The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  ‘Hello, Jonathon, Johnny. Dad.’

  ‘Hello, Charlie.’

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Next door. She doesn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘No?’ Charlie looked at his father.

  ‘And your grandad?’

  ‘Gee gees.’

  ‘Convenient, that.’ Johnny looked at the floor.

  ‘Shall we go then? I saw your new car. Stay here, I’ll go get my stuff.’

  Charlie could hear his mum sobbing from the bar. He slipped behind the reception desk and picked up the metal-framed rucksack, packed the night before.

  ‘Cheerio, then. We’re off.’

  More sobs. Charlie shrugged. He didn’t like to see her crying and was ashamed to be siding with his dad. What was he supposed to do?

  The Quattro’s boot was hastily opened to make way for Charlie’s stuff. He had to admit, Jonathon had bought the kit.

  ‘A new fishing rod. I want you to have it for your birthday. Sorry I missed it, I’ve been so busy with work lately.’

  Busy bonking your boss, Charlie thought. The secretary kept his mother well up to date on that front, too. She made The Savoy sound like a hotbed of sex and scandal. All Charlie knew was that he’d liked the big copper pans he’d seen in the Savoy kitchens. Only thirteen years old and he was starting to find his way around a professional kitchen. And he was going out with a girl.

  It felt good, being in the car with his dad. Driving down to the marina, free for the next few days to be… To be what? Father and son? Friends? Jonathon had made the first move on what Charlie should now call him when he’d written on Savoy headed paper to suggest that Daddy was too immature, Father too Catholic, what about Johnny? What about Johnny? Torn between a new life and a bitter ex-wife. He’d probably jumped at the chance to spend a few days with his boy, away at sea and free for a while from work and love. Now they were in the car, there was the problem of what to say. They passed The Grand without comment and said nothing of the Brighton Centre’s windows glinting in the midday sun. Passed the Palace Pier without remarking on the ice-cream and helter-skelter years they had once enjoyed. Passed Larry’s old house, black tiles hot and curtains drawn. Johnny turned on the cassette deck, Phil Collins. Charlie grimaced and Johnny turned it off. Silence reigned on Marine Parade.

  ‘So, tell me about your girlfriend. What’s she called?’

  ‘Lulu, but I call her Lu. Do you remember her? When we were little before you… er, had to go. Well, before all that… Lulu used to come and play. Mum says we argued like cat and dog. Anyway. She’s in my tutor group at school now. She’s great fun and Roger, her dad, he’s rad.’

  ‘Rad? Oh, rad. Yes. I know Roger, of course, he laid our, your, carpets in Belle Hotel.’

  ‘Yes, here we are. Park here. Look there’s the boat.’

  Twelve fathers and sons waited on the newly built Brighton Marina dockside for Roger Hardman’s boat to dock. Shagpile bounced on its bright red fenders and everybody gasped. The boat was nothing short of a gin palace and Roger’s treat to himself when Hardman Carpets made its first million. Lulu had begged him not to, but Roger insisted. Just the tonic I need after working wall to wall for a decade while single-handedly bringing you up, sweetheart. Franco egging Roger on, bored behind the Belle Hotel bar and daring Roger to get the biggest boat in the brochure. The fishing trip had been Franco’s idea, too, but Franco had vowed never to go to sea in a small boat again after his somewhat choppy Channel crossings during the war.

  Someone brought a camera, so the moment was not lost. The men gathered at the front looked a sturdy lot. Strong folk, good with their hands and their offspring all healthy boys ready for anything the weekend’s deep-sea fishing could throw at them. Arms rested on shoulders in easy familial affection. A huddle of four hung back, disconnected, their unease about to be caught on camera. Johnny Sheridan, son of Belle Hotel Franco, and an unsmiling Charlie waited with Fizal Moondi, the Ship Street Newsagent and his son Parvez. Two boys, in different sets at school – chess for Parvez, chests for Charlie – were about to discover how much they had in common. Neither knew their fathers from a bar of soap. They were the final four to board the enormous boat as it rocked against the marina wall.

  Lulu’s dad came on deck, with Lulu slouching along behind him. She cringed under her fringe at the captain’s uniform, the jokes, him. She wished that she’d let him get away with his ‘men only’ rule for the trip.

  ‘Roger the cabin boy, at your service. All aboard, landlubbers, jump down!’

