Restaurant Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  There’s a reason why long-serving pros like Jesus Adorno at Le Caprice since 1981 end up running the place. Or why Sebastian Fogg holds so much sway at The Delaunay, or why Richard Caring shelled out for Byron Lang, formerly of The Wolseley, The Ivy and The Savoy Grill, when he needed a safe pair of hands to help open up Balthazar. Forget the décor and the killer menu; these are the people who become the life and soul of the place. They make it run smoothly and, most important of all, they make the customer feel special. Greeting them by name, remembering which table they like, what wine they prefer, how they like their steak. There are many ways of doing this.

  If you are a big swanky place like The Wolseley, your maître d’ not only has Hello! and the Sunday Times Rich List tattooed in his brain, recognizing the rich, the famous and the influential, despite their new haircuts, their dramatic weight loss/gain or their sudden change of husband/wife, he’s also a dab hand at the computer. Minutes before you arrive, he pops your name through Google-images, just to make totally, completely, exactly sure who you are. There’s nothing worse than pointing all those shiny eyes and teeth in the wrong direction. So no matter that you haven’t been there for a while, because your name is stored in the computer and your face is checked on the internet, you’ll still get the best service around.

  We are, obviously, a little smaller and a little less showbiz, but our clientele tend to be the loyal returning types, coming a couple of times a month, or as much as twice a week, and it is our job to remember who they are, and treat them as if they are the stars of their own lunchtime.

  Getting customers to return to your restaurant is all about redelivering their previously good experience. When you book to go somewhere, you have committed in your mind to pay the money, and for that you have certain expectations. Say you’ve decided to go to Scott’s. You have committed to spend around £70 a head, it’s a treat, and when you are paying that kind of money, a certain level of anticipation sets in. It is not a canteen; you expect good food, good service and Charles Saatchi and Nigella Lawson to be sitting outside, smoking. If Scott’s deliver on the food and the service (perhaps not on Nigella and Charles) then you will be coming back. If they don’t, then you have been let down, your expectations will not have been met and you will not return. It is that simple. You give them the chance and if they blow it, you won’t go back.

  So our job, Jorge’s job, is to fulfil your expectations and more. The first of which is that we remember who you are, and that you are made to feel very special. Jorge is brilliant at this and to see him in action is like watching a master at work. He told me once that it was all about the open-ended question. He explained to me that with correct probing you could get all the information you needed out of someone without ever putting your foot in it. The customer, as he said, would naturally fill in the blanks. Mainly out of our very British politeness. And the conversation would go something like this:

  Jorge: ‘I saw a friend of yours the other day …’

  Customer: ‘Jean?’

  Jorge: ‘That’s right, Jean, she had just …’

  Customer: ‘Been to the British Museum.’

  Jorge: ‘That’s right and she was with …’

  Customer: ‘Dave.’

  Jorge: ‘Of course, Dave, her …’

  Customer: ‘Son.’

  Jorge. ‘Yes, son. Such a nice chap.’

  Customer: ‘They said they’d come in and had a very nice time and you were very kind to them. They couldn’t believe you remembered them.’

  Jorge. ‘Oh, I remember everyone. That’s my job. Here’s your table …’

  Customer: ‘Simon.’

  Jorge: ‘Of course it’s Simon. I know that! I was talking to Jean about you just the other day. Welcome back. Glass of champagne?’

  Simon: ‘Gin and tonic.’

  Jorge: ‘Your usual, of course.’

  They will, he said, eventually, tell you everything you need to know.

  Equally, it is important for Jorge to know exactly when to keep quiet. He says you can see it in their eyes as they come through the door. The blind sense of panic, the rictus grin, the speedy way they walk with their head down through the place, desperate to get to the quiet table at the back. It screams: ‘This is my mistress. I am with someone I should not be. And please shut the fuck up.’

  Jorge has perfected a neutral face and a smart nod for these occasions to which he adds a simple, ‘How lovely to see you.’ No ‘again’, no ‘since last week’, no nothing. It is basically his all-encompassing, arse-covering comment for every tricky occasion.

  Just before the first customers arrive, Jorge claps his hands together and gathers his troops. He goes through the amount of covers we are expecting, what VIPs we have, if any, which regulars are coming in and if there are any difficult customers. He’ll also go through the list of ‘specials’.

