Just A Simple Innkeeper E-Book

Maurice Holland

• Herausgeber: Inspiring Publishers / ASPG
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Just a Simple Innkeeper follows the authors humble beginnings from a small town in Ireland who found himself immersed in the world of hospitality and hotel management, which allowed him to travel and work around the world and meet a diverse set of people. This is a fun and quite inspiring story with some funny yarns mixed with some life philosophies.

The Author: Maurice Holland was born in Monaghan Ireland. He spent his entire working life in the hospitality industry. He lives in Brisbane with his wife, Cathie. They have three children and five grand children.

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2019 (Maurice Holland)

All rights reserved worldwide.

No part of this book can be stored, changed, sold, copied or transmitted in any form or by whatever means other than what is outlined in this book without the prior permission in writing of the person holding the copyright, except for the use of brief quotations and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publisher: Inspiring Publishers,P.O. Box 159, Calwell, ACT Australia 2905Email: [email protected]://www.inspiringpublishers.com

National Library of Australia The Prepublication Data Service

Author: Maurice Holland

Title: Just A Simple Innkeeper

Genre: Non-fiction

ISBN: 978-1-925908-85-5

This journey started in the summer of 1964, in Monaghan, Ireland. Monaghan was what is referred to as a market town. It was surrounded by agricultural land, where farming was the main stay of the local economy. Farmers came to town to sell their produce and livestock, replenish their stock of groceries, hardware, and clothing, and to partake of copious amounts of beer in the local pubs.

There were designated market days in the town, when the sidewalks would be lined with wagons offering sheep, pigs, and all sorts of fowl for sale. Horses and cattle were also featured, with designated spots where they stood for inspection. Obviously, this display of livestock produced mountains of horse, cow, and pig shit, and rivers of urine, which accumulated on the sidewalks throughout the day. It was not a pleasant sight, and an enormous cleaning job for the council workers the day after the sales. I recall walking to school and trying to avoid mountains of horse and cow manure on the pavements.

But it was all in the spirit of good wholesome commerce, and was, at that time, vital to the survival of the town. Market days are a thing of the past now and, like the rest of the country, the town has flourished since Ireland’s entry into the European Union.

Notwithstanding the raw vitality of market days, the town was quite pretty in its own way. It featured a number of very pleasant squares, a canal, a very impressive cathedral, and was surrounded by lakes and streams. As children, we spent summers roaming freely through hills and dales. Summers were endless. We swam in the lakes and fished in the rivers. We played football, robbed orchards and hunted for rabbits, and despite a very obvious scarcity of money, we had an idyllic childhood. I must say that I loved that town, and its wonderful down to earth, humorous, and very generous people.

My great grandfather had been a big shot in the town. He owned a pub, grocery store, land, and 16 houses. However, his son, my grandfather, managed to lose the lot somehow. And no explanation for the loss could be determined despite enquiries made by my brother and sister. Those who knew the details have all passed on, so we will never know, I suppose. Strange!

We were never really conscious of money, or the lack of it. Almost every family in town struggled somewhat to make ends meet. Ireland was a very young nation those days, with limited industrialisation. Jobs were hard to come by, and those lucky enough to have one were paid minimal wages. However, families survived from day to day, and somehow managed to feed and clothe tribes of children.

This experience made children quite independent and determined to somehow succeed. I recall that my school buddy, Joe, and I were quite entrepreneurial. We collected and sold scrap metal, hunted for return bottles in the town dump, sold holly at Christmas, worked at the hay in summer, and generally managed to be quite self-sufficient where pocket money was concerned.

In those days, there existed a very interesting source of income for a number of the townsfolk. This derived from the fact that Monaghan was, and is, located right on the border between the Republic of Ireland and the UK controlled Northern Ireland. The price of goods between the two tended to vary considerably. This gave rise to a very significant smuggling trade back and forth across the border. Food, alcohol, tobacco, fuel, and livestock were all fair game. Butter, in particular, was continually smuggled from the north into the south, as the price was subsidised in Northern Ireland by the British government, making it considerably cheaper than the same product in the south.

