The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  He fought the urge to stab her in the neck with his fork, although the handle found itself wedged in Charlie’s palm, tines braced towards his mother’s fleshy folds. In a moment, the urge abated. He returned to fork, plate, mouth duty and mother and son munched on in silence until a pair of yellow heads bobbed up at the window. A moment later they were leaning their high-waisted jeans against the reception desk.

  ‘I’ll go.’

  She said it as a matter of fact more than in any kind of protest. Janet: going, going, gone… Two for dinner, yes I think we can fit you in. Seven o’clock? Hell, the place would be empty then. No, but I can get you a table at eight. OK, good, do you have a contact number? Yes, I know it. See you later, then.

  A bellow of blue announced that Charlie was ready for coffee. Janet set off for the bar to get his triple shot and a camomile for her still delicate system. Her hand shook as she held the little jug of milk under the steam wand. Janet dreaded the conversation that was to come, the red demand burned a hole in her back pocket. Still, as Franco said, Monday was always the day for talking business. Too busy doing business the rest of the week for all that.

  She came back in and fell in love with him all over again. He had his feet up on the banquette, fag jutting out of one of the three remaining ashtrays and he pushed the end of his lunch around his plate. Tinkering, fine-tuning, in search of perfection.

  Now or never, now or never…

  ‘Now then, Charlie, what about this?’

  She passed him the Hookes bank statement, which he duly opened and read. Upside down. Charlie nodded and passed the creased piece of paper back.

  ‘Charlie, what are we going to do? I can’t pay the staff. We can’t pay the overdraft fees. God alone knows what we’re going to do next month for stock.’

  ‘Oh, stock. It’s OK, Ma, Fish made a load this morning.’

  ‘Don’t be flip, I want to know what we’re going to do.’

  Charlie swung round, feet flat on the floor, fork in the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’ll go and see Peters. Friday.’

  ‘Friday may be too late. You have a look at the bookings, they’re down on last month. Restaurant too. It’s my guys in the bar that keep us in bog roll.’

  ‘We could let Fish go. I’ll run the kitchen by myself.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, lad. What would your grandfather say to all that? Now then, I don’t know what’s to become of us.’

  ‘You, Ma. You don’t know what’s to become of you.’

  She looked up from her aproned lap – at least he’d stopped her crying.

  ‘What do you mean, me?’

  ‘Well, I can get a job and a bed anywhere, but you… This is your home. I’m supposed to leave home, but you…’

  ‘Charlie, we may have to sell, you know.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, mother, we can’t sell. Wouldn’t even cover the overdraft, let alone the other debts.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘We’re fucking wedged in tight, turning spuds, pulling pints until we go bust or die.’

  ‘I hate it, hate it… but what can we do?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I’ll go see Peters, extend the overdraft. Fix it.’

  ‘Franco, what would Franco say?’

  ‘He didn’t have to compete with Hotel Epicure or easyJet.’

  ‘Franco would’ve known what to do.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, I’m just like my father.’

  ‘Now, I didn’t say that. Talk to him, Charlie. Spare me having to do that again.’

  ‘Maybe I will. Listen Mum, Lulu’s sending me a note with a business opportunity. Could be big. I need a break, Ma. I know I’ve messed things up. It’s just so hard without Franco.’

  Janet waited, slipped her hand onto her son’s knee under the table and gave it a little squeeze.

  ‘We’ll see. I just want—’

  The phone rang again in reception. Too drained to give a damn, Janet rose to get it.

  Charlie looked down at his chef’s jacket. The bright red slashes had faded and would come out in the wash. Another thing on Janet’s list. He lay back on the green leather of the banquette. Home. In less than a minute Charlie was sound asleep.

  ‘Yes, we could fit you in a sea-view room. It has got a little supplement. What? OK, no supplement. And a Z-Bed. Yes, I’ll just need to take your credit-card details to secure the reservation. Why? Well, it’s to secure the reservation. Hello? Hello?’ Gone.

  Janet looked up into a pair of beady eyes, which met hers over the reception desk.

  ‘I’d like the keys to room three, please.’

