SEPT 3 — Gordon Ramsay. Anthony Bourdain. Marco Pierre White. I am sure that these names are familiar to many of you. Now, how about these: Jason Adams, Sarah Ingless, Ainya Woroska. No? Didn’t think so.

Many of us know the celebrity chefs, but the other names I mentioned are the people who work the front of house, the unsung heroes. I have been in the food and beverage industry for about 12 years now, and more often than not, it is a thankless industry.

The hours are long, the work hard, the benefits slim to non-existent. So why do we do it? Who knows, but I can tell you it’s not for everyone. This is for all the amazing people that I have been honoured to work with over the years; from the chefs and frontliners to the guys who do the washing up. I salute each and every one of you.

But how did I end up in F&B? As with many journeys in life... quite by accident.

It was cold. It was gloomy. It was wet. Typical British weather really. And there I was, cycling in the horrible weather to get to an interview at one of Cambridge’s leading four-star hotels.

I had been in the UK for about three months, and one of the biggest culture shocks for me (other than the bland food covered in creamy goo) was the difficulty in finding a decent job. The rejection letters were piling up and I was getting more and more depressed.

At that point, I was doing a temp job at the Cambridge Local Examination Syndicate (UCLES) for minimum wage and no prospects. Thank God, my wife (now ex) had a decent paying full-time job. She was feeling the burden of bearing the rent and bills and I was feeling lousy for not being able to contribute much.

So there I was, huffing and puffing on my bike to get to the hotel. It was an open day event, so I was expecting lots of people to be there. Securing my bike firmly to a railing (bike theft is ridiculously high in Cambridge), I walked into the hotel, up to the reception desk and inquired as to where the open day was being held.

At this point, I would like to mention that I have absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever. All my friends have found out the hard way it’s pointless to have me in the passenger seat with a map. Well, pointless to ask me directions in any way, shape, size or form. The receptionist should have just pointed and said, “That way stupid.” As she rattled off instructions, I just smiled, nodded and walked off.

Twenty minutes later, after giving myself an unplanned tour of the hotel, I found myself back at the reception desk. The same receptionist, looking confused at seeing me again, decided to come round from behind the desk and take matters into her own hands.

Speaking to me as one would a mentally-challenged person, in this case slowly and loudly, she led me to the correct room. She even pulled out a tissue and wiped the dribble from my chin. Okay, I made that last part up.

Walking into the room, I was met by a man wearing a green, small-checked jacket. The fabric looked like a really bad carpet design. I found out later that it was part of the management’s uniform. He introduced himself as Fred (names have been changed to protect the guilty), the conference and banqueting manager. We spoke for about a half hour, then he escorted me back to reception (thank God) and asked that I wait for him.

I just sat there, watching the ebb and flow of the hotel. It was a very classy place, highly unlike me. I waited, my fingers, toes and legs crossed. Legs mainly because I was desperate for the toilet, but I daren’t move.

Fred came back to get me about 20 minutes later and took me to his office. He was silent for a while as he looked me straight in the eye. “Here we go,” I thought. “He’s going to say thanks but no thanks.” With these dark thoughts in my head, I almost failed to register what he actually said to me. Blinking like a loon, I asked Fred to please repeat himself.

“We would like to offer you the position of assistant conference and banqueting manager,” he repeated. I stared at him slack jawed for several long seconds, then pretty much screamed that I would love to accept the job and be honoured to bear his children. Well, okay, not the children bit.

We shook hands, and so my journey began.

Next week: My first day

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.