Seedling 5: ‘You’ll See’
“Be aware that some of our guests who are coming in tonight may not be seasoned diners. Those of you who work more weeknights; those are the nights we have more locals, people who dine out in London, regularly. And we love those regulars as much as we will love those who come in tonight. Those who come in tonight, they may have travelled in from long distances. Some of them, perhaps, don’t eat out as often. Perhaps this is a meal they have saved up for. They could be fans of Melody from when she was at Grange House. They could be fans of her cookbooks. They may perhaps be confused, and may need more help navigating our menu. These guests may, we might consider, not know many of our ingredients. These guests might, perhaps....ask questions about our architecture. Or, say, about our interior design. Patrons may wonder, ‘oh, look at that garden, who did that garden?’. Maybe they ask if the trees are real, which of course, yes, they are real. We should also consider world events. There may be those who are world weary, or rattled by yesterday’s monsoon in Sri Lanka. So, we, as restaurant professionals, we need to address the needs of these guests – or rather, we need to anticipate the needs of these guests...”
It looked as if Hannah might continue in this manner for another half hour. She did have a tendency to do so. Other briefings this week had focused on position numbers, folding napkins, replenishing linen and the fluctuations of the yen in relation to sterling and how City guests might be feeling emotionally exhausted as a result of the market instability.
Hannah also had a tendency to talk about her cats in briefing, which, actually, I found to be a welcome distraction. She’d been trying to train Bean to “poop in the human toilet”, but the results had been rather mixed. Marty suggested Marcos could benefit from similar training and briefing devolved rather quickly, from there.
Today we were mercifully interrupted by an early seating of pre-theatre couples and we scattered like cockroaches in bright light.
I went back to the somm station and popped a painkiller. Had to be done. I was surviving, but my first week had been a mixed bag.
Mike was great, thankfully. He treated me a step above that of Eoin and 1D and it didn’t go unnoticed. If there was any question about taint on a wine or inquiries on Napa properties, high-rollers from the U.S., etcetera, he came to me. I got the occasional dagger side-eye from the guys, but they liked me, in general; so there were no issues with this secret job Mike was giving me. So far. Yet. But, I was more tired than I was willing to admit. We were pushing well beyond the contractual forty-eight hour limit, but Mike assured me it was only because his assistant head sommelier was on holiday.
But, I already knew that.
Marcos had mentioned it in passing one morning, as we were suiting up for service. He leaned into the locker room mirror, pulling at a stray nostril hair.
“So, have you met Kamil, yet?”
“Uh, no, who’s Kamil?”
“Who’s Kamil?!” his eyes widened in mock surprise and a sly grin spread across his face. “Kamil is Mike’s assistant head sommelier”.
“Well, I haven’t met her, yet”.
Another sly grin from Marcos. “Oh, no, Kamil is not a woman. Oh, no, no. Kamil is a guy and he is from Slovakia”.
I understood why the gender was important, but less why his country of origin mattered.
Marcos continued, “Yes, Kamil was sniper in the Slovakian army. But, now, now he is sommelier”.
“Sounds like a natural career progression”.
Well, of course, it sounded nothing like a natural career progression. This Kamil; there had been other oblique references to the assistant head. Most involved phrases such as ‘you’ll see’, or ‘ you’ll find out soon, enough’, or the slightly less foreboding ‘Kamil’s really a good person at heart’. None of this inspired much confidence. I suppose the most worrisome was Omar’s ‘yeah, I don’t think Mike should be hiring a new somm without Kamil meeting him first’.
Explain, please...
For the time being I decided to push it out of my head and concentrate on the personalities that were in front of me.
One of them was the head bartender. Erich.
I’d not run into Erich until my first night shift. It was all a bit of a blur, because when I came upstairs, a bottle of Fino sherry in one hand and the cavernous waist of my pantaloon pants in the other – there was Erich smiling away in anticipation. And that’s when I realised, Oh fuck, it’s Erich.
We knew each other.
I hadn’t put it together when I’d seen the roster, but this was the Erich I opened the W Hotel with in Barcelona. Back then, I was fresh from LA and it was a big deal to have landed a job – even a restaurant job – in recession-struck Spain. I was hired as bartender and then plonked in a waiter position. I took it, nonetheless. Because, of course, the plan was to work my way back up to wine sales.
None of us were really working in our field, anyways, and a good twenty-five percent of the floor staff were interns. Now, in the States, nobody would ever fucking intern at a restaurant. You didn’t need to apprentice to learn how to clear plates or reheat old breadsticks. But, the W had an army of interns from hostelry schools. For the hotel it was profitable; for me, it was laughable. However, the comedy ended when the doors opened. Most of these interns were trust fund babies who were lured in by the new raft of glamourous “reality” television shows dedicated to food and wine. They were one-hundred percent clueless. One day, an intern came running up to me in a feverish panic during lunch service. “You have to help me, you have to help me!!” He was waiting tables poolside and I thought someone had fallen off the deck or an infant was drowning.
“what, WHAT?!”.
“I’ve never made a cappucino!”
Now, at least that kid was trying. Erich, he was an entirely different animal. No, Erich was a tall, pompous German twat with floppy blonde hair, a sweater tied neatly around his shoulders and a shit-eating grin. He practically reeked of privilege. It was clear why he’d been selected. He looked the perfect poolboy from every 1980s music video, with his tight white shorts, boat shoes, pink collared polo and Carrera sunglasses.
When the poolside team couldn’t keep up, it was up to us in the cafe on the other side of the glass-paneled wall to jump in. Pouring Cava, running aperitifs, bar food, the lot – and usually as I was rushing by with a plate of fried chipirones, I’d see Erich tucking into a lounge chair next to some buxom socialite in cocoa butter.
He was just about my least favorite person.
“Erich! Man, how crazy?! I didn’t know you worked here?!” He grabbed my hand and gave it a macho vice grip shake, his left hand on my forearm.
“Paul, I couldn’t believe it when I saw you on the roster. I said to Mike, ‘hey, I worked with that guy at the W!”
Actually, you were an intern.
“Yeah, yeah...craziness! So, how long have you…”
“I’ll catch you at briefing, mate”.
Erich was following the older woman I’d seen sitting with Mike the first day, trying to sidle up to her and catch her ear. I made a mental note of her blank reaction and decided I needed to find out more about the mystery lady and who she was.
Erich, I already knew who he was. He was trouble. Big time. And as far as Kamil, I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.
Trust-funders and snipers. What a team.
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