  MEMO FROM: HOTEL EPICURE

  FROM: LULU HARDMAN

  RE: STAG & HEN PARTIES IN 2008

  DEAR CHARLIE, GRAEME, OUR EXECUTIVE HEAD CHEF AND I HAVE DECIDED TO DECLINE STAG AND HEN PARTY BUSINESS AS IT DOESN’T FIT WITH OUR GUEST PROFILE CRITERIA. WE WONDERED IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO TAKE ALL OUR FUTURE BOOKINGS? IT IS DECENT BUSINESS, AND AS AN INDEPENDENT HOTEL, YOU AREN’T RESTRICTED BY HEAD OFFICE GUEST PROFILE CRITERIA.

  BEST WISHES,

  LULU

  The Stags and Hens Express departed London Victoria at 6.06pm every Friday. Normal commuters knew to avoid it. They either quit the capital early or hung back in bars awaiting its passing. Girls in gangs of six, always six, sat blocking the aisle with their Asti Spumante smiles and blow-job bobs. The guys, lucky seven for some reason, hogged half a carriage, feet up, cans cracked; aggression at the ready. Here they go, here they go, here they go. L-plates and love handles for the hens. Handcuffs and charlie for the stags. And the T-shirts. The fucking T-shirts.

  Lisa’s Last Cluck.

  Boys, too cool to wear such stuff, made do with a limited range of pressed dress shirts by Ben Sherman, Ted Baker and, for the flash Harry of the outfit, a bloke called Paul Smith. Who are you, Paul Smith, who are you?

  Charlie swore he’d stop taking stag and hen parties long ago. Then he lowered his standards and just swore.

  ‘Fuckers. I want them out of here by eight, we’ve got residents and locals to feed from then.’

  He could see the fluffy devils’ horns and bobbing stars reeling in the street through Belle Epoque glass that might once upon a time have afforded a view of a gentleman’s top hat or a lady’s parasol. Now Charlie had to make do with joke shop tat and a tall bloke with kids’ TV hair. Wait, a stag. Oh no, they’ve hooked up.

  It was his worst fear. Charlie knew the score, he’d even been on a few of these with the staff over the years. Pub, curry and club Friday night, make your presence felt. Saturday morning heave down a fry-up then off to the pier for a few hours of salt air and funfair. He could picture the stags and hens making their way down opposite sides of the boardwalk, the hens breaking heels on the gaps in the planking, stags breaking wind, spanking and guffawing. Then they’d meet at the end of the pier, all at sea, together at last, six women, seven men. Always an odd one out.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah, you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, where you from?’

  The karaoke bar opened at eleven and in poured the newly formed crowd, ‘Wonderwall’ and ‘Like a Virgin’ going down like thirteen pints of lager twice. And the smell. Opium, cocaine and copping off. What, already? It’s not even noon. Only a snog, nothing to write home about. ’Cept you can’t write, hah, hah. Off the pier and land leg it to the nearest pub for peanuts with your double digit and vision pints of lager. Then Gina, the posh spice of the Hen camp would check out her Gucci.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s six o’clock. Come on, girls, Belle Hotel.’

  They’d been bumped from Hotel Epicure.

  ‘Ain’t that the place where the chef’s got a right temper? I read about ’im in Heat. Burnt a bloke a few years back. Now there’s this stabbing scandal.’

  The stags thought they’d come too. Well, it was less of a think than a leer in the general direction of the hens. They staggered up Ship Street, stopping to let Gina puke, and Ocean’s Thirteen washed up outside
Belle Hotel, where the chef’s got a temper.

  ‘Out by eight, Mum. Especially if there are blokes with them. Cash only, too. In advance.’

  ‘Charlie…’

  ‘I’m not having another walk-out.’

  Janet looked at her son and pursed her lips slightly – not enough to be saying no, but enough to mean OK, but you do it.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it.’

  She smiled and touched him on the arm. Charlie turned and went back to the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Mr Brampton, Belle Hotel here. Sorry to bother you at six on a Saturday, but I need seven chunks of venison. Last-minute stag and hen party, if I let them order à la carte they’ll dent a big hole in my stock. Can you help?’

  ‘For you, Master Sheridan, anything. For cash. We’re still humping carcasses over here. I’ll pop over in five with one of them, should see seven blokes all right. What about the birds? Any Edams worth looking at?’

  Charlie rang off and smiled at Fish, his loyal number two through thick, thin and stabbing. It wasn’t a stabbing as such, just a bit of blade in the buttock. Charlie and Fish swore blind it was just a slippery patch between them. The bloody council, prosecuting him for something that Fish was ready to let go.