  ‘Specials’ are a culinary double-edged sword and it is the waiter’s prerogative to sell them. Sometimes things are genuinely ‘special’. For example, the fishmonger has arrived with some fantastic razor clams that the chef has just not been able to resist. Or say the River Caff hasn’t pinched all the partridge before we put our order in and we’ve managed to get our hands on a few plump little critters for the table. Other times the ‘specials’ are only ‘special’ because we are desperate to get rid of them. We’ve over-ordered on the beef, we’ve got some lamb about to go off, or we’ve got a few sea bass looking a little worse for wear after three days in the fridge. The rule of thumb I have worked out over the years is that if the main ingredient appears somewhere else on the menu, like there’s a double beef option, then the special is perhaps not that special at all. However, if it is genuinely something a little left of field, a little bit of King Scallop, then it is probably something the chef was keen to get his hands on, and is perhaps worth sampling.

  Today, so Jorge informs the front of house team, we are down to fifty-five covers (not enough) since the phone check; there is one VIP who is something to do with motor racing – everyone’s face goes blank – and a family with an elderly grandpa in a wheelchair, who Jorge is proposing to put in the corner table so that the wheels don’t get in the way of service. The special today is venison, which I know is new and fresh because I saw it out the back in its box a couple of hours ago. And turbot. Possibly one of the most expensive fish in the market, so I am hoping it’s been hanging around for a while. Otherwise Andrew is deliberately racking up the bills before he hands over to Oscar. This would of course be a low blow, but nothing is too low for Andrew.

  ‘Jorge,’ I say, and he looks up from his list, as the others go back to their stations. ‘This is Gina.’

  ‘Hello.’ He smiles broadly, clearly not sure if she is a customer. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well.’ Gina smiles. His Spanish charm is working.

  ‘Gina is going to do a couple of shifts,’ I say.

  ‘She is?’ His attitude changes but he is smart enough to cover his tracks. ‘Good stuff.’

  ‘Do you have a spare uniform anywhere?’ I ask.

  ‘What, right now?’ He looks shocked.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Gina, you’ve worked in a restaurant before, I seem to remember you saying.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘In Copenhagen.’

  ‘Not Noma?’ asks Jorge, his dark eyes widen slightly.

  ‘No, Nandos,’ she replies. ‘And also in a couple of bars.’

  ‘Nandos!’ Jorge spits under his breath.

  ‘I thought you were Dutch?’ I say.

  ‘No, Danish,’ she replies.

  ‘Brilliant. Dutch or Danish, she has bar experience. She can work behind the bar, can’t she, Jorge?’ I nod towards the bar. ‘See if you can find a spare white shirt and waistcoat. If you’re short of a shirt, she can always go to Marks and Spencer round the corner.’

  I leave Jorge to come to terms with the nubile Gina and walk through to check on the kitchen. She might be fabulous, I think to myself – well, she cer
tainly looks fabulous. And she’s only working a couple of shifts behind the bar, so how much damage can she do?

  In the kitchen, I’m immediately hit by the heat. There is so much steam in the air; it feels like a sauna. I can feel the pressure, smell the tension; you can almost hear the clock ticking. Well, actually, I can. There is large black and white one hanging on the wall bang opposite the pass. Underneath is a sheet of paper, or Call Away Sheet, on which are marked various columns – Table, Starters, Main Course. The waiters use it to write down the precise time each of the courses goes out. Not only does it help to keep track of what has been ordered and sent, it hopefully makes it easier to see how the kitchen is keeping pace. Ideally, if things are working, there should be twenty minutes between the starter and the main course. If the time between the starter and main starts to stretch beyond that, the kitchen is swamped. If it slips to thirty minutes then it’s in the shit. And if this happens at lunchtime, where there is so little room for error, then it is deeply in the shit.

  Each time a waiter comes in with an order it’s given to the head chef to call out. When the order is called, the chef waits to hear a positive affirmative response, usually a ‘Yes, chef!’ or if you’re feeling French, a ‘Oui, chef!’ Although this sounds a little poncy, it is really only so the chef knows he’s been heard above the clatter, steam and banter in the kitchen. The dishes are then cooked and delivered to the pass.

