It’s two days before my shift at BiBi Mayfair when I’m informed of the uniform requirements: black trousers, black socks, and chef shoes. Currently, my trousers are navy Service Works trousers, white Nike sports socks and a beaten-up pair of slightly-slippery soled New Balance sneakers. A trip to Nisbets, then.
This requirement for consistency was indicative of what would lie ahead. Chet Sharma, chef-patron of BiBi, is a precise type. If he asks for black trousers, I buy black trousers. If my trainers won’t cut the mustard, I’ll get clogs. Even before we begin, “yes, chef” is my given response for just about everything.
On the day, I arrive a touch before 10am, thinking I’m early. As it turns out, I’m the last to arrive. I’ve been granted the extra sleep as the guest for the day, in the same way you might forgive a friend’s partner for their dreary dinner party chat. At least I’m in the correct kit.
The briefing starts at 10.15am. BiBi’s is the first kitchen I’ve seen of late where the chefs assemble on one side, and I’m asked to get in line. This isn’t a power move, but one of tradition and discipline. In days gone by, chefs lined up by rank, with toques indicating their standing in the kitchen, cascading from the chef de cuisine down to the commis. There is something to be said for standing rank and file. Yes, it’s a reminder of exactly who is running the show, but it’s also a “look to your left, then to your right” moment. It felt, oddly, like a bonding moment, like team building.
I begin working with Sharma himself. We run through each dish on his lunchtime à la carte and I become acutely aware just how personal this place and its menu are to him. Our conversation vaults from his grandparents — an enormous influence on him — to British colonialism in India, and to his illness, Ramsay Hunt syndrome. It’s something he’s battled with for a few years, that’s left him with nerve damage on the right-hand side of his face. It’s something he continues to take painkillers for daily.
That illness focussed him, giving a deeper insight into the wellbeing of chefs. One hundred-hour weeks are no longer de rigeur in kitchens and I get the sense Sharma is palpably conscious that BiBi is a training ground for the next generation of talent. If that talent is to be nurtured, his team needs balance and to stay healthy.
In fact, he becomes visibly emotional when he notes that some of his cooks are probably the future of Indian cooking in London. It’s touching. I begin to understand he’s a man who has gone through the wringer; he’s spilled blood in the kitchen, in the hope his team won’t have to. We continue to talk about the bad old days and of today’s higher standards of kitchen welfare, and of the work still to be done. Later, we talk of his grandfather. BiBi might translate as grandmother, but currently, there are more dishes on his menu that draw some special lineage to the man he describes as an “Indian James Dean”.
As we chat, Lois Xose Cociña Lava – part kitchen manager, part sous chef – appears with many of the day's condiments for tasting. Sharma tastes everything. Small plates are presented with little daubs of chutney, sauce, yoghurt, spice mix and chaat. Most of it works, but the new batch of chutney is off: too sweet and a little unbalanced. Fortunately there’s plenty of the good batch in reserve for the day ahead. Later, a chef appears with more samples. Seasoning adjustments are required.
I scurry downstairs to Lava and we get cracking on the sweet yoghurt. It’s to cover the dahi puri, a gently spiced dry chaat encased within crisp puri, spiced sauce, and pomegranate seeds. Eating each component individually, it’s hard to imagine the symphony the dish becomes when combined. But that’s the secret to BiBi, I think.
There’s a recipe for the yoghurt, but Lava tells me the dairy supplier has since changed; the market is unsteady. The new yoghurt from the new supplier is a sumptuous off-white, and whipped meringue thick. Lava marvels at it.
I set about the task, combining kilos of yoghurt, litres of water, plenty of ginger juice, and sugar, mixing by hand in a huge gastronorm tray and whisking to a creamy consistency. The result must be thick enough to cover the dahi puri, but thin enough to sit upon it smoothly. It must become a canvas on which to paint layers of flavour. Mine’s a shade too thin. I throw in more mountainously thick yoghurt as I catch up with Matt, a Canadian who’s just completed Le Cordon Bleu and three months’ work at BiBi. His visa means he’ll stay across the pond for Christmas, but he tells me he can’t wait to return. This is a kitchen that compels people to stay.