The smugglers were quite wonderful characters, and were prepared to drive trucks full of goods on byroads back and forth. They were often chased by police and customs officers and had to, from time to time, abandon a truck and head for the fields, with the constabulary in full pursuit. The families involved in this trade were somewhat admired by the townsfolk for their ingenuity and bravery.

Starting Out.

Having just completed my final year of secondary school in 1964, I was one of many awaiting the results of final examinations. The results would, to a great extent, determine my job prospects. So some degree of anxiety pervaded my thoughts.

I had struggled somewhat at school due to an administrative decision on the part of the school authorities. My first year class in secondary school was too large for the classroom, so the administrators, in their questionable wisdom, promoted three students to the second year class. I was one of them.

This resulted in quite significant disadvantage to the three students involved. Confronting subjects such as science, algebra, and the rest of the secondary school agenda, without having learned the fundamentals was indeed challenging. There was no tutoring to help us. We were left to our own designs and somehow expected to handle the situation. The stress level was significant each and every day at school, as we simply could not grasp the lessons. In fact, it was so challenging that my two colleagues quit school after only one year. I managed to survive, but not without some difficulty simply trying to keep up.

Under pressure to absorb as much as quickly as possible, I tended to skim through school books trying to identify the critical elements. I also lived in a certain fear of the teachers, who on the whole were not particularly patient with my dilemma.

I subsequently have always had a problem communicating upwards, which of course may have been due to a natural shyness, but I fear it had more to do with my schooling experience, and fear of the teachers. To this day, I feel that I suffered personal consequences related to my personality, my education, and my future prospects.

All that said, there are many people in the world who have had significantly worse experiences in their youth than mine, so I am always conscious of life’s blessings, and there have been many, to which I will relate as this parable unfolds.

The Leaving Certificate examination was a seven subject exam with a Pass or Honours mark, depending on performance. I had ambitiously chosen to seek honours in six subjects and pass in one, mathematics. An Honours result tended to translate well in the jobs market.

I recall a bright Sunday morning after church being advised by friends that the results had been announced the previous evening. Trepidation invaded my being, and I had to wait until the following day to get the results. A sleepless night, but to my great surprise and relief I passed with Honours!

Job offers started to evolve, as hoped. One attractive option was a position as an officer with the local council. A secure appointment with promotion prospects, and a good pension scheme. My family encouraged me to accept, which seemed my best option.

However, I was vaguely aware of a university scholarship scheme offered to graduating students by the county council. Tertiary education those days was not free in Ireland, and my family could simply not afford the expense. There were four scholarships to university, and four to what were known as Institutes of Technology. The top eight in the county were offered these scholarships. I was ninth, so missed out, I thought. However, the eighth placed student decided to pursue a teaching career, and I was therefore offered the eighth scholarship.

This unexpected development caused both joy and significant concern for my parents. My father was a postal worker on small wages, and while the scholarship paid my college fees, there was the considerable burden of funding my board and lodgings. Ours was a traditional large Irish Catholic family of seven children, with three still at school. We never wanted for food and clothing, but there was never any money for extras. Providing financial support through college for one of the children was not in the planning. Regardless, I was encouraged to explore the options at the various colleges.

The scholarship was provided to one of the Institutes of Technology in Dublin. Courses offered included engineering, architecture, planning, and the like. I had little interest in any of these and sought something more tactile, more people orientated.

One college featured an interesting option, Hotel Management. I had no background in hotels, nor was I particularly interested in the culinary arts, and had no exposure whatsoever to the finer things in life. I had organised tennis dances at the local hotel, and was mindful of the role played by the manager. The job seemed to revolve around the reception desk, and the restaurant and bar. Some administration was surely a requirement, but I was not familiar with this, as my interaction with the manager was limited to booking my dances, agreeing on a price, and a start and finish time. However, the manager seemed to be a contented and pleasant person, outgoing, and people orientated. And how hard could it be?

