The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  By the end of the first week, Charlie had learnt more about the repertoire than he’d learnt in the first two decades of his life. His job was to again feed the stockpots, giant cauldrons of brown, white and fish stock, and woe betide Charlie if the bouquet garni Michel Jr had made for the fish stock found its way into the brown. Franco had drilled Charlie in tastes, flavours and presentation; L’Escargot and his travels had done much to deepen this. Le Gavroche staffroom chat was abuzz with new smaller and lighter methods of presentation. A nouvelle cuisine, if you will. And Albert wouldn’t. Michel Roux Jr would, at least his own lighter interpretation of the repertoire, if he could have a crack at it.

  Michel Jr has just taken over the reins from his father, Albert, as head chef of Le Gavroche, something his father had been promising him for the last two years. While he had waited, Michel Jr was allowed the privilege of running the Roux outdoor catering empire in between shifts at Le Gavroche. That and running messages between his father in London and uncle at The Waterside in Bray.

  Charlie made the tiny mistake of muttering to a fellow Roux robot that the kitchen regimen at Le Gavroche was a tad menacing, what with both Michel Jr and Albert prowling at the pass. His fellow chef kindly passed this information on to Albert, who took it upon himself to arrange a day for Charlie at an establishment on Wandsworth Common.

  If Charlie had bothered to read anything other than On the Road, he’d have had a good idea what Marcel meant when he muttered the words ‘Dante’s Inferno’ as he kicked Charlie out of the passenger door of the 2CV and sped off northbound on the wrong side of the road. Charlie just assumed it was the name of a good local pub that he could relax in during his breaks. He set off down the side alley of the restaurant guided by the sound of steel and screaming.

  Charlie returned from Wandsworth scarred for life with his chef’s whites in tatters, the initials MPW burned onto his back and a weeping young chef called Gordon in tow. Gordon begged for a job at Le Gavroche, saying Marco had sent him and that Albert would know what to do.

  Albert knew what to do. This is what the Guild was for. Marco’s food was incredible. The guy was a savage. Slept at the restaurant. Slept with the diners’ wives at the restaurant. All this Albert knew. He’d trained Marco, after all. This is the way of the sacred code of cooking. The chef’s cabal. The reason the Guild existed. To ensure that any punter with fifty quid in their pocket could be treated like a god. Albert picked up Charlie and Gordon and set them on the road to the stars.

  For his last day, Michel Jr baked Charlie a cake. It was a thing of such exquisite beauty that Charlie took his slice outside by the bins and ate every mouthful very, very slowly, savouring every molecule. Almost as slowly as he’d savoured every mouthful of Lulu.

  30 September 1992

  3pm

  Time to make a decision. To follow her destiny and, with Charlie heading back to Belle Hotel, end the holiday romance. Lulu dumped Massimo, begged the afternoon off again from Franco and was up on the train and waiting with two deckchairs in Hyde Park in time for Charlie’s split-shift break. Madame Eva had told her two things about her future. That the initials B and… F—, no wait, H, would be important in her life and that she would marry a man who wore blue and white. That was it, all Madame Eva could tell her.

  The sun was out and, even though it was late September there was warmth in the air, in the soil, in the still-green leaves on the centuries-old trees.

  He smelt a bit sweaty and his hair was a bit long and greasy, but now she was looking at him properly for the first time in, what, six months, Lulu knew it was for keeps. Hadn’t Madame Eva as much as told her so?

  ‘So tell me again.’

  ‘Well. The plan is simple. I’m coming back to Belle, taking over from Franco in the kitchen, and I’m going to win Brighton its first Michelin star.’

  ‘No, the bit about me.’

  ‘Oh, right. We’re going to live together at Belle Hotel. And you are going to run the restaurant under Franco.’

  ‘Charlie, I—’

  ‘It’s the only way we’ll ever see each other. I’m working my fucking nuts off at Gavvers. Work, sleep, work, don’t sleep.’

  ‘You old romantic, you.’

  ‘Knock it off, Lu. Are you in?’

