I arrive at the interview with everything I need in the basket of my bike. It seems quiet; perhaps I’m the only one? Is Jean-Michel’s instinct that selective?

I enter through the front doors of the ultra-plush Rembrandt Hotel and am met with a typed sign: ‘Grand Chef Pre-Interview Auditions, please enter through kitchen entrance at right-hand side of building.’

I step out and turn the corner, where I am met with a sight that makes my heart stop. There are at least thirty chefs in a snake-like queue, looking as terrified as I feel.

This is my competition. Clearly Jean-Michel’s instinct is more scattergun than sharp-shooter.

I step up to the administrator seated by the door.

‘Name?’ he asks.

‘Katie Kelly.’

He hands me a sticky label with number 48. ‘Ingredients?’

I hand him my bag. He sticks a 48 on that also.

‘Name of dish?’

‘Steak Diane.’

He looks up at me. ‘Are you serious?’

I nod.

He shrugs and writes ‘Steak’ on the sheet. Then he looks back up at me. ‘Is that a frying pan in your hand?’

‘A skillet.’

‘You’re going to cook in a fully equipped kitchen. There is no reason to bring your own pan.’

‘Yes, there is,’ I tell him.

He sighs. ‘Of course. You’re a chef. I’m sure it makes perfect sense to you in your own head. As sensible as serving steak to Jean-Michel.’ He raises an eyebrow and laughs dryly. ‘Now, that is going to be memorable. Should he expect a McFlurry for dessert?’

I tighten my grip on my skillet pan and look back at the queue. There are people of all ages: some very senior, experienced-looking chefs with manicured silver moustaches, some young, slick guys in their early twenties, exuding confidence and poise. There are a handful of women, though not very many, which is typical in this industry; some put it down to the brutality and violence of the kitchen environment, the institutional sexism, whereas others say it’s because the hours are so long and family-unfriendly that we lose our best female talent early on. Either way, male or female, young or old, experienced or fresh out of training, we are all here for one thing: the opportunity to work with the god that is Jean-Michel, to stretch and challenge ourselves, to reach the zenith of culinary excellence, to work alongside the best and, perhaps, even become the best…

The admin guy clicks his tongue and hands me a questionnaire and a pen. ‘You can fill this in while you are waiting. You’re in the last call. So far we’re on schedule. Four candidates will be called each round to prepare and serve their dishes to Jean-Michel and his panel. We’ve had one or two drop out already – nerves got the better of them – so keep your ears open for your number in case we call you early. Otherwise, join the back of the line and good luck.’

I thank him, press my sticky label to my chest and join the back of the queue, taking the chance to read through the single-page questionnaire. I check the back page too but it appears there are only two questions. How hard can it be?

Easy! I start to scribble down my answers. I know them like the back of my hand; they used to be laminated on the tiled wall of my own little restaurant.

If you are looking for a sure-fire way to bring a cook to insanity – try picking up his or her knives to use without asking.

Some may view this as the creation of a hostile work environment and it can certainly be seen as just that, but when used sparingly it can be effective.

Put a pan on the stove, turn on the flame, add a bit of oil, and walk away assuming that someone else will keep an eye on it for you? I think not.

There is no room in a professional kitchen for renegades who think that all of this is a joke. This is serious business and your cooperation is essential. If you want to be a rebel and come across as an arse, then I would encourage you to look for work elsewhere before the crew decides to straighten you out.

These are my top ten rules for professional life, which I stick to religiously. In light of my closed-down restaurant, I should probably add: ‘Get someone who knows their arse from their elbow when it comes to the business side of things and hire someone reputable to do the books.’ But this is a pure cheffing gig; I won’t have to concern myself with pricing or quantities or tax or budgets. All I get to do is dream and create and cook. Sounds like heaven from where I’m standing.

Hmm. I re-read the question to make sure I’ve understood correctly. Who on earth cares about this? Why isn’t there another question on food or experience or technique or future possibilities? I have never known a chef to even talk about their personal life never mind sit and contemplate rules… Maybe Jean-Michel is certifiably insane. Already, this is turning out to be the strangest and most unpredictable job interview I’ve ever gone for. Midnight phone calls, queuing with a motley crew of candidates in an alley, philosophical questions on a questionnaire… It’s all bizarre, completely out of the ordinary. But I guess that’s because the prize is extra-ordinary.

I glance back down at the question and try to come up with something, anything, that makes me sound like a deep and thoughtful person whose personal life is completely under control. I feel a flutter of panic as my mind draws a complete blank. I hate this feeling; it reminds me of being in school; not knowing what is expected of me, exposing myself to looking really stupid.

I take a deep breath and tell myself to get a grip. This is the last bit of paperwork I need to fill out and then I can get into the kitchen and back into my stride.

One personal rule for life. It’s tricky as I’ve never thought about rules for my personal life; it’s never crossed my mind. On my honour, I promise to serve God and my country, to help people at all times and live by the Girl Scout Law. Right, I think the last line’s a bit of a giveaway, so it’s going to be hard to claim that as my own.

What’s the use in having a personal rule for life anyway? It implies that there is some kind of rulebook, and a set of rules that are actually implemented, that are adhered to by one and all. But life doesn’t work like that. Rules are broken, ignored and discarded all the time. Drivers cut up cyclists at junctions. People like Bernie get to be in charge. There’s a Big Mac sold every twenty seconds and my little restaurant didn’t see its first birthday. Young families are forced to grow up without their beautiful loving mothers.

