The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  ‘I told you the handle was fucked, you knackered it on Downing Street’s gates.’

  ‘Shut it, Fish. We need a plan. And I think one may just have landed.’

  Charlie pointed at the newly opened Birmingham Aquarium opposite them in the car park.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. You’re in charge of fish, Fish. We’ll see you at the Supertheatre in ten minutes. With lobsters, or something that looks like lobsters. Meat and me have got to go get our make-up done.’

  The Gary Rhodes girl was waiting at the loading bay with a clipboard and a frown.

  ‘Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you? Where’s your stuff?’

  ‘We’re getting the lobsters locally, I believe in provenance. And, I wonder if we can beg a few basics from Gary?’

  Charlie waited in the wings, whisk in one hand, knife glinting in the other, grinning at Meat, who’d filled a box of the basics under the beady eyes of old Gary the hedgehog himself.

  Charlie had handed the sound guy the copy of his song, told him the cue, ‘die, you bastard’, told him to crank it up to 11 and gone back to wait in the wings. He took a peek around the edge of black.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  A carpet of grey hair met his gaze, stretching all the way back to the Sabatier stand. Charlie hoped they’d like the show. Where the bloody hell was Fish? Talk about cutting it fine.

  ‘And now, lllladies and gentlemen. Please give it up for Britain’s youngest Michelin-starred chef, Chaaaarlieeee Ssssssssheridaaaan.’

  Charlie stepped, blinking, into the light. This was a new one on him. The TV studio had nothing on this, anyway, Chris Evans had made sure he was well oiled up in the green room beforehand. This, this was 4pm of a wet Wednesday in a big barn in Birmingham and a sea of serious faces hanging on his every word. Except he hadn’t said one yet.

  A quite uncomfortable few moments elapsed, folk shifting in their seats, clipboard flapping from the back, then Meat was pushed onto the stage by Gary, forcefully enough that he bumped into Britain’s youngest Michelin-starred chef, spurring Charlie into life.

  ‘Mother’s cunt.’

  The Good Food Show had invested in the very best lapel radio mikes and speaker technology that money could hire. Charlie’s lapel mike had been clipped onto the flap of his chef’s whites by the sound guy while he was busy talking him through the cue. The mikes were able to pick up and amplify the lightest of voices. Even phrases muttered under one’s breath would carry at full volume throughout the Supertheatre.

  Charlie started to speak, if only to cover the gasps, the clipboard at the back now covered the face of its owner.

  ‘Good afternoon, Good Food Show Supertheatre fans. I’m Charlie Sheridan and I’m going to demonstrate Lobster Belle Hotel for you today. The most important ingredient of this dish is…’

  At that moment Fish appeared, arms dripping water all over the stage, holding a beast from the deep in all its gog-eyed spiky-shelled gory glory.

  ‘… not a lobster.’

  That was not a lobster, not even related, bar both being from the sea. Charlie glared at Fish and snatched the snappy fucker off him.

  ‘What we have here, food lovers, is… a rock ’n’ roll lobster.’

  Charlie strolled to the footlights, hoping he’d got away with this made-up name, turned to eyeball the beast – what was it? a grouper of some sort – and paused.

  The sound of bodies squeaking on plastic seats filled the air. And still Charlie paused. Pinter would have been proud.

  ‘Right, it’s time for you to die, you bastard.’

  ‘Rock N’ Roll Star’ kicked in on cue at gig-level sound, people held their ears, but didn’t take their eyes off Charlie.

  He threw the creature in the air, it spun twice under the glare of the spotlights, water arcing out into the crowd, and came down to land on the point of Charlie’s twelve-inch knife.

  At the moment Liam started to sing, the dead bastard was slung into the rolling, boiling pot on the hob. Fish and Meat stood at the side of the stage, no more use than standard lamps. Charlie shooed them off with a flick of his wrist and turned to the audience.

  ‘Right. Hollandaise sauce. Sure you all know how to make this one, right? Well watch me whack one off in under a minute.’

  Charlie whisked fast under the tilted mirrors of the Supertheatre, he had five minutes dead, the length of the song, to pull this off.

