High Season

by Jim Hearn

  There are few things in life more fucked than living in a house as the essential services get cut. The phone is always the first to go, followed by the electricity, and then the gas. After it has happened a few times in various houses you think you’ll be prepared for it next time; like, yeah, yeah, whatever. But when it began happening in the house in Annandale, it wasn’t like that. It was really disappointing.

  When the owners of the London sat me down for the inevitable chat, they at least had the grace to do so with a reasonably fat envelope waiting on the table. They seemed genuinely concerned for me. There’s a weird thing that happens when you’re a young junkie that is impossible to understand until you’re a slightly older junkie. You think you’re invisible; that your using is some great secret, and if the rest of the world ever found out they would be utterly shocked. But Mathilde—the brassy French dame who owned the London with her husband Bill—crashed through that youthful fantasy with her usual élan.

  ‘You’re a junkie,’ she said.

  ‘No!’ I responded, shocked.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ she insisted in her thick French accent.

  ‘I—I’m just . . .’ I couldn’t quite say what I was.

  ‘You’re just a junkie,’ she said. ‘What did you think? We didn’t know? It’s a pity, too, because we like you. We think you’re a good chef but not now. Now it’s too late. You go too far!’

  And this scene with Bill and Mathilde was the most no-bullshit scene I’d had in a long time. As such, I felt compelled to defend myself, to explain that I wasn’t really a junkie but actually a really good chef who was keen to get over some personal problems. I was actually disgusted with myself when I found it impossible to stop my weak and wilful eyes glancing at the envelope.

  ‘It’s all there,’ said Bill.

  ‘That’s all you care about? Money for your next shot?’ Mathilde demanded.

  ‘Is Stuart taking over?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Mathilde replied. ‘He’s a good chef. He likes you but he can’t stand to see what you’re doing to yourself.’

  ‘I’m just having a bit of a rough trot . . .’

  ‘Oh, please!’ Mathilde rolled her eyes.

  Despite my youthful, disaffected, drug-induced haze, it was difficult not to get the impression that they’d known for some time about my evil ways. Difficult not to believe that everyone I worked with actually knew me better than I knew myself.

  ‘I hope you manage to get some help, Jimmy,’ Bill said.

  That was enough for me. I reached for the envelope and got up out of the chair.

  ‘I’ll just get my knives.’

  And that line, it was like I’d said it a million times now: like getting my knives was what I did rather than use them to any great effect. I didn’t have much capacity for shame left, so seeing the other boys didn’t bother me. I knew they didn’t hate me as a person; they just wanted to get on with the business of cooking a decent menu without some stoner shooting up in the storeroom for morning tea.

  And speaking of morning tea . . . I figured I could be out the door and up to the Cross in about seven minutes, which at the time brought a small but discernible spring to my step. I should have been remorseful, mortified and worried about the future, but I wasn’t. I was unexpectedly rich, free and feeling wild.

  25

  Soda, Choc and I sit inside the circular Moroccan hut out by the pool at the back of Rae’s. All that remains of our steak and mushroom lunch are the dirty plates.

  Alice sends a text message that reads, I’m worried.

  Soda has pulled out a very cold can of Red Bull for each of us from his secret stash. It’s a stash I’ve looked for in the past and been unable to locate. Now I’m just grateful he has one.

  I text Alice back: I’m way ahead of you this year.

  ‘That was good, Chef,’ Choc says.

  ‘Yeah, fucking awesome, Chef,’ Soda seconds.

  ‘Nice piece of beef,’ I agree. ‘What’s the time, Soda?’

  ‘Ten to four, Chef,’ Soda replies.

  ‘Okay, here’s how it’s going to play out this afternoon . . . When Jesse gets back in ten minutes,’ I say, as if the thought of Jesse arriving back to work late hadn’t crossed my mind, ‘I want you to help him box his section for half an hour, Soda.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  ‘I’ll get started over on our side. My section isn’t too bad. I’ve got to portion some steaks—those fucking things are selling like hot cakes.’ I look at our dirty plates. ‘And I’ve got to cook off a green curry.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  I pause as another text from Alice comes through: Have you left? I type out a quick reply: No, but check out the job in the paper . . . in town.

