Hell's kitchen

Welcome to the behind-the-scenes world of the London restaurant scene. Under the pretence of being an impoverished Brazilian immigrant, I have joined the invisible army of kitchen porters and pot-washers who, despite appalling pay, verbal and physical abuse and a nonchalant view of the law, are the battalions who keep most of London's upmarket restaurants running. Without them, the award-winning chefs would not be able to keep their beau monde clientele happy and nourished.

But what none of the diners will know about are the unbelievable conditions of penury, bullying and even violence which most of those workers (most in their early twenties and almost certainly working here illegally) endure from day to day.

The restaurant in which I am working is Lindsay House, one of London's foremost establishments, based in the heart of Soho. Its owner and head chef is Richard Corrigan, an Irishman showered with critical praise for his inventive and imaginative cooking. It is a reputation which has seen Lindsay House welcome the likes of Michael Winner, actor Tim Curry and Observer food critic Alan Jenkins to marvel at Corrigan's culinary genius, all of them oblivious to the harsh reality of life behind the baize door.

Paying at least £60 a head for the privilege, the people I am here to help serve enjoy an eclectic menu of baked potato gnocchi, fontina and wild mushroom; below stairs, we make do with a basic meal before the shift and snatched bread rolls during work hours.

I later discover I am to be paid just £30 for a 12-hour shift, ostensibly to become one of the kitchen's " runners", with the back-breaking task of taking the prepared dishes, on large heavy trays, from the kitchen to the correct floor of the three-storey building.

The cramped basement kitchen in which I am working is suffocatingly hot, its red linoleum floor dangerously slippery. But that is the least of it, as I join my fellow runners at our "station", a tiny corner at the bottom of the stairs where we wait for instructions. There we are to be seen, and not heard, to be summoned and dismissed, as and when we are needed.

In fairness, of course, we all know that life in a professional kitchen is unforgiving; such is the pressure and the demands from exacting chefs (and even more exacting customers), we have come to expect "war stories" of bad language and frayed tempers. And my first shift is on a Saturday night, an evening of unremitting pressure on the kitchen. But from what I see, the treatment of some of the staff nonetheless verges on the barbaric.

What also came as a surprise is how easy it is to become part of this trade. Getting a foot in the door of Lindsay House is remarkably simple. Wandering through Soho, and quizzing migrant workers at the service entrances of various hotels and restaurants, I finally ring the front-door bell at the restaurant one afternoon. A manager answers.

Speaking in broken English, I say I am looking for a job; the manager perfunctorily informs me that they do, indeed, need someone to take dishes from the kitchen into the restaurant, in chef's phraseology a "commis". After accepting his offer, he asks where I am from. I tell him I am from Brazil and he simply nods. In fact, Brazilian nationals are not allowed to find employment in Britain without a work permit or student visa - but I was asked for neither.

The next day at 4pm I am shown to a cramped staff room littered with clothes belonging to waiting and kitchen staff. Most of my fellow workers are in their mid-twenties, from countries such as Poland, Croatia, Russia and Argentina. Many are graduates; they have come here temporarily to learn English and to try and earn as much in a week as they would make in a month back home.

NOT surprisingly, they are evasive about their legal status, and the restaurant management does not appear to ask too many questions. One Polish man - he says his name is Rodeck - claims that he is here on a student visa. I ask him if he works the legal maximum of 20 hours per week. He snorts: "Maybe per day!"

As we wait for the kitchen to swing into life, I surreptitiously quiz Rodeck about his background. He says he is 25 and that he was a science teacher. He tells me that he came to Britain after struggling to find work at home and has worked at Lindsay House for three months. He hopes to learn enough English while here to improve his job prospects back home.

During our pre-shift meal in one of the rooms, I find out that three of the foreign workers are leaving that night, two of them after just a week. "It's a terrible place to work in," one of them says.

By the end of the evening, I can't help but agree with him. Most of us will not eat properly or sit down again for almost 12 hours until the end of our shift at four the following morning.

