Seedling 12: Say it with a French Accent
‘How is possible you don’t know who is Jean?’
The pronunciation of this one was a clear French ‘Jeanne’; seemed practically no one at Seedling had a normal name. Kamil was marching briskly up Bow Street, his body in a rather aggressive forward lean as we passed the Royal Opera House on our footwear mission.
‘I don’t understand this. Mike’s training of staff. Sometimes I don’t understand. You don’t know Lemberger is same as Blaufrankisch and now you don’t even know who is operations manager’.
I didn’t know about Lemberger, because, first of all - you weren’t going to find Lemberger in Los Angeles. Secondly - why would anyone use such an ugly name for a grape, anyways?(not that Blaufrankisch is much better). And, no, nobody had clarified that Jean was Seedling’s operations manager - and that was, yes, a bit problematic.
‘Jean is Melody’s right hand, her partner. The restaurant would not function without Jean. It would die. End. Disaster. Death. Over.’
- very disturbing word choices from a former sniper.
‘She even know how bad the uniform. She agree. But, Melody, she likes it. I mean, look at how we are dressed? It’s fucking shame. Nobody respects us dressed like we are dressed’.
This was all true.
‘You, fine. Somms, fine. But, me? Assistant Head? What is this insult you make me wear?’ He took a long, serious drag on his cigarette and shook his head in despair.
I was used to hearing Kamil talk. A lot. It was often peppered with obscure wine jargon and notions about how he was due much more respect than the rest of us, but rarely touched on the inside-baseball of Seedling. But this time there was a sort of hurt and exasperation bleeding through in his rapid fire protestations. He almost seemed human outside the actual restaurant.
‘This is not how fine dining supposed to be’.
There was a long gap. The chatter of the tourist class rattled on behind us. I’d been quiet a while. I figured I had to speak at some point.
‘Where were you before this?’
‘Dinner by Heston’.
“‘Dinner by Essen’?” (German?).
“‘Dinner by HESTON’ Heston Blumenthal?!’
‘“ Essen Boozing Hall’?” I was legitimately confused. I mean, with Kamil’s thick accent, any detour from basic English conversation was a minefield.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you don’t know who is Heston Blumenthal. So important chef, you have to know’.
His dissapointment - no, disgust - was apparent. But I still couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Maybe if he said it with a French accent, a-la-Jean...
‘I’ll google..him? Her? When I get home’.
Kamil glared at me. This situation wasn’t going to improve, because I still had no idea what he was saying and I didn’t think researching a pub in the Ruhr would yield many clues.
There was a significant halt in the conversation, a pause, as we turned left onto Long Acre and the crowd thickened with day-trippers. Kamil looked visibly irritated.
‘When we get back to Seedling, you need to explain to me why someone so old is just somm’.
I grinned, despite myself.
‘OK, Kamil. Will do. Let’s go over it during briefing; right after guest notes and before the cheese board’.
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