Seedling 9: The Holiday is Over
‘No sitting on the escalator’.
It was firm but polite, as British civil servants tend to be. Honestly, I don’t think I’d even realised I’d sat. But, after that shift, the distance from from street to platform at Embankment seemed a thousand lonely miles. I felt fairly broken, when I should’ve been overjoyed to get the last Tube - and not be stuck on the Night Bus.
However, I wasn’t really looking at silver linings. I was questioning whether I could get through even one more day at Seedling.
This had been a hard double. Having been on a double, I wasn’t supposed to close. But seatings became progressively later and there was no way I could leave One Direction - or any somm - on his own. So, closing it was.
Cosmo had been a ball of energy, right up until punching out. He did the re-stock at light speed, pulling bottles while I read off the bins, interjecting bits and bobs about the service and telling micro-stories while we lugged the boxes to the lift. He walked up the three flights of stairs, sideways, so that he could continue reliving the night by chatting with me, the old man, trudging up behind him, step by step, my knees wracked from the plimsouls.
We updated the caves and wine lists, and went down to change, 1D fairly skipping. Hannah shouted at him ‘Don’t run on the stairs Cosmo, but good job tonight!’ She was carrying a massive goblet of white wine, and I had no idea where she got it from.
Didn’t care, really.
By the time I got back to Stockwell I knew I’d toss and turn half the night - one of those moments you resented getting out of bed before you’d even gone to it. I set the alarm for one p.m., figuring I’d give myself two hours to get my shit together the next day and an hour to get to the restaurant.
The music began ten minutes after I crept under the covers. I reached over for my laptop, pulled up a ‘nature sounds’ website, plugged in my headphones and tried to retreat into some manufactured South London oasis that didn’t involve party drugs and ex-council flats.
When I woke the next day - or the same day, technically - the music was still pumping and The Geisha was steaming some root vegetables in the kitchen.
‘Looks like we’ll have a couple more days of this,’ he said, not without some pervy sense of glee. I could hear giddy laughter from upstairs. I estimated there were maybe four or five naked boys dancing around on the DJ’s bed. I nodded and then The Geisha began his hard sell about me joining that pyramid scheme he was involved in, as he did every third day. I nodded several times during the well-worn pitch, brewed my coffee, scrambled my eggs, lathered some ‘liquid heat’ on my lower back and headed out the door.
*
‘Heard you killed it, last night’. Omar was looking away as I turned. His deep monotone was unmistakable, and even though he wouldn’t make eye contact, I knew he was being legit. He stacked some celeriac onto his plate. Various forms of celeriac had been part of family meal for a week, now.
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I did my best’.
‘Noooooo’. He clucked with his tongue and did that douchey slow shake of his head. ‘I have it from reliable sources. You killed it.’ There was a pause. ‘Good for you’.
I didn’t know how to respond, really. I was so exhausted I had that almost weepy-eyed sensation you get from jet lag, or family funerals.
‘Thanks Omar. I appreciate it’. He nodded.
I carried my pasta salad and smashed celeriac to the ‘garden’ space where we regularly gathered for family meal. Marcos was languidly dropping a pile of flatware onto a center table as nobody had remembered to set the room for staff. It clanked inelegantly against the classical music and rising chatter of both kitchen and front of house. I slipped in next to Renee at a tiny marble table, she instinctively sliding over to make space while recounting the soft opening she attended the night before.
I kid you not, they are still serving mojitos. I mean, seriously? Who does that?
Mike came rushing in as he often did, plate to chin, eating as he crossed briskly to the banquette. He stopped briefly, over me.
‘We have to change a few pages on the list before briefing, so don’t get too cosy’.
‘Ok’.
‘How was last night?’
‘Fine’.
‘Good’.
I pushed the pasta salad around, debating how many carbs I should consume to get me through the shift vs. how many carbs I could consume before my ‘Gap Kids’ canvas waistcoat pulled a spread eagle.
That older woman; the one I’d yet to meet - she crossed through the Garden on her way to reception, a stack of notes in hand. As I looked up, she winked at me, and continued on. I glanced around and saw most of the men were looking her way. She was, maybe, forty-five? But, yeah, she was pretty foxy. A black leather skirt from knee level cinched just above the waste, her ample bosom hardly contained under a stripe-patterned turtleneck, and black leather boots that announced her arrival in stomping fashion. The hair, short and boyish, gave her an even more modern touch. It went well with her demeanour, which was, to be plain, ‘I’m important’.
‘Lists..’
Mike tapped me with a pen as he went by and I jumped. I followed him out and back to the kitchen where we cleared our plates and dropped silver into a bucket spilling over with forks, knives, breadcrumbs and soapy tomatoes.
There was not much talk as we re-organised the list, a painstaking process that involved manually unscrewing five joints on each booklet and collating new pages in. I didn’t mind the silence. Mike struck me as someone who made small talk more to fit in than for pleasure. His silence betrayed a level of comfort.
‘Hey hey, there he is! What up man!’
A bit of cacophony spilled out of the kitchen, and I figured a chef or KP was back from holiday by the tone of it. But as I looked up there was some guy strolling along, all crooked smile and dressed like a Disney pirate. He shook Mike’s hand quite formally, as if he was in a consular receiving line, exchanged a few pleasantries, then looked at me - from head to toe.
‘Good Afternoon, I’m Kamil’.
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