  The pass is potentially one of the most political areas in the whole restaurant. Obviously it depends on the kitchen, but in the first place I worked in London, the head chef wouldn’t let anyone get anywhere near it. If he’d been a dog, he’d have cocked his leg on it every morning by way of marking his territory. Come to think of it, he probably did. He was a filthy bastard. And having claimed his territory, he guarded that pass as if his life depended on it. It was a border between the kitchen and the restaurant and relations between the two were about as matey as North and South Korea. The waiting staff were never allowed to cross the pass and the chef was never allowed into the restaurant. It was war, but a cold, seething war of attrition.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Oscar suddenly shouts from the other side of the pass. The kitchen comes to a dramatic stop and watches as Oscar slowly pick up two plates of crab salad and brings them over to the pass. Andrew saunters over, wiping his wet hands down the front of his whites. Oscar places the two plates under the hot lamps and Andrew leans in to inspect. The two crab salads are identical, right down the scattered baby leaves around the edge of the plate and the two purple violas placed on top.

  ‘Good,’ nods Andrew, tucking his lank hair behind his ear. ‘Good. Well done, Davide. Nice work.’

  Davide smiles across from the larder section, displaying two hideous rows of brown-coated teeth. I can’t wait for that man to go. He reminds me of a commis we hated so much when I worked in a one-star place around the corner from here that we used to put pigeon hearts and fish eyes into his coffee. He wouldn’t notice until he’d drained his cup and he’d go mad, picking bits out of his teeth while swearing at us and clipping us about the head.

  ‘Nice work?’ Oscar is stunned. ‘What’s happened to this kitchen? It’s supposed to have a star? I don’t get it? When I worked here before everything was made à la minute? Fresh? To order? Like it should be? You can’t have crab salads sitting here already made up, pre-seasoned with herbs on them?’ Oscar starts shaking his head, as he picks up the plates and starts moving over to the bin.

  ‘Don’t,’ says Andrew, looking Oscar so straight and so firmly in the eye it stops him in his tracks. Everyone stares at Oscar, standing in the middle of the kitchen with a crab salad in each hand. How is he going to react? He takes a step towards the bin. Andrew continues to stare. He doesn’t flinch. It is the most bizarre form of Mexican stand-off I’ve seen in a while.

  ‘Here,’ I say, walking between the two of them and taking the salads out of Oscar’s hands. He looks relieved. Unlike Andrew, he is not a confrontational soul but, having made a stand, it’s rather difficult to back out of it. ‘I agree with Oscar that it should all be à la minute, that is what our customers are paying for. But seeing as Davide has so kindly made up six crab salads in advance we should use them rather than throw them away. However,’ I smile, looking at the two chefs, ‘I think it is perhaps best that he doesn’t do it again.’

  I place the two dishes back on the pass and briskly make my escape while I can.

  ‘All OK in there?’ asks Jorge, reading my pained expression.

  ‘Tense.’

  ‘There will be violence before the end of the day. I can smell it,’ he replies, before pirouetting round to greet the family of four with the elderly grandfather in the wheelchair. ‘Good morning!’ he says, touching his black tie as he strides towards the front of the restaurant, the light catching the shine of his highly polished shoes. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he adds, taking the wheelchair off the younger of the two sons, and deftly weaving it over the carpet and between the tables towards the corner of the room. ‘Are you well, sir?’ he leans in and asks the elderly gentleman.

  ‘What?’ asks the old boy. Straining his head forward like an ancient tortoise, he places his shaking, fleshless hand behind his ear. ‘I can’t hear!’

  ‘Are you well?’ Jorge ventures again.

  ‘By taxi,’ he replies, with a nod as he places one hand, speckled like a hen’s egg, on top of the other.

  ‘He’s ninety-two,’ says the slim, rather elegant-looking mother.

  ‘And deaf,’ shrugs the eldest boy, pulling his chair out.

  Jorge already has the menus; he is keen to move this table through quickly while there is still plenty of room in the kitchen. Out at the front, Anna is chatting and smiling at a couple of businessmen who have just arrived. Through the window I can see a couple more smartly dressed middle-aged men casually using one of the two olive trees either side of the door as an ashtray. Gina is looking rather good, if underoccupied, at the bar, opening a bottle of fizzy Speyside.