Introduction

I contacted the college and was invited for an interview at St Mary’s College of Catering and Domestic Science.

In addition to Hotel Management, there were courses in Dietetics, Institutional Management, Cookery Apprenticeships, and Event Management. The college was known by its street address, Cathal Brugha Street, the street being named in memory of a hero of the Irish struggle for independence.

The Domestic Science referred to a one year course where young ladies from the higher echelons of Dublin society learned the finer points of conducting a household. It was akin to a finishing school, preparing the ladies for society, and married life. This feature was an added bonus, as these ladies tended to be happy go lucky socialites who greatly enhanced the social life of the college.

Attending the interview involved what was then the significant and costly journey to Dublin, which is located approximately 100 kilometres from Monaghan. In order to avoid the expense of travel, my father arranged a lift for me with the local greengrocer, Frank Brady, who journeyed to the Dublin markets regularly to pick up produce. I was accompanied on the journey by a great school friend, Matt Gallagher, who had also secured a scholarship and was attending an interview.

Frank, the greengrocer, was a great philosopher, and a very slow driver. We departed Monaghan at 6am and arrived in Dublin at noon, having listened to Franks wisdom and assisted him with deliveries to various customers on the way. Frank considered himself a careful driver with the motto ‘better 30 minutes late than 30 years too soon’. I think we averaged 20 kilometres per hour.

Fortunately, my interview was in the afternoon. It was conducted by the college principal, Miss Boucher Hayes. An elegant lady possessed of great insight, who ruled the college with a certain discipline designed to uphold its reputation.

She enquired as to my interest in hotel management and went to great lengths to point out the limited prospects involved in the profession, together with the drudgery of long hours for little wages. She pointed out that I had the option to study more established career paths such as engineering or architecture, and that the rewards of those pursuits might be greater in the long run. Was I sure about my choice, she asked. To this day I do not know why I was so determined to pursue a career in hotels, but I indicated that my mind was made up, and that an innkeeper I would be. Miss Hayes bowed to my naivety and welcomed me to her flock.

Dublin

College commenced in September. My school friend Matt and I were again transported to Dublin by the greengrocer. We arrived with no lodgings and a total lack of familiarity with the nation’s capital. Obviously, the first priority was therefore to find a place to sleep. Cost was the major consideration in our search, and we managed to find dormitory style accommodation in a boarding house in Synge Street, famous as the birthplace of one illustrious Irishman, George Bernard Shaw. The house opposite our lodgings featured a plaque commemorating the great writer’s birth.

Thinking back I greatly admire the relaxed confidence my parents had in their 17 year old son. I had journeyed to Dublin with my friend Matt with very little money, no idea as to where we would find accommodation, and with very limited knowledge of the city. I doubt if today’s parents would be so relaxed, but then society was very different in those days.

There were six beds in every room, somewhat like modern day back packing. Breakfast was included and since lunch was provided at my college, I was ahead of the game. All I needed was the weekly rent and the bus fare. However, the six to a room situation became somewhat uncomfortable after a short while, and we embarked on a search for alternative accommodation.

As coincidence would have it, one of our room mates, Ken Kingston, was enrolled in the same course as myself, and he indicated that he too would be happy to join us in some alternative arrangement that met budget considerations. Ken struck me as being somewhat more mature than us. He smoked, drank, and was a man of the world. He also spoke fluent Gaelic. He was good company. Our search resulted in the three of us sharing part of a family house, with one bedroom and lounge room, located in the convenient suburb of Phibsboro. It was very basic, but convenient and cheap, and we were now three to a bedroom instead of six.

The College

St Marys College of Catering and Domestic Science was an institution staffed by outstanding administrators and lecturers. The Hotel Management faculty featured subjects in restaurant service, cookery, dietetics, wine knowledge, cost control, management principles, economics, accounting, and law.

Among the teachers were industry doyens who had led successful careers in some of Irelands and Europe’s best hotels. Head Chefs, Head Waiters, published cooks, functioning lawyers, accountants, and dietitians, all made contributions to our introduction to, and education in, the hotel industry. And this was no easy task given the raw material these illustrious teachers had to work with.