  ‘Charlie,’ she straddled him on the deckchair, handy as the deckchair attendant came along and Charlie only had enough cash for one. ‘Charlie Sheridan. I love you. And I want to be with you at Belle Hotel for ever. Do you remember that drawing we did as kids? The one Franco kept in his book? He showed it to me last week. It’s you and me at Belle Hotel. We drew it and we knew it when we were little. It’s meant to be, see. I’m sure of it, I went to see Madame… Charlie? Are you listening to me?’

  Silence.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is the bit where you go: “Lulu Hardman, I love you and I want to be with you at Belle Hotel for ever. Will you share my split-shift break from this day forward for ever and ever until in death do we part”, or something equally romantic.’

  ‘Sorry, Lu, I was just thinking about bouquet garni.’

  She digged him in his bony ribs.

  ‘Nah, Lu, only joking. I love you and want to be with you at Belle Hotel for ever. Will you share my split-shift break AND Michelin star from this day forward? Well, we’ll have to wait a bit for the Michelin star. Earn it.’

  Lu took the train back in time for evening service and Charlie followed the day after. Back down the tracks to Belle Hotel to take the reins from Franco.

  He saw his mum and Lulu sitting together in the bar, waved, and made his way through to the kitchen. He’d chat to Mum properly later. And he’d only seen Lulu yesterday. He was excited to talk to Franco about his time in London. About the wonderful new methods of presentation he’d seen. Stuff that’d blow the old man’s head off. New flavours, too. New world and old world working as one. Charlie couldn’t wait to tell the old man about something big he’d heard about in Le Gavroche staffroom. A brand-new taste. One to add to the four that Franco had drilled into Charlie from knee height. Sweet, sour, bitter, salty and now… ta-dah!… umami! Savouriness. Recognised just a few years ago by some Hawaiian Symposium as an actual fifth fucking taste! All that time, the extra dimension Franco had been handing him on spoons and passing off as his own culinary genius was simply good old-fashioned chemistry! A long-lasting, tongue-coating, mouth-watering sensation that had been living on the skin of Franco’s allotment alliums all along! Maybe Charlie should keep it to himself for a bit. Not come the big I am with Grandad.

  Lulu nodded at Janet and they both waved as they saw Charlie walk past the door of the bar, heading straight for the kitchen. Janet took Lulu’s hands in hers. Lulu could feel them tremble slightly, though the grip was firm.

  ‘Are you sure you want this life, Lulu? I mean, it’s not too late to change your mind. Retrain. I wish I had.’

  Lulu made to speak. Then changed her mind. It was as if everything was so whisked up, like the very best hollandaise, that to try and pull them apart, Charlie, Belle Hotel, Lulu, would just cause everything to curdle. Whatever hardships it would bring, and there would be hardship, she could see it in Janet’s face, this was the life she was choosing.

  Charlie paused a moment and gazed in through the porthole to watch Franco at work. The ache in his chest rose and became a lump in his throat. Then Charlie swallowed deeply and it was gone.

  Time to face the biggest target Franco had set. It wasn’t going to be an easy target. After Mayfair, Charlie understood what people meant when they said Belle Hotel was a tad shabby. Still, it was the Sheridan family’s shabby and people kept coming back, so they must be doing something right. He thought about his time in Switzerland, what it had taught him in terms of craft. In London, Charlie learnt about lustre, how equally important front of house was to what went on in the kitchen. To be complete, hit his target, Charlie needed Lulu. Couldn’t do it without her. It.

  ‘One Michel
in star.’

  Charlie’d muttered the mantra all the way back. Victoria–Haywards Heath–Brighton clickety-click, clackety-clack.

  Franco was standing at the pass. The place in the kitchen where the chefs met the front-of-house staff and an exchange took place. He ticked off the last item on his list and looked up to take Charlie in. No smoke, no sunlight, but a touch of twinkling wetness hung about old blue eyes. Franco’s masterplan was reaching its final ascent. The decade he’d waited, sweating it out when the talent had skipped a generation. He’d put it all on Charlie and had backed a winner. The kid would not let him down.

  ‘All yours, Charley Farley. Now then, I’ll go and put my suit on.’

  Charlie watched his grandfather hang up his apron on the door and, with a second thought, take it down and hand it to him.

  ‘Here, this’ll see you through tonight’s service. Barely a splash on the bugger.’

