Recipe for Disaster (10 page)

The last thing she did was tuck a small notebook into her
bag. There was bound to be the odd quiet moment when
she could nip to the loo and jot down some notes.

When she arrived, feeling surprisingly nervous, the
kitchen was already full of people. Jake looked up from
where he was chopping furiously.

'Everyone, this is Kate. Kate, this is Tess on starters, Sally
on puddings, Godfrey, our trainee, Tom washing up and
Kirsty, head waitress, because until you arrived, she was our
only waitress. She'll show you the ropes. Godfrey, explain to
me why you have just put that knife into the dishwasher
pointed end up. Are you planning to throw yourself on it
now or later? I would prefer it if you waited until you've
filled the salad tray.'

Godfrey said no, I mean yes, and then looked confused.

'Follow me,' said Kirsty. Mystified, Kate watched her
dexterously pinch a bread roll on her way out.

'Here you are.' Kirsty tossed the roll across to Hans, who
was washing glasses.

'Thanks,
Liebchen
. Didn't get any tea,' he explained.
Then he saw Kate.

Before he could say anything she rushed in, 'I am sorry
about last night. I was way out of order. I am really sorry if
I got you into trouble.'

He shrugged, then he smiled. 'You did, but I deserved it
and everything is OK now.'

'Cool. I like your earring, by the way,' she said.

'Ooh – where did you get that done? Never mind, better
tell me later,' said Kirsty. 'OK, we have this system here:
that bit is Main – tables one to eight; then there is Annexe
– tables nine to twelve, and Back – twelve A, I'm superstitious,
to eighteen. The table in the middle is just called
Middle.'

Kate looked at Kirsty blankly. What in God's name was
she talking about?

Her confusion must have showed in her face because
Kirsty explained patiently: 'It's how we make a note of the
checks, so we know who we are serving. Oh hell, you really
haven't done this before, have you? The checks are the food
orders. Get them wrong and you are dead. We write a table
number on the checks so we know where to take the food
to. You think you are going to remember but, believe me,
when it gets busy you won't.

'Always make sure the light over the porch is switched on.
Jake gets really mad if we forget. Watch out for that table –
it sticks out a bit.' Kate rubbed her thigh. She was going to
have a massive bruise there later.

Back in the kitchen, Kirsty continued, 'This is called the
pass, where Jake passes the food to you and bollocks you for
not taking it quickly enough. Checks go here. Shout them
out before putting them down, otherwise Jake goes –'

'Ballistic. Yes, I get the picture,' said Kate. How did he
find time to cook if he was so busy having tantrums she
wondered.

'Jake is a bit like my mate Amy's dad,' confided Kirsty.
'His real name is Bernard, but we call him Yogi because he's
got this really deep voice and it reminds you of –'

'Why is he like Jake?' Kate was a professional at cutting
through drivel to get to facts. Kirsty didn't stand a chance
with her.

'What? Oh, yes, he likes to act tougher than he really is.
He's good at looking fierce but he's really a big softie
underneath.'

Kate's first job was to slice bread, one loaf with walnuts,
another with onions and rosemary. They smelled heavenly
and her mouth watered.

The atmosphere seemed quite calm and controlled, even
relaxed. People were slicing and stirring, and Sally was
doing something quite complicated with vanilla pods and
raspberries. Everything looked and smelled delicious. Jake
and Tess were bantering in a friendly manner. She looked
like a tough piece who could take care of herself.

Kate studied Jake covertly. He moved with a fluid grace,
utterly sure of himself and, despite the jokes, completely
focused on what he was doing.

She was setting up the coffee machine when the first
guests arrived. Kirsty greeted them, took their coats and a
drinks order and gave them menus with the ease borne of
long practice. The first check came down to the kitchen
swiftly followed by another. Kate tried to match Kirsty's
apparently unhurried glide and thought she was doing
quite well.

'We've got another booking for eight at eight and two
more casuals,' said Kirsty.

Kate sashayed out with another basket of bread. God,
people guzzled the stuff, she thought crossly, forgetting
that was exactly what she did when she went out.