Most of my class colleagues were from country Ireland. Some had tried other careers and either failed or simply sought new horizons. Most were totally uninformed, with little or no knowledge of the industry. It must have been a considerable challenge for an individual experienced in the finer points of luxury hotel service to attempt to impart such knowledge and sophistication to the sons and daughters of postmen and farmers.

Most of my classmates were like myself, brought up in rough and tumble family situations, where table manners were pretty basic, and food was only ever considered as nourishment to keep body and soul together. The world of hotels and the refined atmosphere of Cathal Brugha St was a strange place indeed.

Our first year at the college was an introduction to the fundamentals of the industry. These initial teachings related to restaurant service and cooking, together with lessons in cost control, and an introduction to dietetics. Interesting that dietary considerations were included in the course so long ago. Quite an enlightened aspect of the curriculum.

Much time was spent in the presence of the suave and sophisticated restaurant manager, Kevin O’Rourke. This gentleman had spent his entire career in luxury hotel restaurants, and was possessed of an encyclopaedic knowledge of the finer points of restaurant service. He was a patient and enthusiastic teacher, who spent endless time and effort teaching us the rudiments of service, which included setting tables, carrying plates, folding napkins, which side to serve and clear, and how to greet and treat customers.

From there we graduated to the finer points of Service a l’Anglaise, Service a la Francaise, and Service a la Russe. These methods of service had evolved from the great houses of Europe and had been, in a way, handed down to the luxury hotel world.

Nowadays service tends to be limited to English style, which involves a waiter serving food from a platter to each guest, or French style, where a number of dishes are placed on the dining table at the same time, for the guests to help themselves, sometimes referred to as family style. Of course, there are various other methods of serving food such as plate service, buffets and the like. But in the luxury world, English service tends to be the norm.

However, most free standing restaurants now use simple plate service where the food comes from the kitchen already arranged on a plate. This method was frowned upon in former days, but chefs now prefer it as they have the final say on how the food is presented on the plate. Waiters tend to mess things up serving from a platter!

O’Rourke also regaled us with fascinating stories of the luxury hotel world. Grand banquets, royal events, giant personalities, famous chefs, and simply the hedonist mystery of it all conjured up dreams of a fascinating career for all of us. I must say that I was immediately smitten by the whole affair. I actually felt, perhaps, like an innocent country boy entering into service in one of the great houses of yesteryear. Yes, I was being trained to provide sophisticated service to wealthy clients but I loved it. I was entranced by the whole experience. I have always loved the industry. The sheer humanity of it has always been intoxicating.

Within a few weeks we became competent enough to embark on the nerve racking task of serving the teacher customers in the dining room. This was indeed an intimidating experience, as we were being observed by the teachers, and the illustrious O’Rourke, at the same time. Frequent accidents occurred, of course, with food or beverage ending up in teachers laps. Young lads from the country trying to master silver service using a spoon and fork to serve meat and vegetable creations from a silver salver to a dining plate, was fraught with danger. The teachers, however, were mostly understanding, although going back to college with food stains was not exactly their expectation. But the teachers did enjoy a free lunch of generally excellent food, so I dare say it was worth the risk.

Next we embarked on our mission in the kitchens. Learning to cook was a fascinating experience. This was cooking of a type that none of us had ever experienced. The Repertoire De La Cuisine, written by a student of the great chef, Escoffier, and essentially recording Escoffier’s menus and methods, was to become our reference. Escoffier was known as the King of Chefs and the Chef of Kings. He simplified French food adding fresh ingredients and modernising the ornate style. Escoffier was the director of cooking at the Savoy in London when it opened.

However, before we were permitted to embark on anything close to a sophisticated creation, we were schooled in the basics. This included lessons on how to wear a chefs uniform, how to peel potatoes, how to chop parsley, and so on. Not all of my classmates were natural cooks, which became quite evident in the early stages.

