by Simon Wroe
The rest of that evening Bob bowed and scraped as if his enormous guest were the king of Spain. The Saturday rush paled in comparison. Smiling broadly, oozing with convivial menace, The Fat Man eclipsed all else as he ate. And how he could eat! Three or four starters, and every main going. Tremendous amounts were consumed, seemingly without limit or pleasure. Despite his booming bonhomie and the sharp smiles he flashed at Bob or the nervous front of house staff, his face bore no trace of joy or appreciation as he ate. He had an aggressively friendly manner of complaining that became more sinister the longer it went on.
“Dear boy!” he shouted at Camp Charles. “Are you trying to starve me with these portions? Do you wish me to waste away? Where is the seasoning on this beef? Where is its soul? Am I not a good customer? Why do you hate me? You must hate me to serve me this. What’s the wait, friend? A little morsel of piglet is all I ask. A little bloody liver to whet my whistle. A smidgeon of pigeon. Something with flavor for a change. Something with taste.”
Yet every morsel was devoured, every plate wiped clean. He treated food as billionaires treat money, as showgirls treat presents from admirers. An entitlement he claimed even though it disgusted him. His size—limitless, free-form, overspilling in a way that made Bob look like an old stick—confirmed his attitude. I kept forgetting whom I was running errands for or what I was supposed to be fetching, it was impossible not to stop everything and just watch him eat. Also I felt uneasy ignoring him. You didn’t turn your back on that.
When the dessert menu was put in front of him, The Fat Man ordered the lot. Camp Charles said he didn’t even read the list. Poor Dibden, already quite sunk, gripped the service fridge as the check came through. He gulped. He wobbled. A drowned man’s pallor crept over him. The flailing that ensued, not helped by Bob’s screams for “perfection or death,” was the worst yet. Those long hands had aged a hundred years in an evening. They stumbled over simple dishes, dishes plated a thousand times before. That small sad head of his looked farther away than ever, pushed out of the top of his body like toothpaste from a tube. His chin, subjected to such inward pressure, such violent disappointment, had receded completely; it had vacated his face. Dave, seeing how broken he was, came over to garnish and decorate the plates.
—
Toward the end of the evening, as I was changing the cloths on the pass one final time, I witnessed The Fat Man at close quarters. Having annihilated his last dish of the evening, he pushed the table away and hoisted himself from his seat for a word with Bob.
“Everything all right with the food?” Bob cringed.
“You did the best you could, Bobby,” The Fat Man replied. “But I know you’ll do better with the Christmas feast.”
“It’s a lot of people.” Bob sounded nervous.
“A lot of people owe me,” The Fat Man answered.
“I mean . . . it’s a lot of people to cook for.”
The Fat Man widened his eyes. “Well, Bobby, you’ll have to work extra hard then, won’t you?”
“Couldn’t we cut the numbers slightly?” Bob pleaded. “The weekend before Christmas will be crazy.”
“You busy, are you?” The Fat Man smiled.
“I am a bit,” said Bob.
“Busy Bobby,” said The Fat Man, still quietly taunting. “Always hard at work. It amazes me you have the time to make those tapes. . . . Requires a lot of dedication, I imagine. A dogged approach. . . . You making another anytime soon? Pets Win Prizes?”
“All right,” Bob hissed.
“Have you forgotten how this works?” said The Fat Man. “Do I need to remind you?”
“All right, all right.” Bob had started sweating. He looked like death. “We’ll keep the numbers as they are.”
“That’s it, Bobby,” said The Fat Man. “That’s it.”
When The Fat Man left, Bob turned to the kitchen. Clearly, he was keen to pay the threats forward. His fury fell on Dibden, leaning, ghostly and broken, against the pastry fridge. In a pathetic attempt at cleaning down, the exhausted chef flopped a damp sponge about the surface.
“And you were a fucking disgrace this evening,” Bob snarled at him. “Again,” he added, a reference to the Wednesday evening just passed when Dibden had sunk on larder and Ramilov had had to be released from the fridge sooner than Bob might have wished. “I’m putting you on donkey jobs for the next fucking year. Right now I wouldn’t trust you to peel a carrot, you cunt.”
