Restaurant Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  However, there is still plenty of chintz associated with Michelin and it is often accused of being too Franco-centric, preferring poncy food with heavy sauces and staff who interrupt to explain food you have just ordered. Which I suppose is true in parts. But I don’t really care. All I’m interested in is keeping the sodding star, because once you’ve had a taste of Michelin madness you can’t, don’t, want to go back.

  And it is madness; it is obsessive and addictive. Once you’ve got one star under your belt you want another, but you’re also shit scared of losing the one you’ve got. Just as with most addictions, the first star is always the best; the second is known as the chef’s star, so it is for the most brilliant/experimental cooking, and the third (and most elusive) is for the whole package – the service, the plates, the place.

  There are only a hundred and four three-star restaurants in the world at the moment and the pressure to stay on the top of your game is immense. No one wants a demotion. Michelin was blamed for the suicide of Bernard Loiseau who shot himself in the head with a hunting rifle after hearing suggestions that he might be in the verge of losing a star. The man was a genius and a French icon with the Légion d’honneur (he was supposedly the inspiration behind the film Ratatouille). Chef and owner of La Côte d’Or in Burgundy, he had made it his life’s ambition to be a three-star chef. Something he had managed to achieve and maintain since 1991. However, by 2002 Loiseau’s classic cooking was losing ground to trendier fusion styles, his business was slowing and he was swimming in debt. Le Figaro published a story saying that he was skating on thin ice with Michelin. He needed the three stars to keep the finicky gastrobores coming. The loss of one star could mean as much as a 40 per cent drop in takings. In 2003 he managed to maintain his three-star status but still the rumours continued, again in Le Figaro, that his stars were on borrowed time. Two and a half weeks after the article was printed, and after a long day’s work in the kitchen, he killed himself with a shotgun blast to the head. He was fifty-two.

  ‘I’m going over,’ I say. ‘If he starts asking questions about the menu, then we know we’re in trouble.’

  Michelin inspectors always ask questions. They love trying to catch waiters out, to see if they’re lying, making things up on the spot. Which, of course, we do all the time. Just so long as you warble on with a bit of confidence and a smattering of French or Italian, usually no one is any the wiser. They used to make up the names of the dishes at the River Caff. No one really spoke Italian so they’d cobble something together, hoped it sounded good and no one really cared.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ I smile, checking him over for any inspector signs.

  ‘Good evening,’ he smiles back. He’s perhaps a little too jolly? ‘I have a few questions …’ That’s it. He’s an inspector. He’s got questions. He’s going to ask what is in every sodding dish. ‘Can you tell me about the crab?’

  What I can’t tell him is that Andrew has the plates made up hours in advance and sitting in the fridge, or he did this morning. Let’s hope Oscar’s words then mean that we haven’t slipped back into that old trick, because if anyone needs a plate of crab salad à la fucking minute it’s this bastard. I explain to him the fresh provenance of every dish he quizzes me about. I tell him about the friends, relatives, parents and beauty regime of the steak and the marvellous life of the lamb. Husbandry, husbandry, husbandry. And I am practically grinding my teeth I am smiling so hard.

  Finally I make an escape into the kitchen. Word has already reached them that the inspector is in and Oscar and Andrew are heads down, trying to concentrate. He’s ordered the crab salad, the turbot and the rice pudding soufflé and all hands are very firmly on deck.

  ‘No one fuck this up or I will fuck them and that is a fucking promise,’ barks Andrew.

  ‘Yes, chef!’

  ‘Barney?’ I say. ‘What are you doing?’

  He’s got a whole load of salad leaves floating in a bowl of iced water. ‘Crisping the lettuce,’ he replies.

  ‘How old is that?’

  ‘Two, three, maybe—’

  ‘Days?’

  He nods. ‘I’m working some life back into it.’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s for the crab salad?’

  ‘There’s nothing else left,’ he says. ‘There’s been a run.’

  ‘A run?’

  ‘Fraid so.’

  ‘So we are serving the Michelin inspector old leaves?’

  ‘He won’t notice when I’ve finished with them.’