  Even before they had left safe harbour, Parvez and Charlie were in troubled waters. The two fathers sat together staring into space at the back of the boat, while the sons made their own small talk on the seat opposite. Charlie would normally have sat with his mates from school: Bing, Dan and the rest. Centre of attention, leader of the chat. But they all seemed a bit different with their dads. So this was the way it was going to be.

  Halfway to the first fishing site Jonathon the hotelier from Brighton and Fizal the shopkeeper from Bengal were stumped for conversation.

  ‘Dad likes cricket.’

  Thank you, Parvez. Two hours into this trip and Charlie was already tired of filling in for his dad.

  Lulu took Johnny’s offer of a lift back to Belle Hotel with Charlie. Roger would be fiddling about with his tackle for hours. The fishing trip had been a roaring success. They’d only caught enough for a couple of fish fingers, but Roger said that didn’t matter. It was the being together that made the trip special. She’d even seen Charlie relax a bit with his dad as they sat looking, ever hopeful, with their rods out over the deep. Johnny had even tried to slip an arm over Charlie’s shoulders on the voyage back to the marina. Charlie had shrugged him off a couple of times before Lulu had glared him into submission. They’d even grabbed a quick kiss on the ‘Bridge’, as Roger ridiculously called his steering wheel bit.

  ‘What you two sniggering at?’

  ‘Nothing, Dad, get back to your radar.’

  And now the prospect of a couple of hours at Belle Hotel. Lulu felt fuzzy inside at the thought of it.

  Franco welcomed them both in the lobby, only appearing when the growl of Johnny’s Quattro had stopped echoing down Ship Street. The old man had a kiss for Lulu and punch on the arm for Charlie.

  ‘The adventurers return. Now then, how about a spot of supper. Two courses, mind, and nothing toppy. Be my guests!’

  Franco bowed and gestured them to leave their bags in the lobby.

  ‘Walk this way.’

  Then with his best Basil Fawlty, he led them into the empty Belle Hotel restaurant.

  Charlie rolled his eyes at Lulu and passed her the menu. They’d better look sharp, the table would be booked solid from seven.

  Lulu feasted her eyes on the menu. Delicious dishes swam before her eyes. Steak and prawn cocktail, she knew from the Berni Inn, but some of this stuff, scallops and venison, she’d never even heard of, let alone tasted. She was about to order what she wanted when Charlie got up and made off for the kitchen door.

  ‘Charlie, don’t you want to know what I want?’

  ‘I was going to surprise you, Lu.’

  ‘But what if I don’t like it?’

  ‘What’s not to like about chicken liver parfait followed by fish pie?’

  ‘I thought I might have the deep-fried Camembert and cranberry sauce to start and then the steak.’

  Charlie came to sit back down, not opposite, as he had been, but next to her on the banquette. He pointed at the starters.

  ‘That fried French cheese thing is horrible. Franco only put it on the menu because Delia did it. And steak… tut, tut. Too expensive for family. Trust me, Lu, you’ll love the parfait and fish pie.’

  She watched him karate kick the swing doors and heard him yell a couple of words to Franco over the din of the mixer. That was that, then. Overruled. Pâté and pie. And she didn’t even like pâté. Charlie was just like her dad. Lulu wasn’t sure about this boyfri
end lark. Only done it because Susan James said she fancied Charlie. Lulu didn’t want him, but she deffo didn’t want him going out with anybody else. Lulu looked at the photos on the wall of the restaurant of them as kids and cringed. That bowl haircut. Who cut it? Franco? Awful. Typical of her dad to dump her at Belle Hotel while he was working. She remembered getting coins for keeping out of Franco and Janet’s way. That Christmas shot, look at those awful jumpers, the day they first kissed. The last time they’d been able to fit into the cubbyhole behind reception. Lulu’s mind wandered down the gallery of her childhood. Time passed. The mixer got switched off. Lulu could hear Franco murmuring at Charlie behind the kitchen door. Then Charlie reappeared from the kitchen, shoved by a starched white arm.

  ‘Er, Franco says are you sure that’s what you want?’

  Charlie blushed as he carried out Franco’s command. He’d torn a strip off Charlie for not letting the lass choose what she fancied. Lulu thought for a moment, then nodded her assent. He looked awkward enough having to come back and was red around the eyes, like he’d been crying.

