Recipe for Disaster (21 page)

'Er, I don't know. I've never heard of a restaurant called
the Sistine –'

'Quiet, woman! I have assembled a dazzling array of
mouth-watering dishes on this menu. I am offering them
some of the classics of
haute cuisine
and if that's not good
enough for them –'

Here Jake described graphically where they could put
the fishcakes, supposing he had any.

'I think you'll find that's against the law,' said Kirsty,
quite unmoved. 'I'll tell them fishcakes are off, shall I?'

When she next came back to the kitchen, it was to hiss to
Kate that there was a punter in the restaurant who fancied
her.

'It's the one in the corner, sitting on his own. He was
definitely looking at you when you took his starter away.'

'Are you sure he had finished?' asked Jake coldly. He had
heard what Kirsty had said. Of course, it was no business of
his if a customer wanted to take Kate out for a drink.
Absent-mindedly, he began sharpening his most lethal
knife.

'Forget it – I'm not interested,' Kate hissed back at Kirsty,
with perfect truth.

'Well, I think he would be just right for you,' continued
Kirsty, who had chosen that day to be oblivious to tact. 'He's
reading a book while he's eating, so that means he is clever
like you, and he could afford to take you somewhere nice
'cos he's wearing an expensive jacket.'

'Fascinating,' said Jake icily. 'Let's all discuss the private
lives of our customers, shall we? Oh, hang on, we are in the
middle of service! So sorry to interrupt, but would one of
you mind just popping out and actually doing your job?'
His voice had risen to the level that is known in catering as
'chef reaching boiling point'.

Kate stomped out, also in a bad mood. She was furious
with Kirsty and furious with herself for wanting to reassure
Jake she wasn't remotely interested in anyone but him.

Hans was on the phone. He was looking upset and
beckoned her over. 'Can you do the bar for me for a sec? I
need to speak to Jake.'

She took a quick glance round to check everyone was
happy and nodded.

Jake looked up in surprise as Hans thrust his head round
the door. He shouldn't have to come down to the kitchen
during service.

'Boss, can I have a quick word?'

'What's happened?' It had to be some disaster in the
restaurant. He could taste the sour flavour of dread rising
in his throat.

'It's nothing to do with the restaurant,' said Hans
quickly, seeing his face.

'Well, it had better be good then,' he snapped, then he
shook himself. Hans was looking really upset. He shouldn't
take his own fears out on his staff, and he had to stop
behaving as if there was a crisis round ever corner.

Inside the office Jake sat down. 'I really must get some of
those herbal stress remedies the next time I'm at the
chemist,' he said to himself, but Hans heard.

'Yes, you are too sensible to try anything else. Unfortunately,
a friend of mine is not.'

Jake sighed. He sort of knew what was coming next.

'A friend of mine is in big trouble.'

'Uh-huh. Go on.'

Hans sighed. 'He is a decent bloke, but under a lot of
pressure at work. Sometimes we smoke a bit of dope
together. But for him, it has got worse. He has started
taking cocaine. He says it helps him to cope at work, you
know – gives him confidence and energy. But then he
smokes more dope to take him down, help him relax.'

'Yeah, I saw plenty of this in London. One place I
worked at, briefly, the entire kitchen were taking drugs. I
am sorry for your friend, but I can't do anything, you know.
It's up to him to deal with it, or not.'

'Yes, I know that, but . . .'

'There's more, isn't there? Come on, spit it out.'

'It's Ronnie, over at the Café Anglais. I am really worried,
Jake. He has been left in charge for the last couple of days
– Harry is away. Things were already really getting to him
and he'd started smoking some really strong weed. It must
have made him paranoid, because now he has locked
himself in the larder room and no one can get him out and
everything is in uproar. When Harry gets back and finds
out, he will crucify him. It will be the end of his career and
he is in a bad enough way already. I know it is probably the
last place you wish to go to, to help someone out, but I have
only been here a few months – I don't know who else to ask.'

Jake was silent for a minute.