Oh. Where had all these people come from? She had to
push past them to deliver the bread and once there she
stopped to chat for a minute. It seemed that waitresses had
to do Jake's PR as well as serve. We should be paid more,
she thought crossly.

'Where the hell have you been?' snarled Jake when she
got back. Kate blinked. She had only been gone a minute.
She was yet to realise that a lot could happen in a kitchen
during that time. She had left calm and order but now all
hell had broken out. There were loads of plates waiting for
her and a bear in a bad mood tapping his foot impatiently.

'Two soups – Main three; four mains – Annexe nine, and
where are the starters from table two? You took them out
ages ago. Get a move on, these plates have been here far too
long. And you are writing a check, not
War and Peace
. You
don't have to regurgitate the entire menu. I know what's on
it – I bloody wrote it! Godfrey – sauté pan, please . . .
Godfrey, where's that fucking pan? Sally, that cake has to
come out of the oven, NOW! Tess, how's the Parma ham
lasting?'

'Fine, Chef, slicing nicely. This rocket's shit, though.'

'Too late, can't do anything about it now. Give them
lamb's lettuce instead and tell me sooner next time, will
you?'

'Yes, Chef.'

'Right, two lamb – table seven, away now!'

'Ow, shit!'

'Oh, yes, remember to tell them the plates are hot and
what the fuck do you think the serving cloths are for?'

Kate couldn't remember where any of the tables were
now, or what she was serving or which way round the
bloody plate was supposed to go.

'Godfrey, stop gasping and drink some water before you
completely dehydrate. Sally, there won't be any raspberries
left by nine o'clock at the rate you are using them up – sauté
pan, please – what was wrong with that meal – there was
nothing wrong with that meal!'

Everyone held their breath.

'Nothing, Boss. The punters are ancient – couldn't
manage it all. Said it was wonderful, though,' said Kirsty
calmly.

'OK,' said Jake, mollified, chucking a huge slug of
brandy into a pan so that the flames shot up to the ceiling.
The first time he'd done it, Kate had nearly called the fire
brigade.

After that everything became a bit of a blur for her.
Sneakily taking notes – ha! That would have been funny if
she'd had time to laugh. She didn't have time to blow her
nose. She barely had time to breathe. The kitchen had gone
into some sort of manic overdrive and not only was she
expected to go with it, but apparently she had to develop
psychic powers as well and anticipate what everyone was
going to say or want. Except that she couldn't. She just
wasn't fast enough. It was like trying to ice-skate while
wearing wellingtons. She had always felt quite smug about
her ability to deal with the stress of a reporters' room and
keep her cool, but now she knew there just weren't enough
compartments in her head for all the little scenarios in
which she was a small, but important, player. Everyone's
meals were at different stages and she had to keep up with
all of them, like Kirsty was doing, serving coffee to one
table, explaining the wine list to another. Kirsty even
seemed to know the name of the bloomin' sheep who had
donated a leg to the party in the corner!

Kate began to hate the customers. She already loathed
Jake and anyone else who gave her another plate to take
out, God knows where.

For heaven's sake, salmon or steak, just bloody choose. It's not
brain surgery! Don't you idiots realise I have three tables to clear
while you are faffing around? Six coffees to get and, oh God, I forgot
to ask how table eight wanted their steaks – where is table eight?

She was boiling hot in that stupid jumper, and when she
asked Kirsty why the windows weren't open, Kirsty just
laughed.

'You might be hot, but the customers aren't. Wear a
sensible top next time.'

Bloody customers. They had to have everything their
own way!

The kitchen was now a tornado of movement – pans
slammed onto hobs, oven doors opened and slammed shut,
and knives and spoons flashing. It was like some bizarre
off-the-wall ballet, with everyone ducking and diving and,
amazingly, not bumping into each other. They were all
doing ten different things at once. She felt that she couldn't
do anything.

Kirsty was brilliant. Nothing fazed her and her nose
wasn't even shiny, whereas Kate could feel the sweat on her
forehead and running down her shoulder blades. She quite
expected to hear herself dripping every time she took a
step.

It was all very upsetting. She hadn't felt this out of
control and, well, scared, since her first day at big school.