Dibden hung his head. From the outset he had shown a potential for failure, and he had made good on his promise. What would become of the rest of us remained to be seen.
7. GLOSSARY
At the insistence of Ramilov and Racist Dave, I have included a glossary of kitchen terms. I should point out that this list is unique to The Swan; every restaurant kitchen has its own particular idiom. Yet there is also a universal language of chefs, represented here by the French words and phrases, which you might hear in the back of any decent restaurant from New York to Bombay. And there are still other phrases that every restaurant has a version of, out of necessity, such as chaud behind. These may vary from place to place, or region to region, but they will always be present in some form.
I have explained to Ramilov and Dave that a glossary traditionally appears before or after the main body of work, but they were adamant it should go here because, quote, it looks less boring and people will feel like they have to read it. I should also point out that neither Ramilov nor Dave has an English literature degree, or any academic qualification beyond GCSE.
ALL DAY: Across all checks.
AWAY: Re an order. When the check or course is away, the customer is waiting.
BLAZE UP: Slang. To start cooking.
ÇA MARCHE: Pronounced “summ-age.” The French means something like “It’s walking.” In the kitchen it means the order is on and away.
CHAUD BEHIND: Coming past and carrying something hot. Also Backs, Chaud (pronounced “sho”), Chaud backs, Behind, Hot pan.
CHECK: A table’s order, and its printed counterpart.
CHINOIS: French term for a conical strainer, similar to a sieve.
COOKING ON GAS: Statement of fact, repeated loudly.
FIX UP: Slang. Sort yourself out.
FUCKING OUI: Expression of strong approval.
GASH: Expression of strong disapproval; female genitals.
GO DOWN: Due to how few women chefs meet, and the language they use when they do, this phrase rarely has anything to do with the above definition. Instead, it is almost always used to describe the physical and/or mental collapse of a chef during service.
GRABBER: A rail, usually placed at eye level on the sauce section, pastry section and pass, that holds the relevant checks in the order they are “coming up.”
JAMIE OLIVER: Derogatory. Term used by chefs de partie to describe someone who is paid lots of money to talk about food but knows no more about food than they do, while they are paid pennies. Clear case of sour grapes.
MAURICE: This is what Bob used to call a spatula. It is not French for spatula and I have no idea why he did it.
MISE EN PLACE: Sometimes shortened to mise or abbreviated to MEP. Literally, the putting in place. The daily, inglorious task of getting one’s dishes, utensils and setup ready for the shitfight ahead. Kitchen work is more mise than anything else.
NICE BOY: Derogatory. A homosexual.
PASTRY CHEF: Derogatory. A homosexual.
PART TIMER: Derogatory. A chef who does, or is perceived to do, less work than other chefs.
PASS: The place that all food must go before it leaves the kitchen, where every plate must “pass” the scrutiny of the head chef or his representative on earth. Final garnishes may be added, sauces tried, stains expunged.
PLONGEUR: Someone who works in the plonge. A kitchen porter.
POOMPLEX: Slang. Derogatory. An idiot.
SOIGNÉ: Pronounced “swan-yay,” by Bob at least. French word meaning elegant or sophisticated. In the kitchen usually preceded by the English word fucking, meaning “very” or “extremely.”
SOLID TOP: The sheer metal hot plate; source of great heat, as my elbow can attest.
WASTEMAN: Slang. Derogatory. A useless person; Dibden.
YOUR COCK-UP, MY ARSE: A favorite expression of chefs that touches all the bases: profanity, homoeroticism and accusation.
Ramilov has also asked me to include a short section on nouns of assemblage. I am very happy to do so. It is easy to forget Ramilov’s flashes of learning amid the many loud reports of his baser nature. His education, so far as I know, was slight, but somewhere in his carousing he has picked up certain facts and details of philosophical interest—his sexual theory based on Kissinger’s foreign policy, for instance (that should have been a warning)—which he is fond of presenting and employing. The nouns of assemblage is one such area. He clutches like a jackdaw at these shiny items. Yet that does not quite do him justice. I have come to believe there are elements of deep wisdom secreted about Ramilov’s person, wisdom of a sort I do not fully understand. This is balanced, though not canceled out, by some extremely poor calls of judgment, of which we shall see more later. The list our wise fool has prepared is below.