We work submissively because to do otherwise is to attract unwanted attention. We are the lowest of the low, and the senior kitchen staff make sure that we never forget it. As one of the senior cooks laughingly explains to the rest of the staff during one part of my shift: "You have to shout at them. They are a bit dumb - they don't understand."

Hour after hour, the strain and the abuse are almost unbearable. As the diners fill the restaurant, tensions below stairs are at breaking point - and us "nobodies" are about to literally become the whipping boys.

Very quickly, mockery turns to abuse. Believing I speak little or no English, one chef points to me and tells a colleague standing within my earshot: "He's an absolute f***ing tosser." They both deem that to be hilarious.

Even when I speak in English, I am still mocked. Trying to keep away from the bullies in the kitchen, I stick to drying plates. At one point, when a shout goes out to take a tray but is unanswered, I decide to step in and help - only to be almost physipayscally restrained by a chef. "What the f*** do you think you're doing?" he screams at me.

But he's not happy just with that. and says later: "What are you - a f***ing idiot?"

Even in the short time I spend in this kitchen, I become immune to the verbal assaults. At one point, when there is a small respite, I whisperingly ask a colleague - and this is eight hours into my shift - when we might have a break. "Don't ask for a break," he whispers, "or they'll go crazy." There is genuine fear in his voice.

It gets worse. Although water is freely available to staff, such is the stress of the night's work that when one of the Polish workers stops for a glass of water, he is told: "You will drink water when I tell you."

His name is Przemek and he is a sociology graduate in his early twenties. He tells me (as we snatch a minute away from the bedlam) that he briefly worked for a mobile phone company back home but makes as much in a week here as he would in Poland.

He admits he is an illegal worker, but says: "We are not machines, we are not animals. But we have no visa, so where else can we go?"

His is a rootless existence. Przemek £40 a week to live in a four bedroom house with eight people and later, and almost in tears, he confides to me: "I'm sick of this. I am staying for two and a half more months, then Poland will have joined the EU and I can have a good job."

Upstairs, in the restaurant, we can hear laughter and the familiar melody of a restaurant in full swing. It is a surreal scene: such careless indulgence above us, such drudgery and misery around us.

THE slap around the face comes suddenly. It is just before midnight in the kitchen and one of my fellow workers, a Polish man in his early twenties, is wiping down the sides of a dish.

Suddenly, from out of the steam of the kitchen, a senior chef is standing in front of him. Without hesitation, he slaps the young Pole hard across the face. Then, he follows this physical assault with a torrent of abuse. "I told you to use the other f***ing cloth," he screams, before summarily marching off.

My turn for abuse comes round again. After hours without a break, my back hurts so much that I briefly lean against a banister while I polish some cutlery. Immediately, a staff member barges me out of the way as he walks. "You don't lean when you're working," he shouts. "If you're too f***ing tired, go home."

Another full-time worker gets in on the act. As I continue to polish cutlery (standing fully to attention by now), he tells me to speed up. When I hesitatingly try to explain what I am doing, he loses his temper: "Don't give me any f***ing lip. Do as you are told. Have some f***ing manners."

Later, head chef Richard Corrigan would tell the Evening Standard: "There's 100 per cent passion in my restaurant and if that spills out into verbal abuse I apologise for every member of my staff and myself.

"On this occasion I can only assume that the procedures failed because of the pressures of the day. I am personally saddened that, seemingly, members of my management teams have made some bad errors of judgment, and would point out that these are no reflection of who I am and what Lindsay House represents. There will be a full investigation and disciplinary proceedings will take place."

By 2am on my second, and last, 12-hour shift, the torment is over. My Polish friend is heading off for the night bus back to his home in Peckham. He will have a few hours' sleep before another mammoth shift the following morning. A welleducated, polite and responsible young man, he is close to tears at the end of the shift.

He has no other choice. The restaurant will be full again tomorrow, its diners oblivious to what is happening just a floor below them. I can't help it, but the juxtaposition almost makes me choke.