She was just starting to think that it would be nice to die
quietly, if only there was a corner free to do so, when it all
seemed to be over and the kitchen, which had turned into
a tape on fast forward, now turned back into real time.

'Not a bad night, everyone. A bit quiet, but we will really
get into gear at the weekend,' said Jake, wiping down
surfaces with great speed. He seemed quite relaxed.

Kate stopped for a minute, but then wished she hadn't,
because she now discovered her feet were on fire and there
were pains shooting up and down her legs, which she had
been too busy to notice before. Her kitten heels, which had
been fine for walking round an office, now felt like
something the Spanish Inquisition could have used when
they required a little information. Her feet had grown to at
least a size ten. Any minute now they would burst out of her
shoes and explode all over the kitchen floor.

'You did . . . er . . . how can I describe it? Oh, yes – you
were crap, but I expect you'll be better tomorrow,' said
Kirsty hopefully.

'Why, are we closed?'

Kirsty laughed.

The grim truth dawned on Kate. Oh God, she had to go
through all this again tomorrow! This wasn't a job, it was
Jake's version of Dante's Hell. They were doomed perpetually
to try to fill hordes of gaping mouths for ever and
ever, amen. There was no respite. Even now, when all those
demanding, picky people had gone, they had to make
everything ready for the next lot. She was so tired she could
barely remember which way round the knives and forks
were supposed to go. Even when she had finally worked it
out, she got a bollocking from Kirsty, who seemed to think
that hiding the stains on the tablecloths by covering them
with wine glasses and salt cellars instead of going to find
new ones wasn't environmentally friendly and labour
saving – it was idle and slipshod and NOT how they did
things at this restaurant.

'Would you want to spend a small fortune eating at a
place that did things like that?'

Well, no, she wouldn't, but that was in the days when she
hadn't had the slightest consideration for the people who
had to work in restaurants.

Finally, the kitchen was back to its sparkling, immaculate,
original condition. But Kate watched in amazement and
horror. Jake was starting to get pans out again.

'What the hell are you doing? Surely we don't do a
midnight shift? Please, God – no!'

'I'm cooking supper for you all,' said Jake in surprise. 'I
usually do, you know. Everyone has worked hard and now
they are hungry.'

Kate stood and watched him chopping onions and
garlic and tossing them deftly in a pan with some tomatoes
and black olives. She wasn't hungry, but her legs had
gone on strike. Also, it was fascinating how Jake had
metamorphosed from a snarling tyrant into a nice human
being again.

'My dad says if you promise to leave the garlic at home,
he'll come for supper one night,' said Kirsty, getting out
bowls and cutlery. 'He said you look a lot like a man he once
knew but I don't know how he knows that, 'cos he never
wears his specs and we all know he's as blind as a bat without
them. Why, only the other day –'

'I don't think I've ever met your dad, have I? How does
he know me?'

Kirsty stared at him. 'You've lived here for ages now –
well, weeks – of course he knows you. He knows how old
you are and that you haven't got any brothers or sisters –'

'Well, that must be weird,' interrupted Godfrey, who had
four sisters and never knew a moment's peace at home.
'This is the country, Jake; everyone knows everything about
you already,' he explained.

'I can't get the hang of this,' grumbled Jake. 'In London,
I could walk the streets all day and never see anyone I
knew.'

'Me auntie Mary, you know – the one who was married
first to the man whose brother used to help Godfrey's dad
with his dry-stone walling? Well, after they split up – which
wasn't a day too soon as far as we were concerned – she took
up with that John who she's married to now – anyway, the
woman who lived in the cottage they bought after they had
baby John, my cousin –'

Jake had started to laugh. 'Sorry, do go on, it's just a bit
confusing. It's my fault, I'm a bit tired.'

She gave him a long look, then carried on, talking slowly,
as if to an idiot: 'Anyway, she used to say she knew the
names of everyone in her village.'

'That's hardly difficult! There's only twenty people live in
Hawsgill. It's really just a small street in the middle of nowt!'
scoffed Tess.

'Well, I didn't know who it was lived two doors down
from us when I was a kid, but that was because the police
took them away in the middle of the night,' put in Jake, to
stop the argument.