A Band of Men
An Ogle of Waitresses
A Wince of Lobsters
A Tirade of Chefs
It is a Skein of Geese in flight, a Gaggle of Geese on water.
A Buzz of Barflies
A Blarney of Bartenders
A Skulk of Foxes
A Peep of Poultry
A Business of Flies
An Unholiness of Ortolans
A Slaver of Gluttons
A Snarl of Tigers
A Fighting of Beggars
A Colony of Ants
A Horror of Apes
I wrote to Ramilov to tell him that I do not think all of these are correct. He wrote back to say they were, and to remind me of my promise.
8. THE QUIET DARK-EYED GIRL
The quiet dark-eyed girl was sullen and moody and not my type at all. The quiet dark-eyed girl was possessive of her containers and tough and once watched me fall on the solid top and burn my elbow without lifting a finger to help me. The quiet dark-eyed girl was unamused by the banter of the chefs. She was especially unamused by Ramilov’s habit of leaning in front of the pass with his penis in the plate cupboard beneath and asking one or other of the waitresses to fetch him a plate. The quiet dark-eyed girl did not drink in O’Reillys after work with the rest of us. Nor did she brag like Dave or fuck up like Dibden or bully like Bob. The quiet dark-eyed girl prepared a special vegetarian meal for Shahram. The quiet dark-eyed girl was called Harmony. And Harmony was beautiful.
Everything she said or did was decisive, forceful, pushing the action on. She moved like a tree in a gentle breeze, her legs rooted, her long torso swaying this way and that to the demands of service. At five thirty every afternoon she would take her only cigarette break of the day, sitting on the bench in the yard, for exactly three minutes. Never did she stoop to chitchat. Her demeanor was cool, willowy, composed. She raised her chin to exhale. Brave was the chef who inquired of her private life; it was somehow, implicitly, off-limits. To consider it was dangerous. Deliverymen did not wolf whistle at her, Ramilov did not flash her or pretend to hump her with a carrot or reach slyly between her legs. Even Dave tried to put some other words between his obscenities when she was around. He curbed his bigotry in her presence too, though her olive skin and strong features hinted at Jewish or Arabic blood that would ordinarily have set him off at a rant. She existed in her own private universe within the kitchen, untouched by the dirt around her, untroubled by its school yard sadism.
The kitchen, being predisposed to types—the cocksure joker, the northern goon, the scorned but aloof pastry section, the foreign and uncomprehending kitchen porters—did not know what to make of this bold, immovable female and warily omitted her from classification. Maybe it is the case that any woman in a professional kitchen, juxtaposed against the hardness and testosterone and bitchery of men, will appear a goddess. But no, I think she appeared a goddess because she was one. A goddess who scowled at me and told me I couldn’t use the medium balloon whisk because she needed it in two hours’ time. A goddess who refused to share her one-liter plastics and deep sixes and lids, kitchen items that seemed to exist only in theory, items a commis could spend his whole life searching for. Only Dave was better at hoarding kitchen equipment. All over the restaurant these two had secret stashes, in places no one would even think of looking: behind the mise in their service fridges, in the shaft for the dumbwaiter, underneath the combi oven covered by specially placed gastro trays.
(The other thing about Harmony: her hands did not bear The Mark of Bob. When it came to women Bob was at once chivalrous and craven, sexist and submissive. During service he never gave her grief, never so much as raised his voice to her. Women were unstable, emotional commodities that Bob did not understand or trust. As he knew from his own beloved and terrible wife, a woman’s will was absolute, and her fury when crossed was awful to behold. For Bob, “The Missus” was a mysterious and sacred institution that should never be disrespected or contradicted. He of all people knew how a woman could make a man suffer, and even he, the connoisseur of suffering, would not wish it upon others. When his own wife demanded her “Booboo,” Bob became a simpering fool, switching in an instant from brutal tyranny to baby talk. Such language sounded very undignified coming from a first-rate arsehole of Bob’s standing, and in those moments, to the great surprise of all the chefs, we found ourselves wishing for the petty, heartless bastard we knew and despised. This other Bob, this “Booboo,” was just depressing, like a toothless crocodile or a clean rat.)
