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Dear PostSecret,

I am an accidental fraud. I suppose ‘accidental’ is a relative term there… Obviously I meant to take the actions I took that led to my becoming a fraud, but still. Fraudulence wasn’t my intended goal, is what I’m trying to say.

In fact, many of my actual goals have been realised—more than realised—and would be seen, by the vast majority, as perfectly respectable, admirable goals: I am a rich, successful, well-respected chef with my own restaurant perched delicately on a remote cliff overlooking the sea, the ideal place for pretentious young go-getters who want to eat something modern and fancy that only tastes good to the refined palette. There is but one fly in the ointment (or, indeed, soup), but it is arguably quite a big fly with a rather nasty-looking sting on it. Of course we use all the finest ingredients, organic and free-range and whatever else the concerned well-to-do want, but occasionally what we serve doesn’t correlate entirely with what was on the menu. For instance, were you to order anything containing beef, you would receive plump, fresh, locally-sourced badger. The local source being the nearest motorway.

Now that may seem wicked and foul and so on, but we’ve simply found it to taste better. Something to do with a certain tang of tarmac and rubber and petrol fumes, or perhaps a tenderness that only an articulated lorry can bestow, we’re not sure. But we’ve tried putting the proper meat back and people just don’t like it as much. And of course we can’t go advertising our food as roadkill—even young go-getters have their limits.

It began when the business had only just got going, and we had a restaurant critic coming in for an early lunch from a far more prominent newspaper than we could ever have hoped for. Of course I was terribly, terribly nervous when I came into the kitchen that morning, as I bustled about, checking everything was ready, and my mood was hardly improved by the fact that the fridge was both smoking and dripping. We salvaged what we could, but the meat, the cheese, the fish, the milk—all ruined. I was informed that the critic had arrived before we’d even got cleaned up. And of course he ordered a meat dish. Fate has a funny sense of humour like that.

We were too far from anywhere to order any meat in and have it cooked in reasonable time, and I panicked. Well, you can guess what happened. And the poor man positively raved about the quality of what was in fact two hedgehogs. That was that, we were a hit. The hedgehogs certainly were.

It’s not the fact that people would be disgusted if they knew what they were eating that bothers me, though. I mean, the food is all carefully chosen to make sure it’s safe, and they like the taste of it. They’d only find it repulsive because they’ve been brought up to think that squirrel isn’t good eating. What worries me is that my reputation might be unearned—that if all chefs were using the same ingredients as me, I wouldn’t be anything special. That I am a fraud with no talent other than the chutzpah to serve people roasted vermin for the prices I do.

There is a skill in that, though, in having the confidence to convince people that something is worth eating—in presenting it in such a way that it becomes appetising, in polishing the diamond in the rough, in improving the cover of the book so that people are not put off reading it and appreciating the deliciousness of the words. There is a skill in turning badger into beef. Perhaps I am a fraud, but perhaps all chefs are.

It’s too late to do things any differently now, and I don’t think I’d want to: I’m helping people enjoy something they can’t enjoy anywhere else.

Plus our profit margins have soared.

Description
Dear PostSecret,

I am an accidental fraud. I suppose ‘accidental’ is a relative term there… Obviously I meant to take the actions I took that led to my becoming a fraud, but still. Fraudulence wasn’t my intended goal, is what I’m trying to say.

In fact, many of my actual goals have been realised—more than realised—and would be seen, by the vast majority, as perfectly respectable, admirable goals: I am a rich, successful, well-respected chef with my own restaurant perched delicately on a remote cliff overlooking the sea, the ideal place for pretentious young go-getters who want to eat something modern and fancy that only tastes good to the refined palette. There is but one fly in the ointment (or, indeed, soup), but it is arguably quite a big fly with a rather nasty-looking sting on it. Of course we use all the finest ingredients, organic and free-range and whatever else the concerned well-to-do want, but occasionally what we serve doesn’t correlate entirely with what was on the menu. For instance, were you to order anything containing beef, you would receive plump, fresh, locally-sourced badger. The local source being the nearest motorway.

Now that may seem wicked and foul and so on, but we’ve simply found it to taste better. Something to do with a certain tang of tarmac and rubber and petrol fumes, or perhaps a tenderness that only an articulated lorry can bestow, we’re not sure. But we’ve tried putting the proper meat back and people just don’t like it as much. And of course we can’t go advertising our food as roadkill—even young go-getters have their limits.

It began when the business had only just got going, and we had a restaurant critic coming in for an early lunch from a far more prominent newspaper than we could ever have hoped for. Of course I was terribly, terribly nervous when I came into the kitchen that morning, as I bustled about, checking everything was ready, and my mood was hardly improved by the fact that the fridge was both smoking and dripping. We salvaged what we could, but the meat, the cheese, the fish, the milk—all ruined. I was informed that the critic had arrived before we’d even got cleaned up. And of course he ordered a meat dish. Fate has a funny sense of humour like that.

We were too far from anywhere to order any meat in and have it cooked in reasonable time, and I panicked. Well, you can guess what happened. And the poor man positively raved about the quality of what was in fact two hedgehogs. That was that, we were a hit. The hedgehogs certainly were.

It’s not the fact that people would be disgusted if they knew what they were eating that bothers me, though. I mean, the food is all carefully chosen to make sure it’s safe, and they like the taste of it. They’d only find it repulsive because they’ve been brought up to think that squirrel isn’t good eating. What worries me is that my reputation might be unearned—that if all chefs were using the same ingredients as me, I wouldn’t be anything special. That I am a fraud with no talent other than the chutzpah to serve people roasted vermin for the prices I do.

There is a skill in that, though, in having the confidence to convince people that something is worth eating—in presenting it in such a way that it becomes appetising, in polishing the diamond in the rough, in improving the cover of the book so that people are not put off reading it and appreciating the deliciousness of the words. There is a skill in turning badger into beef. Perhaps I am a fraud, but perhaps all chefs are.

It’s too late to do things any differently now, and I don’t think I’d want to: I’m helping people enjoy something they can’t enjoy anywhere else.

Plus our profit margins have soared.