On the other hand, one or two had the natural gift, and excelled in the kitchens throughout the course. Indeed, one in particular, Jim Morris, became a noted restauranteur in Stratford, Canada, owning and operating a wonderful and renowned restaurant and cooking school, known as Rundles.

The majority of us made a worthwhile effort, and mastered much of what was being presented. Items produced in the kitchens were either served to the teachers in the dining room or provided to the students in the cafeteria. Often we would be served the food we had cooked prior to lunch, so if it was not up to standard, we had no one to blame but ourselves.

On one occasion we had been introduced to the art of cooking game. The game consisted of pheasant, snipe, rabbit, and various other extraordinary items. All of it had been ‘hung’ which really meant it had been allowed to ferment to a point where a pungent smell was obvious, and a few maggots too. This process is greatly appreciated by connoisseurs of game meat, but was certainly not to our liking. Unfortunately, when we got to the cafeteria for lunch, our game dishes were what we were served. I never did develop the taste.

Domestic Life

Life in our lodgings was pretty basic. We were all dependent upon a weekly postal delivery of funds from home. This normally arrived on a Friday. Apart from rent money, there was just enough to pay for food. And the walk to college was only about five kilometres, so there was no need to spend money on the bus. We got by, as long as the money arrived on the Friday.

On one occasion it was delayed and I recall that my total funds amounted to two shillings and sixpence, or the old half crown, 50 cents in today’s money. Not much to get through the weekend, but I thought I could buy a couple of eggs and a loaf of bread, and that would solve any hunger issues.

My two flatmates were in a similar bind. Obviously, something had gone wrong with the Irish postal service. They too were skint of funds. However, they had a greater dilemma than me. They both smoked and faced the prospect of a whole weekend without a nicotine charge. They were aware that I had some meagre funds which I intended spending on food, so they set about convincing me to buy cigarettes instead.

I resisted for a while, but then, after much beseeching from my deprived mates, I gave in and bought a packet of Carrols Number One, instead of the food. This brought great cheer to the two desperates, but it left all three of us without anything to eat for the weekend. A sad prospect indeed. However, where there is life there is always hope.

The next morning I decided to walk to the college to see if I could scrounge a lunch in the cafeteria, although we were not entitled to dine on the weekends. I sauntered down the streets of Dublin engaged in my usual preoccupation of looking at car number plates. I don’t know why, but all my life I have been able to remember the number plates of most of my friends cars. Low and behold, I spotted a very familiar number plate. It belonged to my wonderful sister Nora’s fiancé, Sean McCionna.

The happy couple were obviously in Dublin for a romantic weekend, and I am sure the last person they wanted to see was the feckless brother. Regardless, I raced after the car and managed to catch up with them at a traffic light. They feigned great delight at seeing me, but it was nothing compared to my relief in seeing them.

I was treated to lunch at the Paradiso restaurant, and when departing, my beautiful sister gave me a whole five pounds. Wow! I was set for the weekend. And my flatmates shared in the spoils when I brought home milk, bread and a few other staples to see us through and, of course, another pack of cigarettes!

Galway

For the duration of the first college summer break, we were expected to gain practical restaurant experience working in a college approved hotel. A number of major hotels had a tradition of employing college students for the summer period. The college generally represented a source of keen and enthusiastic workers, suitable to assist the hotels over the traditional summer tourist season.

Three colleagues and I chose the Great Southern Hotel in Galway, a thriving tourist destination and fine hotel on Ireland’s west coast. We were employed as commis waiters, which is basically on the lowest rung of the hotel hierarchy. The term ‘commis’ refers to an apprentice, so we were apprentice waiters. In luxury restaurant operations the commis carries the food from the kitchen to the dining room, sets and clears tables, and generally handles all the menial jobs the experienced waiters consider beneath them.

I was attached to a wily character called John Lally, who had worked in the main dining room of the hotel for many years. Lally was a hard task master and had little time or patience for college students. He was gruff, and barked instructions endlessly. But I was a fast learner and responded to Lally’s instructions efficiently. I carried large trays of food from the kitchen, quickly cleared tables, and generally anticipated Lally’s orders.