  We don’t sell much of it these days, not since bloody Giles Coren, followed by bloody Fay Maschler, kick-started their parsimonious, irritating, penny-pinching, tight-arsed, unnecessary kick-the-restaurant-industry-in-the-balls campaign about bloody tap water. The pair of them have ruined the very lucrative, very handy, very-nice-thank-you bottled water market almost overnight. Up until about four years ago everyone, and I mean everyone, ordered a bottle of water for the table. Fizzy, flat, whatever. It was a given. It was almost the equivalent to a cover charge. But now everyone thinks it’s OK to order a ‘jug of tap’. Actually, they probably think it is very environmentally cool, hip and on-it to order a ‘jug of tap’. So the money’s gone.

  And it was good money. The mark-up on a bottle of water is quite useful. We buy our water for 45p a bottle and sell it at £5. It used to be a little something for the restaurant, something to keep the hungry wolf from the door, and now we don’t have that revenue, restaurants are resorting to a cover charge. All over the West End they’re charging something like £2.50 a head for you to just sit there, which adds another £10 to the bill if you’re a table for four. Quite a lot, I think. Well, you have Giles and Fay to thank for that. And if they’re not dishing out a cover charge, they’re making you pay for the bread. No decent restaurant should make you pay for the bread. Only a chain can really charge for bread, but you’d be surprised who does. We absolutely don’t. We give a lot away for free: bread, butter, olives, nuts, and it would be nice to make it back somewhere else. I do miss the heady water days. Not that I can taste the difference between any of them. I did hear of a couple of water sommeliers plying their wares in the States but that, I am afraid, is where I draw the line. There, and importing ridiculously distantly sourced bottled water like the Fijian water they have at Nobu. Granted, Nobuyuki Matsuhisa has shares in the company, but it does seem rather a long way to fly the stuff, especially when they produce something quite similar in Malvern.

  ‘Bos
s,’ whispers Jorge in my ear.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Table Six.’

  I turn to look at the corner table with the family and the old boy in the wheelchair. They have their starters already. Two crab salads, one scallop, one pan-fried sweetbreads and one beef carpaccio; they all seem to be eating away quite happily.

  ‘The old man,’ Jorge hisses. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  1–2 p.m.

  Jorge and I spend the next five minutes staring at Table Six, trying to work out if the old man is sleeping or if he is, in fact, dead. His head is slumped back in the chair, his chin is pointing towards the ceiling, and his mouth is hanging open. He looks like he’s awaiting a root canal in the dentist’s chair, except the flesh on his cheeks appears sunken and hollow. Could he be asleep? You never know. Catching flies? The skin is looking a little greyer than before, as if the pink tinge of life has ebbed away. And his chest is neither rising nor falling. In fact, he is not moving at all. But the family don’t seem unduly perturbed. They are noshing their lunch, tucking into a nice chilled bottle of Chablis Première Cru, chatting away, and apparently enjoying themselves.

  ‘What d’you think?’ asks Jorge, completely transfixed. His body is rigid with tension; he appears to be enthralled and a little terrified at the same time. ‘Will you go?’ He narrows his eyes and gives a little shiver. ‘I don’t like it. I have never been near a dead body before.’

  ‘Really?’ I look at him. I am completely surprised.

  Working in this business the law of averages dictates that you must have come across a couple of corpses in your time. I’ve seen two, up close and personal, and heard of quite a few more. Right at the beginning of my career I remember an old man collapsing in the restaurant I worked at just outside Stratford-upon-Avon. I had just done a St John’s Ambulance life-saving course, so I was straight in there with mouth-to-mouth, which was a terrible mistake, revolting; he was bringing up all sorts of stuff, which was dribbling and burping and bubbling out of his mouth. Anyway, the ambulance crew finally arrived and took over the pumping. They firmly congratulated me on saving the bloke’s life and I have to admit I was rather pleased with myself. I told my parents, who told their friends, and I was quite the hero. It wasn’t until a month later when the same crew tipped up again after some customer had fallen over, pissed, in the car park and broken his leg that I found out the man was dead even before they got him into the ambulance.