  I turn back to the boys. ‘At four thirty, slide back over to woks and just nail it. I really don’t think it’s too bad but I know you have to clean some more soft-shell crabs, prep some squid and marinate some more whole fish. I’ll do a list with you after you pull your section apart.’

  ‘Okay, Chef,’ Soda says.

  And I’m secretly stoked that I’ve been able to read the signs about when it’s time to leave before Alice had to lay everything out for me. Maybe this is the year I’ve finally come of age.

  And then Jesse wanders in through the back gate.

  ‘Well, here he is, ladies and gentlemen, Jesse fucking James,’ I say, trying to conceal my delight that Jesse has returned.

  ‘Sorry about today, Chef. I’ve just got a bit going on for me with the move and everything,’ Jesse says.

  ‘That’s okay, Jesse. How did you go with that room?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, no worries,’ he replies. ‘All sorted.’ And then, rather than stop and chat for a minute with the rest of the crew—like everyone expects him to—Jesse strolls off towards the kitchen.

  ‘You getting something to eat?’ I call after him.

  ‘No time, Chef,’ Jesse replies. ‘I’ve got to get larder prepped up.’

  ‘Well, boys,’ I say to Soda and Choc. ‘The team’s back on.’

  ‘See you in there, Chef,’ Soda says as he gathers up the dirty plates.

  ‘I’m going to phone a kitchen hand!’ I call after Soda and Choc.

  ‘Righto, Chef,’ Choc calls back. Soda has already disappeared up the tunnel that leads to the kitchen, chasing news from Jesse. Soda will want to smooth things over with his friend, reassure him that the respect is still there, that the fight they had after service is forgotten. And because of the status Jesse has with the boys, Choc and Soda will hang off his every word and study his every move to make sure that order has returned to their world.

  I sit inside the Moroccan hut for longer than I should. Relief anchors me to the seat. Alice sends through another text: I’m scared something is going to break. And I’m amazed that she’s not reading the signs. She would have checked out the ad in the paper by now and know which job I’m talking about.

  I’m out of here in a couple of weeks, babe—tops! I text her back, and hear myself sigh deeply as I slump further into the cool cement folds of the seat. I will miss this place but I’m also relieved about the idea of getting my life back.

  Please be careful, she writes.

  And I’ve always trusted Alice’s emotional radar; she taught me everything I know about what it means to feel . . . but it’s worrying me that she’s saying this now, because last time we broached the subject of me leaving Rae’s, I was insisting on a few more months; get through the high season, see out summer and wave the kids back to school. And now, just when I tell her I’m leaving in a week or two, she starts peaking out.

  Be CAREFUL, she repeats, then, I love you!

  And now I’m really worried, because these are all the usual signs that mean I should grab my knives and head out the gate, asking questions later.

  I’m serious about leaving next week, I write. Day off tomorrow, let’s talk then.

  Okay, see you tonight, comes the response.

  And
I figure she’s just bringing me down before I get home. She hates it when it takes me a whole day to unwind enough to play with the kids or discuss things with her. And I hate it too, but my body . . . my body knows who’s boss. It’s looking forward to a couple of long weeks lulling about some cool ocean shallows. Nothing too vigorous, just sand and sun and water and fun.

  But right now, I need to prepare for service tonight. And what that entails is not just a lot of knife work and pare cooking and sauce preparation, it’s also an energy thing. For the guests who are dining here this evening, the prospect of dinner at Rae’s is something they’ve been looking forward to. They may have organised a sitter for the kids or booked a table six months ago or even saved up for the experience. Dinner at Rae’s is not inexpensive, particularly if you like to drink wine or champagne. And ninety-five percent of our clientele know that—they expect to pay at least a couple of hundred dollars per head—but for one couple out in the restaurant tonight, this meal is going to be a once-in-a-year event, something they’ve saved money for and dreamt about. It’s the pressure of that, of all the various expectations and swirling desires and moments of anticipated pleasure that function as a motivating force, which compels me out of my comfortable seat and into the office to organise a kitchen hand.