One order I recall was my duty to gather and save tea spoons. I don’t know why, but for generations tea spoons were a scarce commodity in most busy hotel dining rooms. Waiters tended to gather and store them in their pockets, and most times they were unwashed. Perhaps this is why there was a shortage! In any case, I became quite adept at finding spoons, much to Lally’s delight.

My waiting skills were improving, and within a short period, I could carry three plates in one hand and a fourth in the other. However, I had difficulty mastering the technique of carrying three plates with a glass of liquid on each, all in one hand. I could carry two, and a third in the other hand but this was not very efficient, as I would have to return to the kitchen for the fourth item, if there were four people dining.

One of my fellow workers, a Swiss gentleman named Jimmy Casada, knew of my difficulty in this regard and kept teasing me as I ran back and forth. Jimmy of course was a master of the art and could carry any array of dishes with a flourish.

One day I was required to serve four glasses of tomato juice on plates with doyleys, to a party of American tourists. Jimmy was close by and challenged me to carry all four at once. I could not resist, so I set off with three plates balanced precariously in one hand, and one in the other. I got through the double doors to the restaurant which was no mean feat, and approached the table. One of the party was a rather large and buxom lady who was sitting somewhat side on to the table. I chose her to serve the first juice and just as I was laying it on the table the glass wobbled. I reacted instinctively by trying to right the wobbly glass which resulted in all four glasses of tomato juice tumbling onto this lady’s bosom.

I was mortified, and so shocked that I almost made the situation worse by my inclination to wipe down the front of her dress. Fortunately, I didn’t, and in any case the lady had recoiled in horror as she anticipated my thought process. Of course, the head waiter and all sorts of managers were on the scene immediately, offering profuse apologies. I was feeling like the biggest dope, and hoping the floor would open up and swallow me. And out of the corner of my eye I could see Jimmy giggling to himself.

Commis waiters were given the task of handling the room service breakfast shift, a 6am start with breakfast served from 7am. As young men enjoying the summer in a happening place like Galway, we were often out late at night. So early rising was often a challenge. However, if we slept in, we would be awakened by the thunderous voice of the head waiter, Pat Lawless, banging the door and screaming ‘any chance lads, any fucking chance’. What a wake up!

Room Service breakfast was fun, and it was interesting to find hotel guests in various states of undress, and not remotely bothered. The waiters tended to be more embarrassed than the customers.

The room service trays had to be collected after breakfast, and this could be quite lucrative as many of the guests left cash tips on the them. There was one waiter who got further enjoyment from this exercise, as he would open the window of the room and pelt boiled egg leftovers at innocent strollers in Eyre Square. Complaints to the hotel management were met with disbelief, and a suggestion that it must have been birds dropping the missiles. It could not have come from the Great Southern. Certainly not!

After three months working at the Great Southern we had become quite competent in the skills of restaurant and hotel banquet service. It was now time to return to college. We left the hotel on good terms, and were invited back to work during the weekend of the Galway Oyster Festival, which we gladly accepted.

Second Year

The second year of college was essentially more of the same but at a higher level. We could now operate efficiently in the restaurant and had absorbed the basics of the culinary world. Our three months in real hotel situations had bestowed a certain confidence in all of us, although some bad habits picked up through the summer had to be corrected.

We spent more time in the college kitchens developing our cooking skills. We also began to focus on more weighty subjects such as management principles, cost control, law, economics, accountancy and dietary considerations.

I had moved to more salubrious accommodation with two colleagues who were to become great friends in later life, Billy Munnelly, who became a renowned wine expert, and Jim Morris of the restaurant fame, and my school friend, Matt. Now we were only two to a room so things were looking up. In addition, our skills as experienced waiters resulted in many of us gaining casual evening work at the illustrious Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, where we served at the various banquets. I had saved a little money from my summer work, and together with the income from the Shelbourne, it meant that I no longer required any funding from my parents. I can only imagine what an enormous relief this must have been for them.

Part Time Work.