Kit Delamain

I have been in charge of a pizzeria in St John’s Wood for less than a year and already I feel misanthropy taking hold. Most notably, a complete disdain for the general public; I used to think I hated them, but now I can confirm that I definitely, really, hate them. Service is the heart of the hospitality industry, but there’s a certain kind of person who mistakes the waiters and chefs for a cadre of private staff. I used to moan, but now I just numbly get on with putting ketchup in a ramekin for them to have with their sweetcorned pizza. They win – they always win. Then there is the sycophancy. Is there anything more embarrassing than a fully grown man going doe-eyed at the thought of a mention on a website or Instagram page?

I do not want to dwell on the circumstances, except to say that my phone was stolen and that London is becoming a reeking cesspool of criminality. Perhaps, also, that anyone caught cycling a Lime Bike without a clean criminal record should have the book thrown at them. The result of all this has been a lot of ugly self pity to the tune of ‘why me?’ The worst part was that at the time of snatching, my phone was unlocked, and therefore wide open for fraudulent activity. I disabled all online banking in time, but that didn’t stop the cretin from ordering himself a couple of Ubers and very nearly a PS5. In a brainwave that was pure Conan Doyle, I looked at the addresses these were ordered to, and they were all to the same flat – a clue.

My brother went to Japan recently, and I asked him to buy me a knife. As anyone who has entered the bowels of a restaurant knows, Japanese blades are highly sought after. I had to decide between an 18cm utility knife or a metre-long Maguro bōchō. The carbon steel of the latter can fillet a 500-pound tuna in a single cut. In Japan, it is wielded by two highly skilled fish butchers, and it usually comes with a wooden scabbard as protection for the blade – and anyone standing near it. The Maguro bōchō was created purely in a culinary capacity, not as a weapon of war Boringly, I opted for the utility knife. I reasoned that I could always buy a razor-sharp, 24-inch blade online at a later date. However, my hopes have been dashed.

It’s a bright autumn morning and I’m first through the doors. There are only two shops that can inspire such a disregard for my finances, and the other is Swedish. Today I find myself in Nisbets, and the first rule of Nisbets is not to bring a shopping list. If you’ve not heard of it, Nisbets is a catering supply shop, with outlets all across country. Every professional chef that has ever cooked for you will have spent a small fortune in Nisbets, some of it on their restaurant’s business card and likely even more from their own dwindling debit account. What is a hobby if not a means of spending all of your disposable income in ways that only make sense to a handful of other weirdos? Unlike online stores, buyers can go and fondle the utensils in one of their 26 shops.

At this time of year, the heat of Naples wakes me up around 7. A five kilometre jog takes me over Monte Echia, from where I can see Vesuvius, Capri and the city below me framed in bright blue. After a cool shower, I go to a café for breakfast: a pastry and puddle of strong coffee paid for out of loose change. I spend the day sweating in front of a pizza oven, before strolling home, stopping to pick up some pungent tomatoes and red wine for dinner. Truly, this is a life I dreamt of, so why do I go to bed each night wracked with anxiety? If life is slow here, it’s out of necessity La dolce vita, the sweet life, is a term I heard before I even knew Fellini’s 1960 film existed.

At 5 a.m. one morning in December, I found myself cycling as fast as I could to the bakery I worked at in Clapham, trying to get keep the blood pumping. My fingers felt like frozen gherkins, which made using the brakes difficult. Shivering and exhausted, I asked myself: what am I doing? At work, my hands thawed over a cup of tea, and I set about mixing dough, laminating croissants, and doing all the other things bakers do. After a year in the bakery, my mornings passed on autopilot. But that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Naples. My girlfriend is from the city and we’ve been back to visit her family. That chilly English morning, all I could think about was the sweet tomatoes, coffee granita, and having a tan.