'So, Harry's going to find himself in a spot of bother, is
he? Well, that makes a change. God, I can't wait to send him
a short note of sympathy when word gets out, and round
here, it will! Well, this is sweet. The gods must have decided
that it's my turn to have some fun.'

Then he slammed a fist onto the table. 'Bloody hell!
What's come over me? I sounded just like Harry then,
didn't I?'

'It's all right, boss, I understand,' Hans reassured him.
'This is not your problem. It is just . . . well I thought . . .
Ronnie . . . he is one of us, isn't he? He just wants to cook,
like you do.'

'I know. I'm sorry. Of course, you are right.' Jake
groaned. 'How could I be such a shit?'

'You're not. Really, it is nothing to do with you –'

'But that's not the point! I can't just stand by and watch
while a fellow chef is pushed to breaking point. Ronnie has
been a complete idiot, but, believe me, I understand just
how stressed he had to be to go there.' He stood up.

'Mind you – I am not exactly sure what I can do to help,
but I'll give it a go.' He stood up and then hesitated. This
was an excursion into enemy territory and there might well
be reprisals. But Hans was looking at him, all hopeful and
trusting. 'Come on, then.'

He popped his head round the kitchen door and,
without even looking up, Tess said: 'Everyone is eating
happily and there's no one else looking and Godfrey and
me can help Emma with puddings.'

'How did you know I was going to ask that?'

'I'm psychic – didn't I tell you that at the interview? No,
seriously, Boss, you have a one-track mind and it's easy to
read.'

He had to check up on Godfrey and Emma, who were
busy building a little tower of white, dark and milk
chocolate mousses. They were doing fine, except that
Godfrey had a very soppy look on his face as he handed
Emma the garnishes.

'That's good, but stop there. Any more and it will look
tacky. Listen – I have to pop out. Are you sure you will be
OK without me?'

'Of course! Though we'll sulk like mad if you don't tell us
what's going on,' said Kirsty.

'Fat chance I've got of keeping anything secret from you
lot. I'll call you later. Listen, you're to ring me if there's any
sort of problem at all. Kirsty, tell Kate she'll have to do the
bar; Hans had better come with me.'

He wasn't too happy about this, but he didn't really have
a choice. He didn't want to leave Kate on the bar, probably
being chatted up by that guy. But then, what business was
it of his? If she wanted to go out with a smart guy in a posh
jacket, she could. She was single, after all. She could go out
with anyone she fancied. But you can't, Jake, because you
are not free, he told himself, firmly.

When they were in the car, he made a determined effort
to put her out of his mind and said: 'OK, fill me in on
whatever else you know.'

'Ronnie is a good bloke, you know. OK, he doesn't have
a lot to say for himself, because, well, there's no point –
Harry wouldn't listen. Ronnie loves – no – he
loved
cooking.
He told me once it was all he ever wanted to do. He was so
pleased at first when he got this job. But Harry – well, you
know what he's like. He doesn't talk to people, he shouts –
and he doesn't listen to any of their ideas. He tells them it's
his way or they can fuck off. He is nothing like you.'

'So when did things start to slide downhill for Ronnie?'
asked Jake, ignoring the compliment.

'Almost straight away,' said Hans, gloomily. 'He said he
couldn't cope without a line of coke – it made him feel sharp
and focused. But then he needed more and more, to get
him through a shift. It gives you a high, but it doesn't last
long. And then, of course, after a while, he needed something
to bring him down, so he would have a few joints.'

'So he took stuff to speed him up, then stuff to slow him
down and now of course, his head is all over the place,' said
Jake.

'Yeah, that's pretty much it.'

When they walked in to the kitchen at Café Anglais, all he
could see was a huddle of white jackets and hats and a
babble of voices. There was a line of checks on the table but
everyone seemed to be too occupied talking and arguing
among themselves to do any actual cooking. It was clear no
one was in charge and none of them knew what to do.

'Where's Ronnie?' asked Jake curtly.

They sprang apart and one of them pointed to a door.
Jake went over and tapped on it.

'Fuck off and leave me alone!'

'Well, he's still alive, at any rate. Is there anything in
there he could do himself harm with?'