A rule for life? I’m seriously struggling here.

What I want to write is ‘don’t waste your time answering ridiculous questions’. But I know from my own school exams that it is less than impressive to upset the examiners.

I look up and down the snaking queue of fellow hopefuls. Some are also filling out their questionnaires, and look like they’re struggling too, especially a portly chef fiddling with the gelled tips of his carefully groomed moustache. And then I know exactly what I’m going to write. Courtesy of Mr Poirot-moustache himself, Oskar Rosenblatt, I write down in my neatest handwriting: ‘Life is short. Take the Trip, Buy the Shoes, Eat the Cake.’ Done.

I’m more than satisfied with my questionnaire, and just as I finish handing it back to the administrator, I hear the bolt of a metal door clang and see four chefs straggle out. They are all shaking their heads. One is holding her clenched fist to her nose and is sobbing uncontrollably.

Nobody in the queue budges forward to help her, but everyone turns to take a look.

This must be the first group. I’m judging by their ghostly pallor that none of them were successful, but they don’t look like they’ve just come from a kitchen. They look like they’ve been spewed out of a house of horrors.

The crying girl whips off her chef hat and opens her eyes.

I lean forward to take a closer look. She looks very familiar. In fact, she looks exactly like Georgia Jacobs, a girl I trained with. A girl that I didn’t exactly get too friendly with as she never stopped flirting and throwing herself at Ben the entire four years we were all in the same class.

She takes a huge gulp of air and starts crying even harder.

The admin guy stands from his chair and places his hand on the small of her back rather roughly. ‘Okay, hard luck. But please move on now. We need to keep the passage to the doors clear.’

Georgia is rooted to the spot, her nose starting to stream. This is very hard to watch.

I reach in to my pocket for a tissue and call out to her. ‘Georgia?’

She turns in my direction and finds my face immediately, a wave of relieved recognition washing over her features.

I leave my place in the line-up and wrap my arm around her shoulder, gently taking her out of the way of the queue and all the gawping faces making her misery even worse. ‘Come on over here, give yourself a bit of space.’

Georgia walks with me and we lean against the wall. ‘Oh my god, Katie. You’re here too! Don’t do it. It was awful. He is a pig. He is an absolute vile, evil, arrogant, bastardy pig.’

I give her another tissue. She blows her nose and wipes her eyes before raising them to meet mine.

‘He took one look at my dish and said, “You really do surprise me, that you can be so well trained and serve something so crap”. He cut through my venison and said it looked like dehydrated turd.’

‘Wow, venison, that was brave. Especially because I remember that desserts were your thing. Seriously, Georgia, your petits fours were always mind-blowing.’

Georgia nods and takes a deep breath, but her eyes are starting to pool again. ‘And then he tasted my jus and said it was bland, tasteless piss and that his grandmother could do better… and she’s dead.’

Holy shit. I bite down on my lip. Jean-Michel is clearly not holding back in there. If anything, he sounds even more scathing than I imagined. Maybe the admin guy was right, maybe my steak will be utterly underwhelming… Shit, what can I do? I’ve sent my ingredients in, there is no time to change now…

‘And then he stood up, and he said, “What if this muck was served up to a critic? What if The Times Review judged me on this? You know what that would do to me? To my career?” Then he took my plate and threw the whole thing in the bin.’

Oh my god. I put my hand on Georgia’s shoulder. Even though I wasn’t her biggest fan at college, I certainly don’t like seeing her so upset.

‘He said, “That is rubbish and so are you”.’

My own heart is beating at a thousand beats a second and I feel a cold sweat coming on. I’m scared. I’m properly terrified now about what’s going to happen, what he’s going to say to me.

‘Oh Georgia, that’s awful. Don’t take it to heart…’

I’m struggling to know what to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to add ‘what does he know?’ But it’s Jean-Michel, he knows everything. If anyone knows venison from dehydrated turd, it’s him.

I try to change the subject, to distract her. ‘Where are you working now?’

‘At The Buckingham, I’m pastry chef.’ A flash of a smile passes over her lips.

‘The Buckingham! That’s fantastic, Georgia. I’ve heard such good things. So forget Jean-Michel, you’ve got a great kitchen, and as a pastry chef, well, you are already way up the ladder, right?’ If she knew my situation, she’d really appreciate how far ahead she is. The Buckingham is a world away from my kitchen at Parklands.

She nods and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her chef jacket. ‘I heard about your restaurant. Sorry it didn’t work out.’

I nod and try to paste on a smile. ‘Yeah, me too. But we all get setbacks, right? Guess we just got to dust ourselves off and fight another day.’

This time Georgia nods, appearing to take some comfort in my failure. ‘And how’s Ben?’

Bloody hell, Georgia, I thought I was the one trying to cheer you up.

I shrug. ‘We’re not together anymore.’

Back at college Georgia would have pounced all over Ben’s single status, but now she just bites down on her bottom lip. ‘That’s a real shame. You two were like the perfect couple.’

That’s sweet. Bittersweet.

‘Well, turns out we both wanted different things. He was desperate to see the world so he took a job on a luxury cruise ship and I stayed put to open the restaurant.’

‘Wow, and how does he like it?’

I shrug. ‘Good, I guess. I mean, he didn’t come back, so I can only assume he’s really happy and loves it. We’re not in touch now. It’s been a couple of years.’

And then, without warning, we hear the bolt of the metal doors crack open once more. Another shell-shocked foursome are dispatched.

But this time it’s the men who are all crying.