Lava and I are happy with the yoghurt, but, as everything, it must go to Sharma for sign off. He asks for a touch more water and more sugar. Obliging, I proceed to portion and vacuum seal little bags of my morning's toil.
Lunch gets underway, and I watch as plates of snacks and dahi puri are assembled, a self-assured restaurant doing things well. Lunch isn’t busy today; it’s half term and so numbers can be inconsistent. There’s a steady plod into the early afternoon.
After service, I sweep. Nothing quite throws me back to my early cooking gig like sweeping a kitchen floor. Back then, the chefs were belligerent and the kitchen an expanse of mess. Here, BiBi’s basement kitchen is narrow and the chefs are kind (in that they don’t throw things on the floor for me to sweep. In my old jobs, they used to, especially after the broom has passed). Later, wet-dry vac miraculously appears and after Matt’s mopping, the kitchen is hoovered. It’s strange, the things in kitchens that make you cheerful.
The dinner briefing rolls around. It’s tasting menu-only in the evenings, and I’m to stay downstairs for the first 90 minutes of service, then head up behind the line for the remainder of the night.
It’s a quiet, considered hum downstairs. Sliced scallops are dressed, sitting atop a small mound of fragrant truffle paste with fresh herbs, jalapeno cream and truffle slivers on top. It’s a stunning dish, a bit tweezered perhaps, but Sharma says this is the direction he wants to go. A beef pepper fry makes its way upstairs. I follow.
The underground strip lighting gives way to a soft amber light, and I squeeze behind the line. The room is narrow, fitting just 40 or so and guests at the kitchen counter sit opposite a glistening bespoke charcoal grill, while the team are hard at work.
Orders line-up and are crossed-out, and a constant bustle of plates and service trays and voices and music envelops us. The energy behind the line is palpable, but I’m conscious not to be in the way. I quickly and quietly wipe down the odd surface, discreetly upright a downed sauce bottle, and pass herbs or plates along the line. As I do, I realise the delicate effect that table times have on a small restaurant like this. One two-top is booked in for 6pm, but arrives almost an hour late. One table for two booked for 7pm arrive five minutes early. The consequence doesn’t knock the evening out of kilter, but it adds pressure. There’s a certain strain on the night, an uneasiness.
The chefs with Sharma are new to their dinner service roles. Sharma works to teach, educate, cajole and to lead. I watch in quiet admiration as the team gets on with the job in hand. One diner arrives a vegetarian, but is happy to order the lobster supplement. It’s curveballs such as this that unite chefs in a quiet giggle.
As service goes on, the tension with the late and early table times mounts, and Sharma becomes noticeably frustrated. Things are slowing down when they should be picking up. I wipe sides and clear plates and stack and make myself as thin and out the way and as useful as possible. It’s tight, close, and hot behind the line.
While hot, ill-tempered words might be exchanged during service, it’s never personal, and Sharma takes the time to speak to the team afterwards. Often in kitchens, sharp words are overlooked or ignored. I get the sense that Sharma has neither the time nor the patience to let such things spoil his kitchen. And so with sympathy and empathy, he chats to his team post-service. He smiles as I tell him I think he’s a high achiever.
We close for the day. Chet’s a whisky man, Macallan to be precise, and there’s a cocktail waiting for us both at the end of the service. He delivers a plate of the Sharmaji’s Lahori chicken, one of the most admirable, elegant, straightforwardly joyful things I’ve eaten this year. We share a chilled, essential beer from the walk-in afterwards. Sharma tells me he wants a Michelin star and I sit there, amazed he doesn’t have one.
The day in numbers:
Total covers (all day): 56
Average spend at dinner: £200+
Price of the beef pepper fry: £20
Chefs working the dinner service: 6
Beers after service: 2
