Restaurant Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  Anyway, this lot – three women in their thirties and forties who appear to be in charge and five blokes all dressed in baseball caps with their trousers hanging off their thighs – all cluster around the desk looking a little uncomfortable.

  ‘Hi, so sorry about all the paps,’ says one of the women with a cantilevered cleavage and lots of fluffy blonde hair. ‘Prinz Zee.’ She leans over, resting her breasts on the front desk. ‘We’re nine.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I lie, feeling my takings for the evening slipping through my fingers. None of these boys look old enough to drink. ‘I’ll have Jorge show you to your table.’

  ‘Can we go here?’ She points a pink fingernail towards two tables in the window. ‘Shove them together?’

  ‘Actually, those tables are booked.’

  ‘But we’d like to be in the window.’

  I look through the glass, there are four or five photographers loitering on the pavement outside, fiddling with their equipment. The pop star obviously wants to be snapped.

  I never quite understand famous people. They complain about press intrusion, then tip the press off themselves. How else would these guys be standing outside on the pavement tonight? It happens all the time. I remember a mate of mine had Catherine Zeta Jones and Michael Douglas’s security people crawling all over his restaurant for weeks before the couple came to dine. They checked the entrance, the exits, he was told on no account was he to alert the media, which of course he did not. He was also told not to put them on the tables in the window, otherwise known as the ‘glamour tables’. So he chose a quiet corner spot, only to have them breeze in and take a table at the window, where they were met by a blanket of flashbulbs. He looked out of the window and across the street, to see a bank of paps ready and waiting for their intimate close-up. He said Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, when they were together, were the same. The security was even more thorough, but this time they came in the back, arriving and leaving in separate cars. He left out the back and she did the photo call out the front.

  But it is quite simple to go out to dinner and not be bothered, even if you are a Hollywood movie star. You go to your local, round the corner, or somewhere quiet that doesn’t attract that sort of crowd. I never really understand the ‘don’t-snap-me’ pics of celebrities leaving The Ivy or Nobu; if you don’t want your photo taken, don’t go near the place. However, if you want to publicize your dramatic weight loss, your new haircut or husband, have dinner at The Ivy. It’s not exactly rocket science.

  I have a quick conversation with Jorge about where to place Prinz Zee or whatever he’s called, and we decide that in order to keep Claridge’s happy we’ll bend over backwards and accommodate them. We put the two fours together and split the eight towards the back of the restaurant. Which seems to make everyone happy. Especially the two ladies and their chicken-bag chum who seem to recognize the diminutive Zee. The giggle factor goes up as the pop star’s entourage approaches. I’m sure it won’t be long before they start getting their i-Phones out, sneaking photographs.

  Food is beginning to come out of the kitchen again, which is rather a relief. The Russians are on the second bottle of Ruinart and it looks like the Voucher Vultures might be ready to leave. As predicted, they have turned down any extras, and it looks like Jorge is going to lose his bet. We still have a couple of tables about to arrive and we’ll turn the voucher table as soon as we can kick them out into the street, to join the paps. Prinz Zee laughs. A few more flashbulbs go off. I think I might go outside and have a word. After all, how many photos of what looks like a giggling twelve-year-old drinking Coke Zero does the Fourth Estate actually need? Suddenly Michelangelo walks past me with a small smile on his face. He is carrying a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal at £350 a bottle towards Prinz Zee’s table. All of a sudden I find myself warming to the man.

  My phone goes. It’s Adam. I walk towards the door.

  ‘Mate, we need you down here. I’ve got the police here and they need to speak to the licence holder.’

  ‘Right,’ I reply, my heart sinking. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘On my way.’

  I am just about to walk down the street when a party of eight people come through the door. I look at Anna, she looks at me. They are young and well dressed.

  ‘Hi,’ says a particularly charming-looking chap. ‘Table of eight.’

  ‘Yes?’ Anna sounds hesitant.

  ‘Jack, Jack Russell?’

  I’m afraid I walk straight out the door.

  9–10 p.m.

  Walking down the street I can see the blue lights flashing outside the Le Bar. It’s always a good look to have the cops outside your place, I think; it’s inviting, beguiling, good for custom. Not that I dislike the police in the slightest – we look after our local boys in blue. We have a very good relationship with them and it is essential that it remains so. We never call them out unnecessarily and we always remember them at Christmas. We are very generous with our festive bottles of whisky and cases of champagne, as the last thing we need in a knife fight is the police taking the long route round. Not that we have any knife fights; we’re not that sort of place. But if you’re a dodgy pub, with a dodgy licence holder, you’d be amazed how bad the traffic can be when you need a squad car.

  ‘All right, chaps?’ I say as I approach the two coppers who are standing outside the bar. ‘Evening.’ They nod. ‘I’m the licence holder here, what’s going on?’

  ‘A fight,’ replies the shorter of the two.

  ‘A couple of drunks,’ sniffs the other.

  ‘Any damage?’

  ‘A couple of black eyes.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m surprised. It sounds little more than the punch-up I just refereed in the kitchen.

