The last guests have left; it is closing time. Jimmy is now hoovering the carpets, Soviette, Morgan and the girls are clearing the linen, Louise is doing the cashing up, the Sommeliers are locking the cellars. I ask for a glass of Burgundy and go downstairs to the office to clear up some paperwork for an hour before I catch the taxi home. Somehow the wine makes me think clearly, and as I’m still running high on adrelanine from the past service.

I was born to a family who loved the arts -  classical music above all else, strings in particular. From a young age I was introduced to the great works of the Impressionists. I used to spend time in front of paintings in my uncle’s collection, gazing and marvelling, when once he came up to me and said ‘Remember, things are not always what they seem to be.’ Barely 11 years of age, I had just dismissed a particular dark and sombre painting of a boy as being dull and worthless, when he silently picked the painting up and dismantled the frame.

There, neat and clear, lay the signature of none other than Giuseppe Cali, arguably Malta’s most famous artist. Interestingly, he had bought it from a man who also, like myself, thought it was probably not worth your Sunday Times. He paid Lm5, and some Kannoli ta l-irkotta thrown in for good measure. At secondary school St Aloysius, I discovered English Literature, and instantly fell in love. King Lear and Macbeth were my favourite plays, and I excelled in their critique. I failed miserably in other boring and systematic subjects, such as maths and physics. I just did not find them as appealing as the arts. I was encouraged to start poetry by Loranne Vella, a teacher on whom I had a huge teenage crush. I gradually found out that by writing in poetic or art form I had the liberty to express myself freely, with no boundaries.

I enjoyed the art of gastronomy. I travelled to France, Italy, and Spain in particular and noted the attitude these nations had towards cooking and dining, and couldn’t help but compare it to ours. It was there that I learnt that food and wine are also an art, the Chef being the Artist, his Front of House being his loyal ambassadors and art dealers. Sitting down at a particular restaurant in Paris, I saw the light. Waiters were not just waiters. They were people with pride that had a certain enlightenment. They understood the art of sociology, manners, and etiquette. They also had impeccable taste and understanding of their art.

Having done well in my A levels, I decided to abandon the idea of University, a move which angered my dad. In his eyes, no one is ever anything unless they’ve attended University. Yes, I tried it for a while, but failed to see his point of view.

At ITS we were taught many things, both useful and irrelevant. The most useful lesson I learnt was that if I needed to understand the art more I had to leave the rock, and pursue it elsewhere. Unfortunately, at the time I left, there was no room for one’s improvement. Worst of all, there was no one to inspire others.money?

As I fret and ponder writing my last memoir, Chef comes in the office and sits down next me, and pours himself a ‘Gentleman’s measure’ of wine in his glass. ‘What are you writing?’ he queries. ‘Nothing much,’ I return, ‘just a few notes and plans for 2011’. ‘You leaving the restaurant?’ he gasps, looking at me straight in the eye. ‘And where do you suppose you’ll go if you do?’

‘Oh I dunno Chef. I always wanted to try New York. But then again, I’m not young any more. Maybe I need to settle down and have a family. Maybe it’s time I really concentrate on publishing my books, or maybe, just maybe, I would go back down to Malta and find a job there. Maybe I’ll be recognized. Maybe I can do a bit of good to the local industry.’

‘You’re mad’, he scoffs. ‘I’ve been to Malta. You and I both know you’ll be wasting your time. There’s nothing happening there. The people there don’t know anything about good food and wine.’

‘Maybe you’re right. But that’s precisely why I need to go back someday. Someone has to start.’