A Moment in Time. Restaurant Edition.

I’ve owned a few businesses. No other business I know covers the bases like a restaurant. But the real issue is — the boss is always accessible.

Wow, that looks so shit! … Boss. Photo by Dan Rooney on Unsplash

I have already spent a few hours at my off-site office, handling payments and administrative tasks for the other businesses we manage. As I walk in through the front door of the restaurant to begin my second work day, my cleaner walks up to me and bombards me with a non-issue. My receptionist is hot on her heels, telling me about a booking error. Here comes my sous-chef … he’s holding celery and a large whole turbot by the gills.

My head chef knows me well. He just smiles, hands me a coffee, and gives me one of his famous head nods. No words are spoken, yet a great deal of communication occurs from his simple gestures.

Eewww! Erupts from the wait staff setting up the dining area as they eye the whole fish. Clearly, they don’t swallow.

… Fish.

It’s also the problem with fish fingers. Detachment. You don’t see fishfingers swimming in the ocean. Sadly.

Now I have said at least a hundred times — let me at least get in the doorway, put my bag and papers down on my desk, acclimate, get a coffee, smell the disgusting smell of a working restaurant before human and artificial smells mask that particular odour … and then hit me with your bullshit questions.

But no, I’m far too accessible, and the avalanche of questions begins. I’m always reminded that if I did not walk in, they would resolve most of them. It’s part sycophant and part interface.

I remind them, again, of my preference. They stand rigid … clearly, my words are for others, or another day.

I once read about the Royal family’s staff fighting to gain access to their royal presence. I sort of understand. I have a large staff and try to greet most of them daily and ask how they’re doing. It’s nearly impossible.

“Boss, the toilet is blocked. What should I do?” the head cleaner implores.

Fuck off and syringe your ears and let me sip my coffee, is what I want to say … but obviously I don’t.

“Jane, what have you done thus far?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she offers triumphantly. Like the last lemming that scampered over the precipice.

“Well, go away for 30 minutes, and consider that I have had a car accident, am in critical care in the hospital, and you have to resolve this matter without me. Consider all options for unblocking the toilet. And pick the least expensive one. Then come and tell me what you’re going to do. Or use Google, we’ve been down this road before,” I offer.

She looks at me as though I’ve suggested sex with her while simultaneously climbing the Matterhorn.

Neither is ever happening. As a restaurant cleaner, I’m afraid of where her hands have been, and mine have been up the arse of almost every living beast on the planet, and then some. Mostly, they were dead, though.

If you consider humans, beasts, then … not those either. Unless you count Victor, who was so dumb that I extracted his heart through his anus rather than answer another dumb question.

Next, it’s Portia, my receptionist and sort of personal assistant. I have a dedicated PA, who handles everything, but Portia picks up the slack at the restaurant only. Sadly, she thinks she’s doing it all alone. But she’s young, a quick learner, and she’ll go far with her energy and bubbly personality.

That’s, unless Mike, my chef, makes her pregnant because I know they’re having unprotected sex … because she is the one person who knows how to use the rhythm method and Mike is an apparent expert at pulling out.

Some days, I wish for that moment when she will ‘go far’, get lost, and not return, because she can annoy the fuck out of me with her positivity and need for continual affirmation. But that is only for some days.

I get the feeling from her initial comment that today might be a good day to travel.

I bought her a cross for Christmas, which she wrongly interpreted as a spiritual offering.

“I’m not a Christian,” she gushed.

“Oh, sorry,” I replied. I did not have the heart to tell her it’s also a symbol for martyrs. I’d hoped she would wear it around her neck, but hanging off her back.

“Mr. Uve,” she gushes. Portia never just talks. It’s mostly her on a stage accepting her Oscar. Or, recovering from watching Romeo take an overdose.

“We are overbooked, and Brandon gave away Mrs. Halitosis’ table to another party, and now we cannot give her the usual table.”

Mrs Freeman, aka Halitosis, has been a regular since we opened, and only sits at one table. She always has a party of 6 and feels that is the perfect number of guests. She insists on a large rectangular table where she can sit at ‘the head’, and host, while having her least popular guest at the other end. It’s usually a man, but seldom the same man; he’s always athletic, much younger, thick as pig shit, and has been invited at the last minute as her latest muse.

He usually orders something like “Steak Tartare, well done please, with ketchup on the side.”

Which elicits a barrage of abuse from her. For me, at least, he said, ‘Please.’ And we all know he’s not there because of his intellect; he is there because he’s hung like an ox and knows how to use his horn. I truly hope he is handsomely remunerated. He deserves every penny he gets.

I cannot help but feel sorry for Mr. Hung because her breath really stinks, and she probably still sports a massive furburger. Chances are her breath is fresher than her nether regions. But she’s far too wealthy and painful for anybody to give her the bad news.

“Who took her booking?” I enquire.

“I did,” she erupts.

“Did you put an informative note in the system explaining her preference?” I ask.