  ‘Hollandaise… done. Now the white wine reduction. Shallots, sweated down backstage just now, bit of a cheat that, but hey, this is theatre, right? Fish stock, a good slug, star anise, tablespoon of mustard. Er, where’s the bloody mustard? Found you. Flat parsley, chop, chop, then. Where are we, now? The bridge of the song. Time to fish our rock ’n’ roll lobster out and slice the bastard in half. Fuck, that’s hot. Need asbestos fingers for this job, now I gotta scoop out the guts, fling it in the white wine sauce for about…’

  Charlie looked at his watch as the song ticked irrevocably away.

  ‘… anyone know a good curry house around here? We’re gonna be starving after this gig.’

  Laughter from the audience.

  ‘I’m going to pull these two halves out of the sauce, lay them on this platter, this platter was from the Brighton Belle and presented to my grandfather, Franco, when they retired the train and he opened Belle Hotel. Do look us up when next you are down in Brighton. I’ll give any Good Food Show goers a free glass of bubbly when you dine. So… thirty seconds to go, it is just rock ’n’ roll, Liam, just rock ’n’ roll. I’m going to ladle hollandaise onto this beautiful seafood and flash it under the grill.’

  Charlie turned. No grill. A heartbeat.

  ‘I’m going to blast it with this blowtorch that my assistant Meat is going to bring me NOW… thank you, Meat. Just fire this up. Luckily, I am a smoker, as our friend Mr Lobster will be in a second… Et voilà!’

  The song ended, Charlie strolled to the front of the stage with the Lobster Belle Hotel, cue loud applause.

  Charlie stepped off the stage, barging his way past a young chef named Jamie Oliver, up for the day to assist Ruthie Rogers and Rose Gray from the River Café, and made straight for the large bin by the fire exit. He slung the contents of the poisonous platter straight in and set off for the pub without so much as a backwards glance.

  The audience enjoyed the River Café demonstration enormously. They commented on their feedback forms that they had especially liked that cheeky chappie assistant they had with them, Jamie. More of him, please. As for the previous show… 5/10. Interesting, but the language, and too loud for a cookery demonstration, what did that chef think this was, a pop concert?

  Eight pints and one amazing Shimla Pink curry later, Charlie took the executive decision that they’d be better off sleeping in the van than risking the journey back to Brighton. As a concession to comfort, they turned off the refrigeration unit and rolled up their aprons to use as pillows.

  ‘Night, Meat; night, Fish. What a fucking day.’

  The journey back to Brighton was uneventful. Bar the fact that Charlie had run out of cash and done a runner from the petrol station in Shirley. Fear of the West Midlands Constabulary chasing them down the M40 certainly got them back to Belle Hotel in record time. Franco was waiting at the back door, looking at his watch.

  ‘Hello, Charley Farley, how’d it go?’

  ‘Great. Sure they’ll have me back. I was mega, wasn’t I guys?’

  Fish and Meat nodded in accord.

  ‘Good. Journey OK? M23, M25, M40? What time did you make?’

  ‘Ah, good time, especially on the way back.’

  ‘Do you want a hand unloading the stuff? I’ll go get Janet.’

  ‘No, Franco, you’re all right.’

  Charlie waited until Franco had gone back inside to unload the lonely platter from the back of the van. His body shook and it wasn’t just the hangover. He could not stop, had to get back to his stoves. Keep his star and reputation intact. Had the Good Food Show helped? C
harlie thought not. But they all did it. All the big-name chefs. He’d got to bloody keep up, or he’d lose it. All it took was a fuck-up. One wrong plate to the wrong diner and disaster. Just when you thought you’d got it all… another envelope through the door and you’ve got nothing. Fucked it up for everyone. Not Lulu, though, she’d bailed on him for good. Not returning his calls. So what if it was four in the morning? Again. Charlie wanted to talk. Someone to talk to who understood. He tightened his grip on the platter and walked unsteadily back into the kitchen of Belle Hotel and another eighteen-hour shift.

  Lulu sat alone in Quaglino’s staff canteen.

  ‘G’day.’

  She smiled at the Aussie head chef, until he opened his mouth again.

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie, what?’

  ‘Charlie put on quite a performance at the Good Food Show.’

  ‘Oh, really? Do I look like I care?’

  ‘C’mon Lu. Must be a bit bloody galling knowing he’s poncing about on stage and you’re stuck running a section of Quag’s, looking at my sweaty crew every day.’

  Lulu covered her ears with her hands.