  I walk in Le Bar just as the fighting drunks are frog-marched out of the place with their hands bound in white plastic handcuffs. Dressed in suits, with striped shirts and crooked silk ties, they look like a couple of beaten-up Billy Bunters. One of them has clearly come off much worse than the other. He’s got a swollen right eye, a cut lip and a decidedly squashed-looking nose. This will certainly be a Christmas party he won’t forget in a hurry.

  Not that it seems to have put much of a damper on proceedings. The party appears to be continuing with little concern for their exiting colleagues. The music is loud, the lights are low and it’s three-deep at the bar. Most of the women are sporting new festive party dresses. Red, sequins, velvet, and plunging necklines predominate. The blokes have barely re-accessorized since leaving work. They are, almost to the postboy, kitted out in shirts, ties and grey suits. A couple of standout wags have party hats on and a few are sporting streamers.

  ‘What happened?’ I quiz Adam when I find him in amongst the crowd. It’s unlike him to call the police just for a fight. He’s a great negotiator and normally manages to calm the most troubled waters. Except when he’s pissed and high himself and then, of course, he’s like a steroid-fuelled terrier with a virulent case of rabies.

  ‘They wouldn’t stop,’ he says. ‘I told them to pack it in about six times. I separated them twice and they just wouldn’t cool off. I think they’re both on some pretty crap cocaine because they were not giving up, no matter how many times I told them off. I had a word with the MD and he said get rid of them so they’re going to get a P45 along their shit hangover tomorrow.’

  ‘Which one’s the MD?’

  ‘He’s the guy in the pink tie talking to that girl—’

  ‘In the red sequin dress?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘How are we doing?’

  ‘Not bad – shifting shit. I am pretty sure we’ll be through all the pre-paid drink by about ten thirty and we’ll be on to a cash bar.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ I smile. ‘Oh, by the way, we’ve got Prinz Zee chugging back the Cristal down the road.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was old enough to drink?’

  ‘So you know who he is then?’

 
‘He’s playing the O2 next week.’

  ‘He’s got that many fans?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I turn around to see another police officer in front of me wearing a high-viz jacket. ‘Are you the licence holder?’ I nod as he gets out a notepad. ‘Do you mind if I take a few details?’

  While I stand and talk the constable through my name, age and address, etc., I can’t help but think I am going to get Adam to take the wretched licence exam. If I bung him an extra five grand then he can deal with all this without me having to come down and have a chat every time some drunk eurobond dealer gets his fists out. The only reason my name is on the licence is because the last barman I had was so stupid he failed the test. Quite how he managed to do that I don’t know. I studied for it the night before while drinking my way through a bottle of rather nice claret and came away with a 100 per cent pass. It has to be the easiest test I have ever done. The questions are multiple choice so it’s like pinning the tail on the sodding donkey. They ask basic things such as: Is it illegal to sell alcohol to a prostitute? Er, yes? Extraordinarily, my ex-barman is not in a club of one; there are plenty of publicans, landlords and restaurateurs who fail the exam, which says rather a lot about the people in my industry.

  It doesn’t take long before the constable snaps his notepad shut and leaves. Over the other side of the bar I catch a look on Damon’s face. He seems very intent on watching the policeman go.

  ‘Adam?’ He turns around. ‘Could you keep an eye on Damon.’

  ‘OK.’ He looks up the bar and spots Damon; they both smile at each other.

  ‘I think he might be up to something.’

  ‘OK, mate,’ he nods. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Dealing drugs.’

  It has happened to me before. I had another Aussie barman, Rick, who came from Perth, the most isolated city on earth, which was one of the excuses he gave to me when I caught him. He said the bright lights of London had turned his head, that he was a small-time guy, that it wasn’t a big deal. And I believed him because I liked the man. But the situation was untenable. We’d have streams of people coming into the bar but none of them would order a drink, as they wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. They’d order a Coke along with their coke and that was it – much like Steve had witnessed earlier this evening. I remember going back to Rick’s flat with him, while he continued to impress upon me quite how small-time he was. I searched the place and eventually found a suitcase under the bed, which exploded with money. There were thousands and thousands of pounds all scattered around the room and floating through the air. I kicked him out there and then and told him to never darken my door again. It transpired he was one of the main men operating around West London. I was furious. It nearly killed my bar because when you have a stinking egg like that, it pollutes the rest of the mix. The more Rick’s reputation grew, the fewer real drinkers turned up at the place and the more transient the traffic. In the end, the takings were something like thirty-five cokes an afternoon. I should have been across it, but I was battling to get Le Restaurant set up and I had my mind on other things.

  Back at Le Restaurant things are feeling significantly calmer. The mood in the kitchen appears to be a little better. Oscar and Andrew are not exactly on joking terms, but they seem to be communicating, working together a little better and, most importantly of all, getting the food out. Barney has stuck his hand back together using a collection of blue catering plasters and is back in position, dipping beautifully cut savoy cabbage leaves into boiling water.

  ‘Careful with the edges of your sea bass, Alfonso,’ says Oscar as I walk past. Alfonso approaches the pass. ‘What, chef?’