  1990s

  Rock ‘n’ Roll Star

  Hookes Bank

  Franco Sheridan

  Belle Hotel

  Ship Street

  Brighton

  15 September 1993

  Dear Franco,

  Twenty years, who’d have thought it? Congratulations!

  This note confirms your wishes to transfer Belle Hotel to your grandson Charlie and daughter-in-law Janet in the event of your death. We understand that Johnny Sheridan will not be included in the transfer of assets, as per your instructions. We are in the process of drawing up a last will and testament and suggest we peruse it over lunch at The Savoy.

  I look forward to the next twenty years!

  Yours,

  Paul Peters

  A sunny Friday. Johnny and Charlie sat opposite one another in a dank Italian at the bottom of a Barbican Tower. Johnny wore his Jaeger blue suit, Charlie his double-breasted whites. They looked, to all the world, normal. Surrounding them were the washed-up remains of the eighties, sagging shoulder pads clutching orbs of pinot grigio for moral support.

  They talked about work, their only common language.

  ‘When are you going to the States?’

  ‘As soon as my green card comes through.’

  ‘Oh, what about the flat?’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie, I’m letting it to a friend.’

  A friend, what friend? He’d been staying with him on his day off for nearly six months and this was the closest they were ever going to get, thought Charlie. He’d let it to someone else. Git.

  Charlie stared through the breadsticks at half of him. Drawn face and hang dog eyes. Different from Franco’s. He looked at his wedding band, third marriage still looking solid according to the digit. The rings had got progressively thinner with each new wife, as if uncertainty dictated their width.

  ‘How was the meeting, Charlie?’

  ‘Good, they are probably going to have a buffet.’

  They stared down at the cutlery – the shared language of catering covered years of absence. Charlie talked about peasant cooking, puy lentils, pigs’ trotters. Maybe it was always like this with fathers. Charlie didn’t know. Nor did Johnny.

  The muzac changed, Jean-Michel Jarring, and Johnny picked up a fork, silver and pitted, each dent marking another passing. He looked at Charlie. They both knew that this cutlery was generations older than the restaurant.

  Hand to mouth, bankrupt stock, family business on to family business.

  This symbolised the fork that Charlie’s grandfather first laid on the crisp clothed tables of Belle Hotel, his birthright. Theirs… and yet not, because Johnny was about to tell Charlie something important.

  ‘Charlie, I—’

  The blast shook the square mile to its granite foundations. Johnny dropped the fork and they left the dust-stormed basement gasping for air. Someone had detonated something chunky inside the ring of steel.

  They made their way slowly back to the flat, shaken, yet guessing that there would be no further attack. Police everywhere, stopping even those on foot.

  Charlie’s mobile rang, he hauled it from his bag. It was his mum.

  ‘Are you okay? The 18.45 lot have told me about a bomb. Lulu and I are worried about you… He’s okay, Lulu… no, costs a fortune on these things.’

  He could picture his mother at the Belle Hotel bar, bulging apron against the zinc counter, swollen ankles in the pit dug over decades by her father-in-law’s own feet. Lulu leaning on the bar top, itching for news. Something hissed in the background, perhaps the copper water boiler stoking itself behind the bar, or maybe it was just a bad line.

  ‘You coming home tonight, or staying with him? Come home, Charlie love, they aren’t going to bomb Brighton again, are they?’

  His father swung open the fridge door and gestured to a row of Budweiser tins, alone there with an unopened pot of double cream.

  ‘Ah, no thanks, Mum, I’ll be okay here tonight.’

  ‘Well don’t forget that you promised to help with the christening, starts at noon. Franco’s back’s still bad, so we’ll need you back in time to shift the tables.’

  Charlie groaned goodbye and clicked the phone shut.

  Janet dismissed Lulu with a wave. The girl needed to know her place in this family business. The girl was shaping up well under Janet’s training. Everyone wanted to work at Belle Hotel. The money was good and the guests were all celebrities or wannabe celebrities who tipped well and were good to gawp at.

  Janet set off upstairs to find her head housekeeper, Jean. She found her on her hands and knees on the third floor, going at the skirting board with a toothbrush.