  There are plenty of tricks for reviving old food: shoving the lettuce in iced water, sprinkling the bread with a few drops of water and popping it in the oven to crisp up, even, if you’re a really crap place, dipping the four-day-old fish into a bit of bleach and water. The only problem with that is it stinks; so you’ve got to cover it in a sauce, with plenty of tomato and garlic. Safe to say never order a fish stew in an armpit outlet on a Monday. Not that we’d ever do that. It’s more than our star is worth, but I wouldn’t put it past L’Italiano. I’d be amazed if anything made it out of their fridge without contracting herpes simplex at the very least.

  Oscar has put himself in change of getting the crab out, while Andrew is on the main and I imagine Giovanna will make at least three rice pudding soufflés in order to send the best one out.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask as I stand at the pass sweating like a sixteen year old about to lose his virginity. ‘This one counts, yeah? Consistency? Right? Everyone? Right.’

  ‘Right,’ nods Andrew, glaring at me from the heated lamps. His dark eyes are looking madder than ever, and as he slowly licks his spoon, his long, white-coated tongue runs all the way up the side. ‘Salt!’ he shouts.

  ‘Yes, chef!’

  Alfonso scurries over with a small bowl. Andrew shoves his fingers in the bowl, showers the sea bass in crystals and pops his spoon back into the sauce and licks it again. He then picks up a pan, takes a spoonful of roasted cauliflower purée and smears it across a plate; he lays the fish on top, fans out some savoy cabbage leaves and, using the same spoon, dribbles on a langoustine sauce. ‘Service,’ he says, still staring at me. You can almost hear the steam coming out of his ears. I suppose it is my fault for trying to teach such a cantankerous cunt to suck eggs.

  Back in the restaurant, I am off to check if the inspector has wine or an aperitif when Michelangelo corners me by the bar.

  ‘The Russians,’ he says, his eyes larger than our petit fours saucers.

  ‘Has the inspector got a drink yet?’

  ‘Have you seen the Russians?’

  ‘What?’ I turn and look across. The two men are sitting there, as is one of the girls. ‘And?’

  ‘And look at the tablecloth, the tablecloth!’

  I turn and have another look. I can see a pair of red-soled Louboutin shoes poking out from underneath the table.

  ‘What is she doing?’

  ‘What do you think?’ he replies, his expression somewhat incredulous. ‘Look at his face. The fat one.’

  ‘Mr Sergeev?’

  ‘I think he’s about to come.’

  10–11 p.m.

  I have to say that’s the first blow job we’ve had in the dining room during service in a while. Or indeed, ever. I do remember hearing from a friend about a well-nourished restaurant critic who once turned up very drunk at his place, with a rather venal and vituperative writer, plus two more plastered hackettes, only for one of the girls to disappear under the table to perform fellatio on the fat critic. My mate, who was maître d’ at the time, couldn’t believe it. Firstly, that the girl could find the fat critic’s penis, when surely he himself hadn’t seen it for years, and secondly, that she couldn’t wait until the main course.

  ‘It was during the starter!’ he said.

  ‘How big was the restaurant?’ I asked.

  ‘Not big enough,’ he replied.

  He had no idea what to do. The critic was important and he couldn’t boot him out into the street, scrabbling at his fly. An
yway, it ended in tears. The girl’s. Apparently she came up for air, drank another shot of vodka and was so appalled by her own behaviour that she promptly ran out of the place in tears.

  A blow job in the room is quite rare. We’ve had a few hand jobs and some pretty full-on footsie before, where the ladies – and I use that term loosely – have removed their underwear and the gentleman has taken off his shoes. They think they are being discreet, but you can usually tell by the silence at the table, or the concentrated look on the bloke’s face. Plus we’ve had quite a few pairs of pants that have been cleared away along with the napkins, having been left behind on the floor. But normally if someone can’t control their tumescence, they’ll retire to the lavatories. We have endless liaisons in our toilets and, fortunately, they are little larger than anything you’ll find on an airline, so you don’t need a trick pelvis to enjoy them. Although sometimes you’d be amazed quite how athletic seemingly ungymnastic middle-aged customers are. A few weeks ago one of the cleaners called me over to show me the men’s loo. We’d a couple who’d disappeared for about twenty minutes during dinner the night before, and here was the reason why. Halfway up the wall, to the right of the loo seat, were two perfect stiletto prints on the new cream paint. It was so weird. Everyone came in to investigate. She must have had extremely flexible hips to get her legs that high in the air. It was impressive. But you know, if you can manage it in a broom cupboard in Nobu, you can manage it anywhere. Talk to anyone at Nobu and they’ll say it was the staff room, although Boris Becker himself said it was the stairs – as if that’s any better!