  ‘Nah, nah, nah. Not listening.’

  ‘Well, you’ll want to bloody listen to this. I’ve come to tell you you’ve been promoted. Deputy Restaurant Manager. We know Charlie didn’t win that thing on his own. You need to get some of the kudos for what you did. And now you do. Congratulations, Deputy Restaurant Manager. If you accept, I’ll let the Guild know and they, no doubt, will let Charlie’s grandfather, wotsit, Franco, know. Won’t that feel good? There you go, mate. Now get back to fucking work and wipe that fucking smile off your face. This is the most fashionable restaurant in London Town, we don’t smile, girl, we pose. Now go give it your swinging London pose. You are running the centre of the universe here, baby. Yeah!’

  10 November 1999

  1pm

  Franco’s clock struck one and the kitchen carried on at full tilt. Shepherd’s pie on the menu and four slaves manning the flames.

  ‘Table six, two shep, one poulet, one fish, side of bubble and side of greens. Away.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  Charlie stared at his commis. The boy kept his head down, working.

  ‘Yes what, Worm?’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  Amid the whirr of eight other orders, table nine began to take shape. Great British menu, with a twist. Omelette Arnold Bennett, Leek and Truffle Flan, Chicken Liver Parfait, Cut York Ham. Mains to die for and a Lobster Belle Hotel special that some said earned Charlie Sheridan his star. The papers buzzed with the story of a boy sent off to the great restaurants of Europe to learn his trade; stock, season and soufflé, school of Escoffier, of Robuchon and Carême. The prodigal grandson come back with a head full of flavour and a hunger to turn Belle Hotel Restaurant into the South Coast’s Savoy Grill. Move over, Franco, hang up your apron and manage out front for me. Watch out, you Roux Brothers, the Sheridans are stalking your stars. Gastronomy-on-sea. So much hope, sweat, heat and ambition. Surviving on a diet of freeze-dried caffeine, fags and licked sauce spoons, Britain’s hottest kitchen fired on anger and gas.

  Front of house, Franco directed his sommelier back to the table. More wine, more water? Magazine lunch, on expenses. Profit and chat. Profitable chat.

  ‘So I said to her. This is soo swinging, soo now. We’ve just got to get a model, hair and make-up down to The Belle and do a cover.’

  Hair and Make-up were nodding for England. Model stared at a soup stain on her low-slung jeans. Magazine flicked on.

  ‘Just purrfect for us right now. Soo fucking purrfect. We’ll have another bottle and some still. And some sparkling. You all right, darling?’

  Model nodded – they weren’t paying her enough for this job and she was missing her new man. Hair popped to the gents for a line. Make-up powdered her nose.

  ‘So I said to these people. We are chic. I expect the best. Move me now. I can’t work here.’

  Franco smiled across the humming room, slipped a finger inside his starched shirt collar and pulled. Magazine said something funny. Model and Make-up cracked up. Franco swung back into the kitchen and squared up to his grandson.

  ‘How are we doing with table six? I want them ate-up and out of here before my Rotarians come through.’

  ‘Table six, shift it up. Out on special.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  Silence.

  ‘Worm?’

  Meat and Fish moved table six to the top. The poulet was pulled from the back of the oven and flashed under the grill for a couple of minutes. Meat, a big-boned fellow, grabbed two Shepherds from the walk-in and threw the whole order on a tray, then back into the oven. Top shelf, five minutes max.

  ‘Five minutes,’ muttered to Fish. ‘Five minutes, Chef.’

  Worm, or Anthony Clarke, as he became known, did nothing. No greens, no bubble, not a squeak out of this two-week-old kitchen baby. Great placement, his lecturers had said to the angelic-looking seventeen-year-old. More like six months in the flames of hell. He tried running through the side orders in his head. Nothing. What didn’t help was having to deal with the steady stream of desserts. Pastry had called in sick and Chef thought Worm could handle it. Baptism of fire and all that.

  Fish flicked back a scaly lank of hair and floured his flounder. Tapping out time on his hob-nailed clogs, he gave Meat just under two minutes, and the flat flesh thirty seconds on each side. Splash of Noilly Prat and a glance over at Worm, and he was ready, he’d plated and sauced his dish and placed it next to Meat’s three offerings in front of chef.

  Crack. Charlie slapped the palette knife flat on the counter.