  They ate the two courses sharpish and pretty much in silence. It was the best food Lulu had ever tasted, including the time Roger had taken her to Dieppe in Shagpile. The heaviness of the pitted silver cutlery, stiff table linen and proper salt and pepper pots were the poshest things she’d ever eaten off. And then, the Wedgwood china plates, cold fluffy wedge of parfait under a butter top she’d had to crack with her knife before piling it into hot brioche that Charlie pulled from a napkin in a basket. This was rad. Lulu was in heaven. Just wait till she told Susan James.

  Janet, Charlie’s mum, came in with a Coke for each of them and said how lovely it was to see them at the table together when they used to crawl around its legs, and Franco came in in his chef’s whites, fish pies on a polished silver platter and lifted the cloches with a ‘ta-da’ and no, she couldn’t have ketchup with it, tut-tut, what did Lulu think this was, the bloody Wimpy, but Franco winked at her as he said it. And then the clock in the lobby chimed seven and Charlie said time to scarper and beep, beep, that was her dad outside in his Beemer and she’d better be going and another kiss, this one from Charlie at the door of Belle Hotel and Lulu knew that she was in love. S-W-A-L-K. In love with Belle Hotel. She would never forget that fish pie and parfait for as long as she lived.

  Omelette Arnold Bennett

  11 oz smoked finnan haddock fillets

  8 eggs

  2 oz butter

  1 cup hollandaise sauce

  1 cup béchamel sauce

  3 tbsp double cream, lightly whipped

  2 tbsp grated parmesan cheese

  S&P

  Franco sometimes made the weekly takings trip to Hookes in person. He had a facility at the local bank, but this gave him an excuse to cross his viaduct, get out of Brighton and away from Belle Hotel, for a few hours at least. Sherry with Paul Peters. Pop into the Guild for the industry gossip. Then Omelette Arnold Bennett at The Savoy. If he was lucky, Johnny would sit with him for a few minutes. The two men would trade takings and industry tittle-tattle and Franco could head back to Brighton feeling he’d done his duty for another week.

  Things had been tense, at first. It had taken Johnny a while to talk to the old man. By the mid-eighties they had reached an understanding. Open-faced omelette, glass of Savoy red and Franco would stroll back down the Strand in time for the West End Standard and the one o’clock home.

  He’d left that first visit with a recipe tucked into his wallet. It was a new one on Franco, and gave the stuttering men something to do.

  ‘Dad, it’s named after the writer, Arnold Bennett. He lived here at The Savoy while he researched Imperial Palace. He was so delighted with this omelette that he demanded that chefs made it for him wherever he travelled.’

  ‘Yes, I met him. Great writer. Annoying man. Larry couldn’t stand him either. We used to spit in his soup on the trains.’

  Johnny, the successful front-of-house manager, had tried to tell his father how to cook an omelette.

  ‘All right, son, just give me the basics. Omelette Arnold Bennett. I get it. Poach the fish, what if I can’t get finnan? Yes, any haddock will do, they’ll never know. Mix the sauces with the cream. Cover in the cheese, comforting combination fish and cheese, and grill it, ta, you got a light?’

  The younger man pulled out a gold Dupont, probably a gift from that new girl of his, and flared up in his father’s face. Franco strained back on the cigarette and blew a tube of blue to the chandelier.

  ‘Righto, better be getting off. Anything you want me to pass on to Charlie? Champion. Ta, ta.’

  Later that day, when Belle Hotel was quiet, Franco had hauled his Remington onto the reception desk.

  He had pushed the half-moon glasses back up the slope of his nose, smiled at a passing guest, and pressed on.

  The omelette went down a storm at Belle Hotel. In Franco’s telling of it, Bennett over-wintered in room 14 and ate his saucy confection three times a day. The Yanks lapped it up. Larry laughed for Franco, and time and tide rolled by.

  The Smithfield Knives

  Receipt

  Complimentary Engraving ‘Born a Chef ’

  Paid £10 Cash

  With Thanks

  Charlie did well on his fourteenth birthday. Fishing rod in advance from his father, knives from Franco.

  ‘Mind you give me a penny, Charley Farley. We don’t want to sever our relationship.’

  Charlie uncoiled the coarse fabric wrap and pulled out the longest knife. The steel blade glinted in the late afternoon sun.