  ‘What shall we do?’ I ask Michelangelo, still staring at the pair of red soles poking out from under the table. I glance around the room. I am desperately hoping no one else has noticed. But the WKF and his gang are too confident that everyone else is looking at them to see any of the other customers and the three girls on the next-door table are providing the perfect audience. It’s the inspector I worry about. Although, you never know, he could throw in a couple of red knife and fork symbols, or couvert, our way denoting the restaurant is a ‘pleasant place to be’, with good décor and, indeed, service. But somehow I doubt it. ‘How much longer do you think she’s going to be?’

  ‘Judging by the look on his face, not long,’ replies Michelangelo.

  ‘Do you think?’

  We both stand and stare. It is hard not to. Mr Sergeev’s face is puffed and pink with drink, his eyes are bulging slightly and there is a smirk of pleasure playing on his chapped lips. His forehead is covered in a dank film, his thin mouse hair that was combed carefully over the top of his smooth domed head when he arrived, now hangs in a few sweaty strings. His small mouth suddenly opens like a goldfish gasping for air. He raises his thin eyebrows with surprise, coughs once and then reaches for his glass of champagne.

  ‘There,’ nods Michelangelo.

  ‘Really?’ I’m pretty sure I’d make rather a lot more noise than that.

  But he’s right. The red-soled shoes move and a skinny black-clad backside emerges from under the cloth and the dark-haired woman appears, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. I look across at the inspector; he is fortunately busy picking his way through the last of his crab salad. I can’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ says Michelangelo, ‘have you heard that Jorge is planning to leave? Apparently he’s been in negotiations for a while.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. I feel a smart of irritation – why am I always the last to know anything? ‘It has been brought to my attention.’

  There’s movement from Prinz Zee’s table as they all get up at once. There are five empty bottles of Cristal on the table and a pile of cash. He can come again any time he wants. He saunters over to the table with the three girls and, pushing his cap at a 45-degree angle, proceeds to give them all a high-five. This seems to go down well as the level of giggling and hair flicking reaches fever pitch. One of the girls gets out her phone and Zee poses next to the other two, sideways on, with his index finger pointing towards the ceiling like a gun. There is more laughing and the chicken-bag girl manages to snatch a kiss. I am hoping she is now so thrilled with her evening she’ll forget the dry-cleaning bill. Zee and his entourage are about to leave when he turns and walks towards me. His fist is extended.

  ‘Man,’ he says, giving me a punch on the arm. ‘Great evening.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I am not really sure if I am meant to punch him back. The man’s barely capable of growing facial hair. I could be had up for child abuse. So I resist and fiddle with my cufflinks instead, like Prince Charles. ‘I am glad you had a nice time.’

  ‘Man, you’ve got a good place,’ he nods, looking around the room nodding some more. ‘Cool.’

  I am not sure how many Michelin-star places he’s ever eaten in but I’ll take any compliment. ‘I am glad you liked it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I met your PR, Caz, the other night. Great lady.’

  ‘Caz?’

  ‘Yeah, we had fun.’ There is a vague snigger from a couple of the younger men in the entourage. ‘We had, like, a very good time.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I smile. So this is Caz’s handiwork. I must remember to thank her.