  ‘Where the fuck are the sides?’

  Worm turned in time to see the plates smashing into the bin.

  ‘I-CANNOT-HAVE-HOT-FOOD-WAITING.’

  Meat and Fish snuck a glance at each other, both turned to Worm. Shoulders up by ears, his back braced against all this anger, he gripped a treacle tart for dear life. Meat and Fish grimaced. They knew what was coming next. Nobody spoke. Nobody ever spoke in Charlie’s kitchen. Simmer, sizzle, time, flip… yes. But never, ever, speak.

  ‘Chef, I was j-just too busy with the pudding.’

  ‘Too busy with the pudding,’ mocked Charlie, affecting a limp wrist and a simper. ‘How d’you think I fucking managed back in the day? Marco Pierre White would have shoved a red-hot poker up your useless fucking arse by now. Fuck me, what do I have to cunting well do to get anything done around here?’

  Front of house, Magazine consulted her Cartier.

  ‘Come on, I want the set-up done by three. Fucking amateurs…’

  She clicked, actually clicked, her fingers at Franco. A flicker of irritation showed on the face of the silver fox. He shot his cuffs, nodded and cut back into the kitchen. Into mayhem.

  Charlie only meant to touch him with it, but something about Worm’s young haunch flesh made it stick. Branded, they said. Charlie didn’t know about branding, but he did feel a little sick as he peeled the smouldering palette knife away from fuckwit’s flesh. The Worm turned and screamed. And screamed. Conversation in the restaurant stopped. Even Magazine. For a moment, the finely tuned world of Belle Hotel stopped. Then Fish slopped a bucket of ice and water down Worm’s trousers and normal service began again.

  Table six got their mains. Worm left the catering profession, scarred for life. Nothing much happened for a month.

  HM Courts Service

  Summons

  Offence: GBH

  Court Date: 10 December 1999

  Charlie hated the cop shop. He’d been there a few times and it never got any better. The arrest for GBH on Worm came as a bit of a shock. He’d been out the back of the kitchen having a fag on some beer crates when two of the plod entered the alley. Wasn’t long since he’d nicked the petrol in Shirley and, for a moment, Charlie wondered if it was the Brummie cops come to get him. But, no, thi
s was closer to home. Worm, Anthony Clarke, had suffered third-degree burns, apparently, so the charge was raised from ABH to GBH. And GBH was a serious crime, sir.

  What constituted third-degree burns, Charlie wanted to know? Blisters? They made you cry? Come off it. What went on in the Belle Hotel kitchen was no worse than any of what went on in kitchens up and down the land. In fact, what went on in other kitchens was a lot worse. Just ask his chefs. What happened to Worm, all right, Anthony Clarke, was just the usual initiation stuff. It was worse in my grandfather’s day. Even ten years ago. Look at the scars I got from my time in Marco Pierre White’s kitchen. This, charge, it’s just health and safety gone mad. Fucking mad. What, yeah, I’ll watch my language when you lot use your time catching proper crooks instead of wasting your time with cooks. This bollocks was hitting him at the wrong fucking time. Everything he’d worked for depended on him being there every moment of every day and if he wasn’t there he had to be keeping his name in lights somewhere else. This was not the way Charlie wanted his name in lights. No thank you very fucking much, Mr PC Plod.

  The handcuffs had been a bit unnecessary, as had the photographer from the Argus they had tipped off to wait at the bottom of the alley. The fingerprinting and paperwork was a waste of Charlie’s time, he had a hundred-plus for dinner to get ready for, couldn’t they skip some of this. He did it, all right, he did it. So shoot him.

  Belle Hotel Millennium Night Menu

  Scallops Sheridan

  Baron of Beef

  Trifle

  Cheese Soufflé

  Wines: Krug & Gigondas

  Millennium night, and Belle Hotel was set to party like it’s 1999. Charlie had a kitchen full of triple-time cooks, a fridge full of over-priced food and a hundred highly expectant mouths to feed. At the same time.

  Sure, he’d done banquets before, bigger than this, but never out of Belle Hotel’s kitchen. Franco was feeling it too, Charlie could tell. He’d never wanted to open on Millennium anyway.

  ‘Come on, Charley Farley, it’s not like we need the loot. How about it, lad? You, me, your mother and a few close friends. Well, yours, hardly any of mine are left.’