  ‘That’s good, Jean. We’re going to need three maids on shift tomorrow. And can you put an ad in the Argus for temporary cleaners. We’re going to give this place a deep, deep clean. Front door to roof tiles. Lulu will be on hand to help, of course, she’s family, but I’ll need another four for, say a week, to work under your instruction. Charge me a couple of hours for sorting this out and take the money for the ad from the petty cash tin. You know where it is, just sign the chit.’

  Quaglino’s

  St James’s

  London

  Franco Sheridan

  Belle Hotel

  Brighton

  My Dear Franco,

  Well, we’ve both come a long way since I did Belle Hotel bar for you back in the day.

  I’ve considered your request for an assistant restaurant manager position for Lulu Hardman, and can quite understand how she’d benefit from a few years in a big London restaurant. They don’t come any bigger than Quag’s, I’ve a team of twenty just taking reservations on the phones!

  You may have heard of our head chef, exciting chap, Aussie, big on Pacific Rim food. Far cry from Brighton Beach, no? I must make it down for your fish and chips soon.

  So, have Lulu contact me, and we’re sure to find her something suitable.

  Best Wishes,

  Sir Terence Conran

  14 February 1995

  9.35am

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, is that the sound of a second bomb going off?

  ‘You’re fucking what?’

  ‘Going to work at Quaglino’s.’

  ‘Does Franco know about this?’

  ‘He arranged it.’

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. We need you here. I need you.’

  ‘You don’t need me, Charlie. When’s the last time we…? And as for Belle Hotel, I’m stifled here, Franco’s never going to retire and Janet won’t even let me answer the phone.’

  ‘I’ll get you a phone. Christ, is that what this is about?’

  ‘It is not about a sodding phone. It is about me. And you and me. Charlie,’ Lulu sat down on the banquette, air wheezed through ancient brass and leather, ‘you had your travels, your London.’

  ‘Lulu, it was two fucking weeks.’

  ‘And a whole summer putting it about on the French Riviera. I gave you my life. You gave me herpes.’

  ‘We’ve been over this before. I need you here. We are so close to winning that Mi
chelin star. Please don’t leave me, please. They might come and do an inspection at any time.’

  ‘And I need to be anywhere but here. Christ, Charlie, I’m twenty-one, ancient. And the having a baby thing hasn’t worked, isn’t going to work, plus you can’t keep your hands off the other waitresses for more than five seconds the minute my back is turned. What was the name of that posh student from Portobello? Lizzie, something? I know for a fact you shagged her in the boiler room. And don’t go denying it. Brag about it to Claire and Emma, and everybody gets to hear about it, including me. Me, your so-called girlfriend. Remember our pledge? I thought Belle Hotel was all I needed, but it isn’t. There’s more to life than a silly drawing we did as kids. I have a career, too. I want to go to London and further it. It’s not easy doing this. Don’t you think I haven’t thought long and hard about this. All your jealousy over Massimo. And for a final time, for the record, it never happened again after I committed to you. You’ve just got over-tired, over-emotional and judged me by your own standards. You’ve said nothing romantic to me for years, nothing in bed that’s remotely a turn on. In fact, the only thing you’ve said to me in bed in months is “Did you remember to turn the lights in the bar off?” Oh, Charlie… I just, feel… I feel stifled by you Sheridans. So I’m going, and this, us, is over.’

  Lobster Belle Hotel

  2 live lobsters

  1/2 bottle white wine

  2 shallots, finely chopped

  1 tbsp black peppercorns

  1 star anise

  2 pints fish stock

  1 tbsp Dijon mustard

  Bunch flat parsley

  1/2 pint hollandaise

  Franco had never dared have lobster permanently on the à la carte menu. Too bloody pricey by half. Charlie was having lobster and that was the end of it. Or the beginning of it. He’d boiled the lobsters to death, whisked up a hollandaise and flashed the lot under the grill in the time it took the Gallagher brothers to belt out ‘Rock N’ Roll Star’ on the kitchen radio. They had their own heathen chemistry. Charlie added a couple of strands of his own secret heathen chemistry to the Lobster Belle Hotel dish. A secret spice, something that he’d conjured up late one night working alone in the kitchen. Fizal Moondi had sorted him out, tapping up generations old contacts from way back along the Silk Road. Charlie checked that none of the other chefs had seen him add the secret spice and slipped the small, flat, gold Persian-script-embossed box back into the inner flap of Franco’s book.