Seedling 26: The Somm Meeting
I rolled out of bed. January 10th. Second day back at Seedling and heading in early for that ‘mystery’ somm meeting. More importantly, the second week of January meant we were creeping up on my three month anniversary at the restaurant.
Have you talked to your boss about your salary, yet??
My Mum’s words kept repeating in my mind. I shouldn’t have told her of Mike and I’s salary discussion at my contract signing.
Well, let me explain. There’s two things when it comes to ‘three months’. First off, most jobs have a three month ‘trial period’ during which you can be turfed out, no penalties to the employer, no compensation, no nada. And then there was the salary negotiation. Mike had told me outright what he was allowed to offer me - a wink to the fact I was being hired as a bit of stealth ‘management’ and that I was in on the joke, so to speak. He could pay me between £19,000 and £24,000 per year - that was what was approved. And, as he said at the time, ‘obviously with your experience I would be looking at the higher end of that range’. I took a different tack:
Well, been a while since I was on the floor, so let’s do it this way: you plug me in at twenty-two and if at the end of three months you think I merit the top salary, adjust it, then.
It wasn’t some mere humble offer - I made four times that in Los Angeles - but the idea was to show Mike I was willing to pay my dues and that I valued the work over the salary. Did I really value the work over the salary? Actually, yes, to a degree. But the optics were more important for future strategising. I was ultimately hired at £22K per year and were you to divide that by twelve and put that number up against a three month total of a 24K salary - I lose £501. £167 lost per month to play the long game and prove I’m the real deal? Chump change.
But, now we were up against that three month deadline. And, truth is, when you’re in the trenches dealing with non-stop calamity and a plethora of difficult personalities, you kinda want some feedback, some acknowledgment; a modicum of respect.
You want the salary bump.
So, though it wasn’t top of my mind, it wasn’t an afterthought, either.
I was downstairs in the kitchen, kettle on, when the bell rang. I looked out the kitchen window, but couldn’t see who was there. So, I walked to the front door and put my eye up to the peephole. It was mostly a moist, blurry version of a jumper and a baseball cap. Tempting fate, I opened the door.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, hi, yeah mate. Is (Crackey McFlatmate) in?’
‘Not sure, actually’
‘Oh, right. Can I come in and just wait for him, then?’
He was maybe twenty-six, about 5’10’’ and a tiny bit overweight. Black hoodie and a branded baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. I might’ve known the team had I looked closely enough. Baggy jeans and some stark white trainers completed ‘the look’.
He wasn’t coming in.
‘Sorry, man. I can’t let anyone in. Would get my ass kicked. Maybe you can text (Crackey)? See where he is?’
He clumsily pulled his mobile from his pocket and then looked at it as if it were something he’d never seen before in his life. To be this fucked up at ten a.m. was a very specific existence.
I waited a moment while he toggled away, then he got confused. Then he seemed angry at the phone. At that point I decided to cut the whole scene, short.
‘Well, I’m here for a bit so if you catch Darren on the phone, let me know, and I’ll see you later, yeah?’
I closed the door on his blank face and went back to the warm kettle and some impending breakfast. As I whisked two eggs in a bowl, I glanced back out the front window. The random guy wandered over towards the children’s playground, turned around gently, looked up at the sky, and then crashed down onto the kids’ slide. He sat for a moment. Then laid his head back. And then slumped into a long lump of hoodie, immobile. It was damp out there. A cold mist settling over Lambeth. But, you know, not so cold that he’d get hypothermia. So I ate breakfast and headed to Sandown House.
*
The meeting was at three, in The Garden, which is a logical time. Smack between lunch service and dinner. Both Cosmo and I were working the dinner shift, so it was easy for us. Kamil, Eoin and Oliver - the Assistant Head Bartender - had to come in on their day off; Oliver all the way from Essex - so that kinda blows.
When Kamil entered, he gave me that odd sort of ‘bow’ and head nod, for lack of a better description. No words, no, but acceptable given past events. His acid washed jeans had the white marble pastiche of 1991 and his light brown hair had an extra dose of gel for what must be a planned wild night out. Eoin strutted in afterwards. Characteristically unshaven, bleary-eyed and looking like he’d skipped the daily shower. Oliver was his usual, dandy self; more unassuming high-street outfitted than screaming for any sort of attention. He parked himself next to me.
‘Did I miss anything?’ Oliver winked.
I smirked. ‘Yeah, no waiters smiled during lunch service and we’ve all been served detention’.
Mike rushed in, as is his normal manner, and dragged a chair into the center of our haphazard semi-circle. He clapped his hands together.
‘Hi. Thanks everyone for coming in. Right, so some pretty exciting news. Two weeks from today, the space you are sitting in, right now - is becoming a casual tapas spot’.
Mike’s eyes were twinkling and his mouth split into a devious carnival barker smile, his arms spread wide. As is also normal for Mike, we never knew when he was serious or not. But, I had to assume this was real since we’d all gathered at 3pm on a Tuesday.
‘So, we’re going to have a second pass-through window installed in this wall…here(pointing behind him). And we’ll have the front bar fully up and running, finally, and a separate wine list, as well. All budget, all by-the-glass’.
Nobody really reacted.
‘I know, you’re probably thinking “oh great, more shifts”. But, no, I’ve hired two new bartenders and I think I have a junior somm hired, as well’.
I could swear I heard Oliver deflating, next to me. My stomach was sinking, as well.
‘So, whichever somm is working this front cafe - or whatever we end up calling it - he…or…she…’
What was that??
‘…will be responsible for designing the list to go with that week’s menu and for setting it up on Aloha’.
More deflation from me….
‘Cosmo, you’re going to be in charge for at least the first two weeks so you’ll be doing the entire list and programming’.
1D practically jumped out of his chair and fist-pumped the art-deco ceiling. I then looked over at Eoin. He was picking at his teeth with a debit card.
Mike opened the meeting up to questions and it quickly went off track. Marty wanted to know why she wasn’t allowed to smoke in her uniform and Eoin inquired if there would be a tronc bump for our new double-duty. Mike just gave him a very harsh, dismissive glance. Man that boy can dig his own grave, can’t he?
Kamil grabbed Eoin by the shoulder and walked him out front of reception.
When Mike stood to leave he got fairly mobbed by the remaining bar staff. Management was largely death by a thousand questions, I knew that well-enough from my own days at the top of the heap.
I took my waistcoat off and then put it back on, pressing down the tags and trying to get it to lay more flush against the skin on my neck. Same with my striped top. It was driving me crazy on my belt line, rubbing up against the rough fabric of the pantaloon trousers.
‘You okay, Paul?’ Oliver was throwing his leather messenger bag over his shoulder. ‘Looks like you got a rash or something’.
I stared back at Oliver, confused, and distractedly scratching away at my chest.
Oh fuck…