Harmony was callous because the environment demanded it. Or perhaps she had sought the kitchens because her character would brook no shit. Whatever the truth, she was the only chef who seemed comfortable in The Swan’s turmoil. Everyone else had about them the look of caged beasts: one-hundred-hour-a-week Dave, jabbering Shahram, shifty Darik, cloistered Dibden—to make no mention of Ramilov the iconoclast, winking at blind horses and pulling fiercely at weak ropes. Harmony alone belonged. It was wrong to say, as I did earlier, that she existed in her own orbit. We existed within hers. Primarily, she belonged because she retained an independence from the place. As I slaved week after week in that pit of despair I came to see how that singular, star-bright quality, silently relayed from the corner fryer, was worth a thousand macho brags. The other chefs might talk about how they were ready to up and leave, how they wouldn’t take any more of Bob’s cruelty, but none of them would do it. Most had no other qualifications, no professional experience beyond kitchens. No life beyond. Some had spent so long in front of the burners that just the thought of getting on the Tube or walking down the street put them on edge.
Inexorably, as the weeks wore on and we slogged deeper into December, I felt myself slipping toward the same condition. Even to step outside the back door and see the small square of sky above the yard was unnerving: it suggested there was something beyond cooking, a world outside the kitchen, and that led the mind down unpleasant lines of inquiry. As Ramilov, our very own Book of Wisdom, writes, fear is the great nut squeeze. The kitchen was all chefs knew. Something made them pick up the knife afresh each day. Something chained them to it. Like flies, they were enslaved to the pursuit of food, to the fulfillment of their urges, and, like flies, their single-mindedness could be read as brainless, as cowardly, or as noble. I, however, had no wish to pick up the knife or suffer for food; I did not care one way or the other about any of it, yet somehow I had become trapped.
Harmony gave me hope. Dave will scoff and Ramilov will explode with ridicule, but I am not ashamed to admit it: I looked to her with growing desperation. She became a s
ort of crutch to me, and I gleaned much inspiration from observing the way she held herself beyond the kitchen’s consumptive, libidinous grasp. Yet—and this is the funny thing about it—the more I watched her, the harder it was to leave.
I must confess my thoughts of her were not entirely pure. My dictionary explains, with a leer, that crutch and crotch share the same root, as if all succor has carnal implications. This is what you get, I suppose, when hundreds of men compile a book together. (I can only hope the editorial influence of Ramilov and Racist Dave does not drag this book the same way.) But on this occasion, on the subject of Harmony, those learned men were quite correct. I daydreamed about her soft lips and sweet caresses, her warm dark eyes. I prayed for a way past her defenses. Perhaps one service she would be up against it and I would ride in on a white horse, so to speak, to save her from the onslaught of checks. We would beat the dinner rush together, side by side, anticipating each other’s movements, spinning gracefully around each other. Then she would see that I wasn’t useless or small of self. Then she would see that I was capable and strong and considerate and that she had been wrong about me after all. After that we would be inseparable, and there would be no more cold Harmony, no Harmony who watched me fall on the solid top and burn myself without lifting a finger to help, who pushed me out of the way of the mustard as I bled.
I should stress that I was encouraged in these fantasies. For Harmony was not always cold toward me. Sometimes, quite unexpectedly, she might say hello to me in the morning, or let me use the large mixing bowl. On more than one occasion she offered me chips that were going spare. Small things, admittedly, but I, unused to the civility, made them seem bigger than they were. I can see now that I read too much into these gestures. I confused sympathy with interest, and the two are not the same. In my defense, I was not much fortified against the smiles of beautiful women.