  ‘Okay, Fish, we’ll whack this table out, then you can go. Early night, mate.’

  ‘Thanks, Chef.’

  Charlie knew where the stags and hens were heading. He’d been there too. Adonis at the Babylon Lounge for the hens and Brighton Babes at Planet Club for the stags. Two hours of striptease from the opposite sex then they’d be thrust together at the Babylon Lounge for a school disco until bedtime. Two hundred drunken animals making out it was their last night of freedom. Charlie had thirteen of them out front, baying for his blood.

  ‘Chef, chef, chef…’

  Franco would have known how to handle them. Even his meek father knew how to handle undesirables at The Savoy. But Charlie just couldn’t do that front-of-house stuff. That was Lulu’s thing and she’d deserted him years ago. Left him for dead. How to handle them? Like a chef.

  A bang on the back door. It was Brampton, bloated and bloodied from his day at the slab.

  ‘Here you go, Charlie, well-hung venison for your stags. Can I take a peek at those hens now?’

  ‘Here, come on, John, let’s go say hello.’

  Janet had sat the rowdy crowd at their table and shot off to the pub to fetch the thirteen shouted pints. Half lager, half soda water. Good for us and good for them.

  The kitchen nightmare rose from the depths and appeared at the head of the hens and stags.

  ‘Chef, chef… fuckin’ hell.’

  Silence.

  Charlie bared his chopper, eight inches of Made in Sheffield, and flashed a steely grin. Behind him stood a bloodied apparition, gazing out vein-eyed, chest height at one half of the table.

  ‘Now then, I’m Charlie Sheridan. Welcome to Belle Hotel. We want to cook for you, don’t we, Mr Brampton.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  ‘But we won’t take any of your bullshit, will we?’

  ‘No, Chef.’

  Charlie held the blade up, chandelier glint on ground edge, meaning eat then leave.

  Fish was seasoning the venison loins, Franco’s book down from the shelf, as Charlie came back in.

  Loin of Venison with Sweet Peppercorn Sauce

  1 Saddle of Venison (prep into 6 loins)

  S&P

  Olive oil

  3 tbsp spiced cranberries

  3 oz mixed wild mushrooms

  1 large celeriac ( julienne)

  2 oz butter

  ¼ pint double cream

  6 shallots, sliced

  1 tbsp crushed white & black peppercorns

  2 tbsp red wine vinegar

  ½ pint red (Rhône!)

  1 glass port

  1 pint game stock

  ‘Thanks, John. See you later, pay you sooner. Fish, I’ll do that. Can you get me six chicken breasts? That bunch of hens won’t do venison.’

  Brampton’s face lit up at the mention of breasts; he left Belle Hotel deeply aroused, hard cheese on his missus.

  Janet dispensed the thin lager and went to check the menu with Charlie. The hens and stags clucked and rutted for their supper.

  Without looking round, Charlie clocked the sound of chopping. Good on Fish.

  Sat by the spiced cranberry jar was julienne of celeriac. Good to go. Charlie fired up the hotplate big enough for all six at a sizzle and waited for the red glow at its iron edges. Fish had already sent the prawn cocktails with Janet, no need to check these days. Charlie flash-seared the meat, pink flesh frazzled to dark brown, game scent in his sinus from the fast-rendered fat.

  ‘Fish, you do the chicken… Kievs, I think. I’m going to do that beetroot thing with the venison that I did at the weekend.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  Charlie knew Fish would do the starch and veg for thirteen, he could smell a two-inch dauphinoise somewhere at the back of the oven. Potato, Emmenthal, garlic. Veg would be green and orange to complement both flesh and fowl. Now then, the new sauce from the beetroot. Charlie added a couple of pencilled notes alongside Franco’s wobbly typing. No point in wasting paper, Charlie knew what the adaptations meant. Good enough for him, who else was going to read it? Apart from Fish and he didn’t count.

  The bones and sinew from Fish’s preparation of Brampton’s saddle was bubbling away furiously at the back of the hob. Charlie skimmed the pot and placed the loins onto a metal tray, ready for finishing in the oven. He span around the kitchen diving into drawers and shelves, ducked into the bar for bottle and glass; slung a bent copper bottom onto the blue flame. The stags and hens had finished their starters and were tucking into a bottle of house each, kerching, as they waited for their mains. The sauce Marie Rose seemed to have had a calming effect upon them. Amazing what a bit of ketchup, mayo and Worcestershire can do.

