Seedling 29: Some Kind of Message
All things considered, that evening ended up being one of the easiest shifts I’d worked at Seedling.
‘Kitchen always runs smoother when Melody’s not here’.
That was Renee’s two cents. Probably true, as well. And good for them(though I couldn’t say the same for Beverage; when Mike was off the floor, things sometimes went to shit). Yes the kitchen was pretty much flawless with Melody somewhere stewing and walking it off. Mike, for his part, was all smiles, a skip in his step and the picture of professionalism. And if there were any doubt to the head somm’s state of mind, I’ll just say the left-field bottles were flowing tonight - a telltale sign he was having fun. Les Noels de Montebenault, amber gold in a decanter, table twenty-seven. Volcanique from the obscure Cote de Forez. And a tidy selection of Umathum Beerenausleses to wind down this quiet Friday evening for the natty couple on table twelve.
If, by contrast, you came on the floor midday and Mike had sold a sea of Chablis and Left Bank Bordeaux, well. You knew he was dialing it in and you hoped his only beef was with a hangover.
The diffused light of the balloon globes above seemed to fall in a magical drifts, like a fine snow. It was dreamy and ethereal; something I rarely noticed when I was consumed with a shaky service and developing drama. A woman in Vassily’s section caught my eye and nodded me over. As I crossed I watched Mike and Oliver at the service bar, smiling and looking very chummy as Mike spun a crumber in his right hand. Everything seemed rather perfect this evening, and I counted my blessings in that moment, thinking, if I had to go back to working in a restaurant, I’ve done okay, you know?
‘Yes, I have a question for you’.
‘There was a twinkle in this woman’s eye as if she was asking not for me but for the other three people in her party, fulfilling some bet or inside joke.
‘And what is that, ma’am?’
‘We were wondering why all these other tables have a lemon on them, but ours - does not’.
I was blank-faced for a moment.
‘You didn’t have a lemon when you sat?’
‘No, we most certainly did not’.
I turned to the empty two-top next to me grabbed its lemon, and gently set it onto the centre of their table.
The woman looked up at me.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s a lemon’.
‘Yes, but…’
‘You said you didn’t have a lemon, so I wanted to remedy that’.
As I started to move away she called me back.
‘Excuse me’.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s just that we were wondering,’(here she gestured to her companions) ‘what exactly does the lemon mean?’
‘Mean?’
‘Yes, what does it mean? What’s its purpose?’
I’d learned long ago not to try to get into long back and forths or deep conversations with guests at Seedling. Again, with the two somm structure, there simply wasn’t time. And what would I tell her anyways? Illuminate this sexagenarian on the vagaries of the London Examiner restaurant critic and the citric consequences? So instead I did what every school teacher does - turned it back on her.
‘What do you think it means?’
‘Maybe some kind of message?’
‘Message?’
‘Like, is a table with a lemon a VIP table? Something like that?’
I laughed in spite of myself. ‘Uh, no. No it isn’t. But that’s clever. That is clever. I’ll float that with management’. I was smiling, even leaning casually, my hand on the back of her companion’s chair. There was a sudden chumminess with these four. I was relaxed and they were perhaps a bit soused. When I looked up I saw Sandy step off the kitchen line, just inside the dining room in her chef whites. She was counting tables and making mental notes of where parties were in their meal, quietly decoding how many desserts she may have left to plate; which ingredients she could wrap in plastic for tomorrow’s service. Hannah was crossing from reception, striding confidently along the long wall, not a hair out of place. the massive mirrors standing sentinel above her. And reflected in those mirrors was Renee, folding napkins with smooth, machine-like precision at the main console, occasionally glancing up to monitor the few remaining tables in her section.
I didn’t see Mike on the floor. Oliver was gone as well - probably run to the cellar for some restock, which is a bit of dereliction and cheating because I could see coffee tickets peeking over the top of the marble bar.
I excused myself and crossed down and behind the bar, pulling the two tickets and setting up for three espressos, an Americano and a mint tea. They’d rota’d me on for a ‘coffee training shift’ in my first month, but having worked coffee stations as a bartender in New York City it was pretty pointless; ended up with me and Oliver trading dad jokes for three hours.
When I put the first tray of coffees up, Hannah skated by and picked it up in one swooping motion, spiking the ticket, and saying ‘thank you, darling’.
She was seamless tonight. Actually, come to think of it, Hannah was seamless most nights. Once you got past her idiosyncracies, the strengths and professionalism shone very bright. Same could be said of Renee, as well, really. Her gruff demeanour in this level of restaurant; yeah it took me off guard at first - but I was relieved any night I found her and I on shift the same day. At least there was competence and an ability to anticipate the service. Here she was busting through closing sidework and simultaneously monitoring her section - well, and Vassily’s as well, because who knew where the fuck he had minced off to. So, we had Hannah, Renee and Sandy(again peeking around the corner to count tables) - and all was calm and all was well.
I heard a thud. Mike dropped the box of wine restock at the end of the bar. He motioned for me to follow him, indicating there was one more in the dumbwaiter. No surprise on the second box. It was a quiet night but we’d managed to move quite a bit of wine.
A trail of white flour led us the entire journey from the bar, past the kitchen line, through the swinging doors, past salad prep and to the face of the stainless steel dumbwaiter, all of it imprinted with the star pattern of Mike’s black brogues.
I grabbed one end of the heaving crate and the head somm and I tracked the flour back over to the caves for a cheery, kaleidescope effect. Mike called out the bottles for re-stocking and I passed them over, all the while popping my head up to keep an eye on coffee tickets and the few lingering clients.
‘This cafe tapas thing is going to take longer than expected. Guess that should be no surprise’.
It wasn’t.
‘When are you back in? Lunch tomorrow?’
‘No, dinner service’, I replied. ‘I’m actually seeing a room tomorrow’.
‘Oh yeah? Finally had enough of the drug addict?’
‘Kinda getting under my skin, so to speak, yes’.
This would have been the natural opening for Mike to bitch about his earlier encounter with Melody, but there were no bites. So to speak.
‘Where’s the flat?’
‘Canary Wharf.’
‘CANARY WHARF??’ Mike’s surprise took me by surprise. ‘Ok, well. I suppose, difficult housing market and all. This is London’.
I was still new to London and didn’t know much of the city - but I didn’t understand my boss’s reaction, either.
I mean, Canary Wharf is safe and all, right?
Mike stood up, emptied his pockets of his crumber, a corkscrew, some Champagne toppers and a bunch of screws used to keep the wine lists together. He then opened up this little Tupperware box he had, divided into individual sections for sandwiches, cut carrots or whatnot; carefully placing his pocket’s contents into their own individual sections.
‘I used to have this girlfriend, said I wasn’t “emotionally available”. Said I “compartamentalised my feelings”. Can you believe that??’
He snapped the Tupperware closed and slid it into the small space above cave one and the bar counter before turning to leave.
‘Where did all this white shit come from?’