Or more fancifully plongeur or bubble dancer. Which ever way you slice it, you are talking about the toughest most underappreciated job in the modern commercial kitchen. (I say modern because, believe it or not, it used to be a better or, at the very least an easier job.)

In the dim and distant, when I was a baby chef, pot washers washed pots, dish washers washed – you’ve guessed haven’t you? - and dirty crockery and cutlery went to a mysterious place called The Still Room. And waiters even polished their own cutlery in a big metal drum filled with ball bearings.

Nowadays, all of the above would be required of just one person. But that is merely to scrape the surface. That person could also be responsible for cold starters, all desserts, cutting chips, preparing all veg and ingredients for soup, salsas and salads. Bearding and cleaning, of mussels, peeling potatoes, liquidising soup, storing all deliveries and keeping the kitchen uncluttered during service. Before finally making sure the kitchen is left spick and span at the end of each service. Phew!

Fancy having a go? Then remember you will be the lowest paid worker on the wage bill.

And good luck with trying to persuade some owners – or indeed your fellow members of staff (for shame) – that you are deserving VERY DESERVING, of a share of the tips.

So, let’s remember some of those unsung heroes who worked harder than Sisyphus, in a lighter vein. Like Keith for instance who insisted on sharpening all my knives for me: “There you go chef, that knife will be as sharp as a button now.” Or Torquil the clueless Oxford student. “Which one’s the mop and which one’s the brush?” And the future famous comedian who, while cleaning pots on acid, built a flotilla of paper boats and pushed them around the dirty bubbles, steadfastly refusing to let an incandescent owner have the use of his sink. “Chill out man man! It’s beautiful. It’s the Spanish Armada. Don’t spoil it.”

And then came the sadness: the old Latvian, with the secret bottle of homemade potato vodka. Who taught me how to make the ground beef and cabbage dish called golumpki, and much, much more besides. He would suck from the bottle in the cleaning cupboard and the nightly tears would inevitably come:

“Mister mister the things that I saw in the war…they would make your heart die of grief.”

Kitchen porters, kitchen porters all, I salute you.

And, guess who, new a bit about this…

Orwell worked in Paris in the late autumn of 1929, specifically in a restaurant and a luxury hotel (often identified as the Hotel Lotti).

The Work Conditions: He described the job as “thoroughly odious,” involving fourteen-hour workdays, six days a week, in a hot, stifling cellar. He worked as a plongeur, scrubbing dishes, cleaning, and fetching meals for hotel staff and guests.

The Plongeur Life: Orwell portrayed the plongeur as “the slave of the hotel,” performing menial, repetitive tasks while surrounded by filth and, at times, rat-ridden surroundings. He noted the intense, non-stop nature of the work, noting it was a “constant stream” of dishes.

Purpose and Impact: Orwell sought to understand and document the lives of the downtrodden, and his time as a dishwasher allowed him to “give a human face to the statistics of poverty.”

Key Observations: He observed the stark class differences in the hotel industry and the intense, often chaotic, atmosphere of hotel kitchens, sometimes seeing food handled in unhygienic ways.

In other new news

On the day that I wept salt tears for the momentous events across the pond. My American friend flew into town. You’ve met him before, The Food Snob. The last time he was here I took him for a nosebag and he left with the demeanour of a man whose capacity for happiness could be squeezed into a tube of Smarties without removing the Smarties.

So when he called me for a restaurant recommendation. I blenched more than somewhat.

Lo and behold, we had our best gustatory experience in 25years of eating out in Edinburgh.

On leaving my partner we’re approached by a homeless person with a novel approach to his craft. Whilst singing a song for us he announces. “Your wife looks like Audrey Hepburn.” (Well worth a £1 sir.) “And you look like Robert De Niro.” Aghast I say. “But he’s in his 80s!”

He’s too quick for me though. “I meant in The Godfather.”

A £5 pound note changes hands.