  ‘They’re too sharp,’ Oscar points out. ‘See here, they look better rounder, not with a sharp edge, you know softer. Like this.’ He trims the edges off the sea bass. I stop to look. He’s right. It’s a better-looking plate. ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes, chef.’ Alfonso nods, rolls his eyes slightly and heads back to his station.

  I am not sure how many of my staff are going to remain once Andrew walks.

  Back out the front and the Russians have moved on to the Cristal. Not to be upstaged by a teenager in a baseball cap they’ve started to competitive purchase. I suppose there must be nothing more galling for your average oligarch than to have your buying power brought into question by someone who cut his milk teeth on the Disney Channel. The Voucher Vultures have finally gone, only to be replaced by a middle-aged, balding bloke in specs who’s eating on his own.

  ‘I don’t like the look of him,’ says Anna as she follows my gaze.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He looks like an inspector.’

  ‘Do you think?’ She raises her finely plucked eyebrows. ‘Michelin?’ She turns on her black patent stilettos and walks slowly back to the front desk.

  Shit! My blood runs cold. That’s all we need, a fucking Michelin inspector. I watch him for a minute, my heart fluttering in my chest as a surge of nervous adrenalin courses through my veins. He looks the type, part-accountant, part-nit-picker. I have a terrible sinking feeling she is right.

  ‘What’s his name?’ I ask her, following her to the computer.

  ‘Mr Adams,’ she replies with a click of the mouse. ‘He booked two weeks ago.’

  ‘For one?’

  She nods. ‘Who else but an inspector books for one, two weeks in advance?’

  I go and grab Jorge. ‘What do you think?’ I ask, nodding as discreetly as I can at the bloke over my shoulder. ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Michelin?’ he says, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘He looks like it. But you know they keep changing the type. They have women, too.’

  ‘Fuck!’ I whisper.

  ‘Double fuck,’ he agrees.

  ‘Why tonight of all nights?’

  They are entitled to come, of course. They are supposed to come in and check your standards aren’t slipping, that you’re still consistent, but it is the frequency that makes you paranoid. The more visits you get, the more likely it is you’re going up or, more probably, down.

  Getting a star puts you on the map. Just ask Ollie Dabbous and his packed reservations book. Or indeed look at Hedone in Chiswick, which was catapulted into the limelight when it picked up one star only fourteen months after it was opened by a former food blogger, Mikael Jonsson.

  It’s our equivalent of the Oscars, which is a little tragic when you think about how the whole thing was thought up by the Michelin tyre company as way to sell more tyres. The brainchild of Andre and Edouard Michelin, the guide, first published in 1900, was intended to encourage people to climb into their cars (with their Michelin tyres on, of course) and drive into the countryside in search of a charming, fine dining experience. By 1933 the brothers introduced the first countrywide restaurant listings and unveiled the star system for ranking food, with one star denoting ‘a very good restaurant in its class’, two stars being ‘excellent cooking, worthy of a detour’, and three stars ‘exceptional cuisine, worth a special journey’.

  And that’s it. That’s what all the fuss is about. Marco bust his balls to be the youngest chef in the UK to ever serve food that was ‘worth a special journey’. It seems ridiculous that it matters so much. But it does. As far as we’re concerned nothing else matters more. There are other guides such as Zagat and Harden’s but none of them are Michelin. As Paul Bocuse, the chef who helped create the nouvelle cuisine movement, and whose restaurant near Lyons has had three stars for a record-breaking forty-five years, said, ‘Michelin is the only guide that counts.’

  And any chef who tells you he is not interested in the guide and stars is either lying, evidently not good enough, or has completely given up. Ask any chef who has won one, two or three and they will tell you exactly where they were when they heard. Andrew cried. He actually flopped down in one of the chairs at the back of the restaurant and cried like a toddler whose ice cream had been pinched. I have to admit I joined him, and then we both proceeded to get completely rat-arsed and call
ed in the coke. We must have drunk for over fourteen hours so it wasn’t pretty. But as Andrew said at the time, ‘It makes eleven days off in seven months feel actually worth it.’

  And it does. Financially it makes a massive difference. One star puts you on the map, two stars means your phone never stops ringing and three stars means you can charge what the hell you like. Here in the UK you can get away with £45–£50 for a main course and in France you can jack it up higher – £60 a main. So you can easily charge £150 a head without alcohol.

  Even with one star your clientele changes. You can go from the funky coke and cabs brigade to gin and jag overnight. So you have to be careful. The last thing you want is for everyone to think that your restaurant has become a stuffy, boring place where you have to put a carrot up your backside before you sit down.

  The guide has mixed things up a bit recently; they’re trying to get a bit groovier. There is less of an emphasis on pale pink napery and dickie-bow service. They sent inspectors to New York quite recently in an attempt to capture a little bit more of the zeitgeist and they handed over three stars to the Chef’s Table at Brooklyn Fare, which is a tiny place consisting of one very talented man, César Ramirez, and eighteen chairs. And the food is delicious. When I went there they hadn’t even got a liquor licence, so we had to bring our own booze which added to the fun as we shared glasses with other diners around the bar, including one couple who’d brought a particularly delicious port.