'It's just dry goods – tins and packets.'

'OK. Well, I think we should just leave him in there, at
least until you've got the punters out of the way. You need
to make a start with those checks – oh, hello, Sally.'

She was staring at him like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
He could tell, even from a distance that her nervous
eczema had flared up again. It was creeping up her arms in
a fiery red rash and it contrasted horribly with the pallor of
her face. Come to think of it, everyone here looked washed
out, as if they were never allowed out into the sunshine. They
were also all staring at him in a bewildered but rather
hopeful way and he realised they had all been so cowed by
Harry that they didn't have the faintest idea what to do when
there was no one there to shout orders at them. It was a good
thing he still had his jacket and apron on. He grinned
suddenly, because it was quite funny. This was probably the
only chance he would ever get to watch Harry's boat sinking
and here he was, busily chucking out lifebelts.

'OK, guys, who's on starters? You? Right. You've got two
soups and two lobster salads, followed by three steaks and a
duck. What the hell are you all looking at?'

'Er, what are you doing?' asked one of the commis chefs.

Jake sighed. Terror had turned this kitchen into idiots.

'I am helping you out, because you so obviously need it.'

'But what will Chef Hunter say?'

Chef who? Oh, Harry. What a prick that man was.

'I don't know. He's not here. But if you can carry on
without me . . .?'

'We can't,' said Sally, her voice barely above a whisper.

'Yeah. Didn't think so. Go and get me a menu so I can see
what goes with this duck.'

Then followed a mad hour during which he had to take
charge of a strange kitchen and cook a completely
unfamiliar menu with a crew who ran around more like
startled deer than pros. This was what happened when you
didn't train people to think for themselves. Some of the
punters had been waiting to eat for over an hour now, and
others had complained and sent food back. It was a
nightmare. Also, ridiculously, he felt quite nervous, because
he was half-expecting Harry to appear out of nowhere, like
the Demon King in a panto, and stab him between the ribs.

'Where did you say your boss was?' he asked someone
rather nervously.

'Paris, I think. He's definitely not back till tomorrow.'

Jake entertained a brief vision of sliding notes under the
steaks, advising the customers they would have a much
nicer experience at Cuisine next time they wanted to go out
and eat, and then found himself bawling at one of the
waitresses for not wiping the plates properly before taking
them out. The waitresses were efficient, but snooty. God,
this was an awful place to work.

He worked on, trying to restore order to chaos and
hating the atmosphere in this kitchen. It was heavy with
tension and stress. No wonder it had all got too much for
Ronnie. Jake's own team certainly jumped when he barked
at them, but they didn't get into a lather of fear over it, even
when they cocked up. Then he was distracted into
wondering where Harry got such fantastic pigeons.

'He shoots them,' said the kitchen porter, when asked.

'Oh, that figures,' said Jake.

Eventually, it all came to an end. Everyone had enjoyed
their meals, apparently, though Jake had had to practically
force this information out of the waitresses. They were
going to report absolutely everything he had done back to
Harry, he could tell. There was going to be no way he could
stop any of this getting out.

'OK, everyone, you need to get cleared up and out of
here as quickly as possible so I can try and persuade Ronnie
out.'

'I don't think you should be left here on your own,' said
one of the waitresses.

'Why? Are you worried I might steal the silver? Oh, all
right, do what you like. Just stay out of here until I tell you
otherwise.'

He yawned and took a slug of coffee to keep alert. His
eyes felt gritty with tiredness and he found himself obsessively
picturing Kate, sitting somewhere expensive, having
a drink with that guy. He didn't want to be here, trying to
talk someone out of a drug-fuelled breakdown. But he felt
desperately sorry for Ronnie, who had been driven to such
desperate measures.

He sat down with his back against the door, next to Hans,
and said as much, in what he hoped was a calm and
reassuring voice. He described one or two people he had
known in similar situations and how they had got themselves
sorted. He suggested tea and something to eat – a
good meal was always the best way to help someone think
more sensibly, he felt. He went on in this manner for about
twenty minutes, when suddenly the door opened and he
and Hans nearly fell backwards.