“Mr. Uve … Come! On! Everybody knows Mrs Freeman’s preferences,” she replies.

Yes, 24-year-old well-hung Aryan Blues with a gym membership. And uses it daily. She probably owns the gym, I thought.

I slow my speech down for effect, “Portia, did. you. put. a. note. on. the. system. or. not.” I ask, “Because as you know, the system can take something like 10,000-word memos.”

“No, I didn’t,” she replies.

Romeo is entering stage left at this point.

“Well then, it is NOT Brandon who has made the error, it is you. Isn’t it?” I respond.

“Brandon, do you know Mrs. Freeman’s table preference?” I shout across the room.

Brandon drops the cutlery he is polishing because he is not yet used to being called upon to contribute anything to anyone.

“Who is Mrs Freeman?” he asks, “I only started 4 days ago.”

I stare at Portia. She stares back. Her eyes are welling up. She hates fucking up. But mostly she hates being found out when she fucks up.

Romeo has just gulped down a large dose of poison.

“And that, Portia, is why we have one of the most expensive booking programs known to man,” I state gently, “Now don’t stress, you can fix this. If you are not sure how, come see me in 40 minutes, and we can look at options. But I know you can do it by yourself.”

And off she skips to solve what she suspects may very well be the world’s biggest problem. Mrs Freeman. I make a note on my phone to check in with her in 42 minutes. If only to congratulate her on her solution.

“Ciao Chef,” my sous chef is standing front and centre. “Chef, this is not turbot, it’s a large brill. We’ve been ripped off,” he says.

I look at the fish, and it’s clearly a turbot. They are similar, but there are telltale signs differentiating the two.

“John, you see that small puddle of fish water congregating under the turbot you are holding … (he looks), it’s on my restaurant carpet, you WILL get it cleaned immediately. I’ve schooled you on this turbot. And make sure the smell and not just the wetness is removed,” I say menacingly.

One of the kitchen porters was walking past as I made this comment, and he couldn’t help himself from saying, for enough people to hear, “Chef (that’s addressed to me), Chef John (that’s turbot man) has never made anything wet in his life, are you sure it’s him? But he knows the fishy smell for sure.”

God, I love the food industry, I thought, smiling.

Chef John told the KP to fuck off. But the damage was done, and no doubt for the rest of the day, this would be kitchen banter of the highest calibre.

“Brill is shinier, John, and more streamlined. But mostly turbot has bumps on the dark skin which brill does not,” I pointed out, “Run your hands on the skin … is it bumpy?”

“Yes, it’s turbot,” he said, rhetorically. I gave him a thumbs up. And walked away, but not before pointing to the puddle.

Just then, Jane arrived. “Pour a bucket of water down the toilet and flush,” she said.

“Boiling water, Jane, boiling water. Get Michael to boil a large stock pot with water until it is boiling, and then, together with him, do not do it alone, pour that down the toilet, and flush, … and repeat,” I told her.

I went to my restaurant office, checked messages, looked at my cold coffee, and decided against it. As I get older, cold coffee makes me fart like a two-stroke. Looked at the specials options, and made some adjustments, checked bookings, checked last night’s turnover and today’s orders, spoke to my wife briefly, went online to look at the bank account, adjusted some of the F&B orders and then put on my jacket to join the kitchen brigade where I would randomly taste stocks, sauces, specials and have a plate of something to eat … standing. We always eat standing, which has surprised me after 30 years of working in kitchens.

42 minutes later, my phone chimes, “Did you solve Mrs. Freeman?” I find and ask Portia.

“Yes, I did. What I did was …” she began. I put my hand up to stop her.

“I trust you, Portia. I am certain you’ve resolved the issue brilliantly,” I offered. She walked away, smiling broadly, careful to step on the clouds as they rolled on by.

Romeo lives. Apparently, the poison missed his mouth.

“Toilet is unblocked, sir.”

“I knew you could do it, Jane, thank you,” I said.

“Brigade, phones away, music off, SERVICE …” I said, walking into the engine room, and the kitchen rolled on into another night of pressured cooking. 4 hours of relentless pressure and total focus.

“John, great work on filleting those turbot, you’ve done a brilliant job.” That ensured the fish section would run like clockwork tonight.

“John, by the way, what was the celery you were holding for?” I ask.

“It was the last bunch before the veg orders came in, and I needed it for my special, so I held onto it,” he said.

4 hours later.

“Well done, team. Clean down and tomorrow’s lists, please. John, you’re in charge of checking that the clean down is tight. Let’s debrief at the bar. Drinks on me,” I said to a cheering brigade.

Wet KP is going to be ridden like Mrs Freeman in the cleandown. As they say, what goes around …

Sometimes I like to play god and balance the scales of justice. I know John took a banter-beating tonight. Now it’s his turn.

Tomorrow it all starts again. And yes, I will be bombarded by someone as I walk into the room. Maybe I should stop brushing my teeth.

Uve out.