  ‘Wow. The Smithfield. Stainless, Sheffield. What does that mean, Grandad?’

  ‘Best meat market, metal and city in the world, son. It’s where the knives are from, the trinity that forged them. Don’t forget it. I had to earn mine the hard way. Self-taught. British Rail, Fanny Craddock, Delia Smith. You, you’re lucky. I’m going to get you professionally trained. And this. This is lesson one.’

  Franco re-sheathed the knife, sat Charlie up on the gleaming table top and talked him, left to right, through the tools of his trade.

  ‘Peeler, does what it says on the tin. Palette knife, spread, turn, lift. Veg knife, four-incher, chop, chop. Fork, lift and hold.’ He pinged the prongs against the table side and pointed at the rest of the set in turn. ‘Filleting knife, for fish: see, it bends. Boning knife, butchery, my boy. And this: your knife. The big one.’

  He put down the fork and unsheathed the ten-inch blade from its pocket.

  ‘This is your knife. Fuck the rest. Keep it as sharp as your first cut and never, ever raise it in anger. You with me? And remember, a good craftsman never blames his tools.’

  Charlie watched, wide-eyed, as Franco slipped out the steel. It came with its own sharpener, and straight away Franco went to work on his knife.

  ‘Always draw it away from you. Forty-five degrees, seven times on each side.’

  Flash of steel, blade on grooved. Sound of swashbuckling. In a moment it was over. Franco handed Charlie back his knife. He took it into his hand with a mixture of fear and excitement. This was it. Charlie was entering the man’s world of his father and grandfather. Part of him wanted to stay a little boy, put the knife down and go back to his toys. The other part of him glinted with excitement as he held the lethal potential that lay within his grip. His right arm trembled a little.

  1 April 1988

  6am

  Tick-tock, tock-tick vegetable chopping going on both ends of the clock. Sacks of earth-clung matter come in the back and are brushed, peeled and cut to Franco’s command. Julienne and baton. Cube and dice. Different permutations for different purposes. Franco’s book ever present, Charlie getting the basics before he’ll be let loose on its pages. In his first week, he’d taken the tip off a finger but Franco, always close by, grabbed the severed digit and dunked its bloody end in the pepper pot. Charlie felt a slight quiver in the old man’s hand. First sign of age and a weakening of the iron constitution that
the boy had ever noticed. Franco’s gaze, however, was rock solid. He held Charlie under scrutiny for the longest time, as if looking for signs of fear in a fellow soldier. Charlie took Franco’s look and gave it back. As good as he got. No way Charlie was going to be boo-hooing in front of Franco again.

  ‘Now then, the first cut is the deepest. This’ll sort you out. Natural antiseptic.’

  The seasoned stump stopped bleeding immediately and a week later made a brief reappearance only when it flaked a piquant scab into some Jerusalem artichoke. A year of correct cutting and naming and Charlie was deemed to know his onions. Onions that were grown, along with all the other alliums, at Franco’s allotment.

  ‘That’s yer leeks. Good for stocks and a greeny oniony taste in a stew. See that row there, Charley Farley, that’s garlic. See the bulb poking up from the ground. I grew that from just one of last year’s cloves. Magic, ain’t it?’

  Franco ruffled Charlie’s hair and gazed out to sea. The Dieppe ferry was just pulling out of Newhaven. He’d take the boy over to Dieppe market one day soon. Get him up to speed with buying what’s fresh from the market. Today’s task was herbs and spices. Bit of time in the fresh air at the allotment, then back to the kitchen for a bit of spice school before service.

  ‘I love it up here, Charlie, grow all sorts of stuff you can’t get in Brighton. Let’s have a look round the herb garden. Got a lot of these as seeds from my pals at the Guild. They can’t believe I can grow them down here on the Sussex Riviera. Now pay attention, lad, and take a nibble of each leaf I pass yer.’

  Charlie nodded and prepared to accept each offering as it came.

  ‘Now herbs are different from vegetables in that they are used to provide flavour rather than substance. Apart from, say, flat leaf parsley in Middle Eastern cuisine. Ignore that, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. So, where was I, herbs, right. Flavour rather than substance. Hey, Charlie! Got that? Good. Righto, let’s start with something you’ll know from Sunday lamb. Two herbs. See if you can name ’em, Charley Farley. There’s a farthing, sorry, ten pence, in it if you can. Now close your eyes.’