  Carla agrees to operate as our dishwasher tonight because she wants a start in the kitchen as a chef. In previous careers, Carla has worked as a television actress, a lingerie model and a waitress. Carla’s not your usual kitchen job applicant in that she’s platinum blonde, early thirties and turning heads is still her primary occupation. Initially I was deeply sceptical about Carla and it took some prodding from Vinnie before I agreed that she could try out as a kitchen hand. I even agreed that if she was still turning up to work in the galley after a few months I might consider training her as a mature-age apprentice chef.

  My reticence about taking on Carla is founded on twenty-something years of experience in a whole lot of different kitchens. It’s experience that tells me people generally start out in kitchens when they’re young, then move on to other careers as they get a little older, rather than the other way around. And they do this because the life of a chef, particularly an apprentice chef or a chef lower down the kitchen hierarchy, is physically demanding and often thankless. Carla never did strike me as someone who was going to cope with such a reality. To my surprise, though, she took on the role of kitchen hand with dedication and enthusiasm. She never stopped telling me or anyone else who’d listen she was only doing it to get a start as a chef, but nonetheless she impressed with her attention to detail and a capacity to say yes to starting work at ridiculously short notice. Whenever someone does that enough times, which is to say they take one for the team by agreeing to spend their night cleaning the kitchen, the possibility of something radical—like a little respect from the other chefs—becomes a possibility.

  When I phoned her to ask her to come in tonight, she said she would but that I needed to start thinking about a position on the line for her, something regular. It wasn’t a threat, it’s just the way it is; if a person gets some skills in the kitchen they realise that if things turn to shit or they get sick of a place they can move on and employ those skills somewhere else. And while she wasn’t able to do Jesse’s job if he walked out or didn’t turn up to work one day—or suddenly got sacked—the other boys were more than capable of sliding up the line so that Carla could start down on pastry and help out in larder. Such a job description was a full-time position and she was more than keen.

  ‘Hey, Chefs,’ Carla greets everyone as she enters the kitchen, grabbing a piece of fresh picked crab that Jesse is working on in the larder section.

  ‘You want some sauce with that?’ Jesse asks her.

  ‘You keep it, Chef,’ she replies. ‘Wouldn’t want you to run out.’

  ‘How much weight have you put on since you started here, Carla?’ Jesse continues, feigning concern.

  ‘Well, let’s see. Over the last three months while I’ve been covering your arse, I’ve probably put on about three kilos, Jesse.’

  ‘Three!’ Jesse laughs. ‘What comes after ten, Carla?’

  ‘You sweetheart.’ Carla grins and then ramps up the dishwasher so that any reply is drowned out. She cups her hand over her ear and looks at Jesse, who is saying something in response, but shakes her head to let him know she can’t hear him.

  Like I said, the boys will learn. Carla’s been around some different city blocks to these boys, even if they’ve been in a whole lot more kitchens. As a rule I don’t attempt to shut down the piss-taking and the banter too early because I find that if a head chef does that, tensions come out sideways and in between things: people start forging weird allegiances and cliques that exclude some and elevate others. Fuck that; let some of the heat and tension which builds between any group of people dissipate during service and the team is all the better for it.

  ‘One hour until service, people!’ I call out.

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ they reply.

  ‘Choc, how’s pastry section looking?’

  ‘Fucked, Chef,’ replies Choc. ‘We need a new coconut cake and vanilla ice cream and . . . everything else.’

  ‘I liked you better when you didn’t swear, Choc. Please, mate, for the children, keep it clean.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’ Choc is pissed off that he’s been left to pick up the mess that the pastry section always is.

  ‘Carla,’ I yell down to the galley, ‘give Choc a hand for an hour before service.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of dishes to get through here, Chef,’ she replies.

  ‘Two words, Carla,’ I call back to her.

