisper, “You sure you built for this, bie?”

That night, a cruise ship had docked and the hotel was rammed. Before the sun even set, the ticket printer started its evil song:

Brrrrt. Brrrrt. Brrrrt.

Fish cakes. Wahoo. Burgers. Pasta. Everybody wantin’ food “quick-quick” like we had magic wands instead of fryers.

I looked up at the rail – tickets packed tight. Looked down at my station – half-prepped, clutter everywhere, pans screamin’ hot. My hands started shakin’ just a little.

In my head:

“Will, you too slow.”

“You mess this up, you sink the whole service.”

For a second, the kitchen felt small. Just me, the flames, and the fear.

Then my senior line cook – old Bermudian bai, cool as ice – brushed past me, bumped my shoulder and muttered:

“Easy, Will. One plate at a time, bie. Da’s it.”

I took a breath. Just one plate.

Fish, medium. Veg, mash, sauce.

Season. Pan hot. Skin side down. Listen for that sizzle. Baste. Plate. Wipe. Pass.

“Pick up fish medium!” I called.

One plate. Then another. Then another.

The more I focused on just the next move, the quieter the panic got. By the end of the night, my feet were dead, my jacket soaked – but I was still standin’. Bermuda taught me my first real kitchen lesson:

Don’t beat the rush. Beat the next plate.

Years later in the UK, different kitchen, same feeling.

It was a busy Saturday in a gastropub. Full bookings. One cook down. I was coverin’ starters and mains, tickets stackin’ higher than my confidence.

Roasts, steaks, vegan, gluten-free, sides for days. The printer went off and my chest tightened. I was chasin’ orders, not controllin’ them. Starters late, mains draggin’, head chef’s eyes turnin’ sharp.

“Will, where’s table 12?”

“Will, I need those mains now.”

“Will, that steak’s dyin’!”

My hands started that same little shake from Bermuda. For a moment, I wanted to walk out the back door, leave the jacket, and be done with it.

Then that old voice came back, same accent, same tone:

“One plate at a time, bie. Break it down.”

I stopped for half a second.

Not to quit. To reset.

I grabbed the tickets, stacked them proper, and called out:

“Alright – two cod, three burgers, one veg pie. Sides: four chips, three mash. I’m six minutes on mains!”

Whole kitchen shifted. Front-of-house knew what to tell guests. Head chef heard I had a plan. Suddenly I wasn’t drownin’ – I was drivin’.

Steaks down. Fish in. Veg on. Plates up.

Rush passed. Nobody died. Nobody quit.

On the train home that night, legs throbbin’, I realised something simple:

Bermuda taught me heart in the heat.

The UK taught me discipline in the chaos.

Put together, they taught me perseverance.

Not some big, dramatic hero moment. Just this: Show up on time. Own your mistakes.

Reset when you’re rattled. And when it all feels too much?

You look at the tickets, breathe, and say:

“Alright. One more plate.”