Stephen Jardine: A spanner in the works of the relentless, hot, well-oiled machine called a kitchen

After four months writing this column, I think I know what makes you tick. You like watching TV cooking shows, you salivate over foodie magazines, eat out as often as you can, and certainly enjoy spending time in the kitchen.

I suspect you also have a secret fantasy and wonder what it would be like to indulge your love of food by working in a proper restaurant kitchen. I know I do, and this week I decided to find out. My first obstacle was finding someone brave enough to let me stand at the pass. Common sense kicked in, so I knew there was no point in asking great Scottish chefs like Roy Brett or Tom Kitchin to put their considerable reputations in my hands.

Neither did I want to work in an establishment where the main cooking utensils were a deep freeze and a microwave.

So instead, I headed to Porto and Fi at The Mound. Since it opened earlier this year, the popular restaurant has gained a reputation for serving good value, freshly-cooked café-style food.

Best of all, owners Fi and Andrew McInnes are friends, so more likely to put up with kitchen catastrophes on my part. Changing into my chef whites and apron, I looked the part, but could I cut the mustard? Or anything else, for that matter.

My mentors for the day were Fi and her fellow chef, also curiously called Fi. At least that minimised the chances of getting names wrong. Making up the kitchen quartet with me was the kitchen porter, Lucky Fortune. Again, not much chance of getting that name wrong, but would he be looking to change it by deed poll after a shift in the kitchen with me?

First test came well away from the blazing hot stoves. Porto and Fi is famed for its home baking, and that was my initial job and biggest challenge. I like to cook, but as with many men, that involves a dash of this and a slug of that. Baking, on the other hand, requires precision, patience a lot of skill.

Luckily the banoffee pie simply required assembly and some deft work with a piping bag and cream. That done, I tackled a classic Bakewell Tart – this time from start to finish.

As with everything in a commercial kitchen, the quantities were greater than I’d ever dealt with before. I also got to handle the impressive kitchen appliances which make short work of the biggest job. Or at least they do if you remember to plug them in. Lesson learned. My favourite gadget was the giant beater, which I used to mash and cream potatoes for the lunch service. Like a cross between a domestic whisk and the proton-gun from Ghostbusters, it was as efficient as it was fearsome.

That done and a lemon tart finished with more piped cream – I was getting good at that – the clatter of the order printer indicated lunch service was picking up. With the rain lashing down outside, every table was soon taken and suddenly I was promoted to the pass, which is the frontline in every kitchen. The pass is the point where the kitchen and the restaurant meet. Thankfully my responsibility only stretched to the soups – two ladles in each bowl, bread on the side, a sprinkle of parsley then the bell to alert the waiting staff.

And suddenly the orders slowed and lunch was over, just like that. So what did I learn? Unsurprisingly, a busy kitchen involves hot, relentless, hard work. It is a well-oiled machine, and while they could not have been more welcoming, I felt like a spanner in the works.

I didn’t burn anything or break anything but I know my place – and it’s not in a professional kitchen.