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ she yells back, like, what would I know? And that’s just who Carla is. She overcompensates in all her communication because she’s thirty-something and just starting out in the kitchen. And it’s probably got something to do with the fact she looks like Marilyn Monroe and isn’t married to some banker. Most fairytales would cast Carla as a guest of the hotel rather than our kitchen hand tonight. But that’s not my problem.

  ‘You need a tissue, love?’ Jesse asks Carla.

  ‘Fuck off, Jesse,’ says Carla.

  ‘Chef,’ Jesse calls over to me, ‘Carla’s being mean to me.’

  ‘Listen up, people,’ I warn everyone. ‘During service tonight I don’t want to hear any voices other than mine, okay?’

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ they chorus.

  ‘You’re the voice . . .’ Scotty calls into the kitchen as he dumps off the empty platter and plates from Vinnie’s table.

  ‘Try and understand it,’ I say, finishing the line that I’m fond of saying.

  ‘Vinnie’s leaving before the bill hits the table. I think his new friends might get a nasty little surprise there.’ Scotty laughs.

  ‘I thought he was buying them lunch?’ I say.

  ‘I think they did too.’

  ‘They coming back for dinner?’ I ask him.

  ‘No chance,’ Scotty says. ‘Elle’s in town, apparently, and they want to go somewhere decent for dinner.’ Which is a joke that Vinnie likes to serve cold to the chefs at Rae’s when he chooses to entertain visiting celebrities at one of the other fine-dining restaurants in town.

  ‘Are you tagging along, Scotty?’ I ask.

  ‘I might go down for a beer after work,’ says Scotty in a very noncommittal tone.

  ‘Really, mate, I didn’t think Elle was your type.’

  ‘Paris will probably be there,’ Scotty adds with all the nonchalance he can muster.

  ‘Yeah, and she might need a butler,’ chimes in Jesse.

  ‘Fuck off, Jesse,’ Scotty replies. ‘If I want your opinion I’ll ask a chef.’

  ‘Oh, that hurts.’ Jesse points his knife into his chest. ‘Really, Scotty, that gets right in there.’ And Jesse appears to actually dig his knife hard into his chest, coughing a couple of times from his efforts.

  ‘Go easy, Jesse,’ I suggest.

  ‘You’re such a fuckwit, J
esse,’ Carla adds. ‘If everyone’s going to the Beachie after work, I’ll come down with you, Scotty.’

  As far as Scotty’s fantasies go in regards to impossible dates with beautiful women, this is as close to scoring a bullseye as he’s thrown in a while.

  ‘You’re such a slut, Carla,’ Jesse says in a high-pitched squeal.

  ‘Oh, that’s so sweet! That’s what your daddy said,’ Carla fires back.

  ‘Back to work, people. I don’t give a fuck what you do after service tonight but right now I want you to focus on your sections and make sure they are completely fucking set. If anyone runs out of anything, I am going to take it personally. Does everyone understand?’ I yell louder than is necessary because I want to call their attention to the tasks at hand.

  ‘Yes, Chef!’

  Scotty takes his cue and disappears out of the kitchen.

  ‘Soda, get over here on woks now. Jesse, are you all right over there?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ replies Jesse. ‘Can I go back on my section tomorrow, Chef?’

  ‘See, here’s the thing, Jesse. You and I, my friend, have a day off tomorrow and these scumbags don’t. And tomorrow,’ I remind him, ‘is just a day away.’

  ‘Yes!’ Jesse sounds ecstatic. ‘I almost forgot.’

  ‘Well, get cracking, mate. Carla, are you on larder tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably,’ she replies. ‘I’ll be anywhere Joseph puts me.’

  ‘That’ll be on your knees,’ replies Jesse.

  ‘You’re sounding more like your daddy every day, sweetheart,’ Carla says. ‘Is he out of jail yet?’

  And as a tactic, Carla’s use of Jesse’s father as a comeback is both clever and dangerous. No one knows too much about Jesse’s father, including Jesse, and for Carla to be going there . . . well, it’s opening a door into the unknown. And Jesse is starting to tense up.