  He ambles towards the door, his baggy trousers belted to the bottom half of his buttocks, his cap on sideways; even with a distinct heel to his trainers he can’t be more than five foot six. Outside the paps who’d remained encamped despite the chilly conditions have their dedication rewarded, with single shots of Zee doing peace signs in the street and a couple of up-close-and-personal shots with the entourage. I expect I’ll see those as Biz-Bits in all the tabloids tomorrow. The fluffy blonde with the Grand Canyon cleavage calls a halt to proceedings and pops them all into a nearby blacked-out people mover.

  Could Caz have really shagged that?

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ Mikus is by my side whispering in my ear. ‘You are needed urgently out the back.’

  I look at him. ‘Urgently?’ He nods.

  I walk into the kitchen, just as Luca glides past with a perfectly plated turbot destined for the inspector. Inside the kitchen is looking remarkably chastened and taciturn. They are looking towards the back door. I open it.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I recoil. Standing in front of me are four men in stab jackets crowding into the door.

  ‘You the manager?’ barks one, his freezing breath bellowing out of his mouth like a charging bull.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ My mind is racing. My heart is pounding. Who the hell are these guys? There are no markings. The first thing that comes to mind is that Big Pete has sent some heavies round.

  ‘Immigration,’ says one of them. He unzips his jacket and flashes me his UK Border Agency badge.

  ‘But I’ve got customers,’ I say.

  ‘And we’ve got a job to do.’ He sniffs. There’s a crackle on his radio and I hear the muffled words. ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  Four guys storm in the back door, flattening me against the wall as they pass. Another eight pile in the front. They are swift, vocal, armed and they mean business. It takes less than four minutes to corral everyone together in the kitchen and they don’t use the softly-softly approach. It’s physical and there’s plenty of pushing and shoving. The agency KP makes the mistake of continuing to polish the silver. He is yelled at and told in no uncertain terms to ‘PUT THE KNIFE DOWN!’

  Out front it’s chaos. Anna is trying to assure the customers that everything is fine. But everyone is standing up, milling round, asking what is going on, wanting to pay their bill, trying to get their coats. The Russians look particularly perturbed. There’s nothing like a vanload of armed officials with heavy boots and small weapons to get an oligarch to pay up and piss off at speed. Within seconds of the boys bursting through the door, two other burley blokes in suits appear at the restaurant window with fat necks, cropped hair and earpieces. A blacked-out Merc screams on to the pavement, Mr Sergeev drops £1,500 in cash on the table, and within two minutes the party of four
are gone. His bill was just over a grand so he left a £500 tip, which is generous in anyone’s book.

  The other customers are a little less organized. It takes another ten to fifteen minutes to empty the place. The table of three girls giggles out into the street, pronouncing it the most exciting night they’d had in years – what with sitting next to a pop star and witnessing a police raid, I can pretty much now guarantee we won’t have to pay for the bag. Everyone else leaves in a polite and charming fashion, quietly collecting their belongings and walking single file as they would during a school fire practice.

  The last out is the inspector who, I note, did manage to finish his turbot despite the interruptions.

  ‘I am terribly sorry,’ I say, holding out my hand to shake his.

  ‘These things happen,’ he replies, giving me a weak tug on the arm.

  ‘They could have waited another half-hour,’ I said. ‘But I hope you enjoyed your food.’

  ‘It was good, very good. I shall have to come back and sample the rice pudding soufflé, I was looking forward to that.’

  ‘It’s amazing.’ I smile. ‘Delicious. Do you have a card on you? Mr …?’

  ‘Adams. No, I am afraid I don’t at the moment.’ He moves towards the door. ‘But I shall be back for the pudding.’

  ‘Yes, do!’ I call after him. ‘And maybe bring a friend.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The man is definitely an inspector, definitely. I feel it in my bones. At least if he comes back we’ll know this time what he looks like. Although I am pretty sure he probably won’t because they’ll surely send someone else. However, you never know. Sometimes they do make themselves known to you; they can even leave a card, just to inform you that you’ve been inspected, just to make you a little more paranoid, if that were possible. Anyway, at least we won’t be judged on tonight. Or I bloody hope not.

  Back in the kitchen and all my staff are lined up as if they are about to face a firing squad. Some of them look terrified and the others look bored, jaded and just keen to get home.