  Franco helped Charlie with his cooking. His instruction coming back to Charlie every time he had an old recipe down from the book. The dance of adaptation, the codifying and refining, altering and reinventing.

  ‘Now then, Charlie Farley, you want to caramelise those shallots. That’s it, the sticky glaze before it gets burnt. Flick in yer sauces and spices. Heat down, don’t want to burn it. Next the vinegar. Always vinegar for that sour snap. Now boil. Like hell. Add your booze, oh right you’re doing that, nice, I never thought of that and reduce by half. Stock and do it again, by half. OK, now sieve it. Here, take this chinoise, best for itty-bitty sauces, and pass it into a clean pan.’

  Charlie passed his sauce and slung the itty-bitty utensils into the sink for Fish to wash later.

  Seven o’clock and the two restaurant girls came on shift. Claire and Emma, mid-thirties, broad-hipped, survivors of that unforgettable night at the Groucho, and simply indispensable. Claire had sworn off men in favour of women. She claimed that the Groucho night made her mind up. The two loyal restaurant staff soon took the unlucky thirteen firmly in hand.

  ‘Don’t fancy yours much.’

  ‘Are you finished with that, or do you want to lick the plate too?’

  ‘Ooh, saucy.’

  All that stag and hen banter was making Charlie horny. He sat back in the cubbyhole behind reception and waited for the chick he’d checked in earlier to come looking for him. Sure enough, back she came: Daisy, the boho from Soho with blue eyes and a thing for big-headed chefs with hot tempers. She was happy to take the Belle Hotel tour, it didn’t last long. Charlie knew what she was after, a trophy to take up to her mate sharing the room with her, so he kissed her in the kitchen and asked her for a quickie in the boiler room. Something to take his mind off Lulu’s sympathy fuck of a note. Charlie flicked her G-string into the air, his usual party trick, Daisy laughed and left it wherever it had landed.

  By the time tock-tock had sounded the eight bells the stags and hens had paid and gone. Charlie fingered the seven hundred and fifty quid, cash if you please, and smiled. He sniffed
his fingers, both his favourite smells, passed a tatty twenty to Fish, put half a monkey in the tin to pay Sinker and Brampton come Monday, popped a ton in his pocket, and took the rest through to the bar.

  ‘Here you go, Mum. Nearly four hundred quid for you. Not bad for an early evening’s work.’

  Janet took the notes from her son and popped them in the back slot of Franco’s ancient till.

  ‘Righto, our evening trade will be dribbling in soon, I’d better go and wash up a couple of plates.’

  Charlie felt fine for the first time in months. The hundred quid was burning a hole in his pocket, he’d need that for later in case they went to Sussex Arts Club, and thanks to the fact that the stags and hens didn’t want the shellfish, something to do with a story they’d heard about Belle Hotel and mass food poisoning, Charlie now had a large bag of clams to take over to Lulu’s for supper.

  The two hours of service dragged. Even the fruity banter of Emma and Claire did little to pass the time. Three twos and a four – it was hardly the stuff of Belle Hotel Saturday nights past.

  He slipped out of the now grotty whites, chucking the jacket on the floor for Janet to pick up and wash in the morning. A couple of trays’ prep for breakfast, sausages, mushrooms Belle Hotel and bacon left on the trolley just inside the walk-in door, and Charlie was ready for whatever the night could throw at him. He could knock out the full English with his eyes closed, which is what he hoped they would be. Charlie grabbed his peacoat, felt for his fags and transferred the roll of twenties from his chef checks to his jeans.

  ‘Righto, bye, Ma.’

  ‘You not having a quick one with us before you go?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Charlie nodded at the barflies. ‘I’m off to cook these clams at Lulu’s.’

  Janet raised an eyebrow to her regulars. Lulu.

  He swung the briny net onto his back, shouldering them for the two-mile trot to Lulu’s new houseboat in Shoreham.

  The seafront was blissfully stag and hen free, most of them would be moistening nylon at their respective strip shows by now. Ten pm, strip show o’clock. A few taxis shuttled not-much-to-say couples back to their babysitters, a pink stretch limo rolled past. Charlie flicked the bird at its mooning inhabitants, grinned, shot across both lanes and down the ramp to the boardwalk.