Restaurant Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  ‘Right,’ says the tallest, broadest bloke. ‘I need IDs and I need them now.’

  ‘I’d just like to say that I am the owner and I know there is no one illegal here, so all we need to do is go through things politely and calmly and everything will be OK.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir,’ he says, his nose is a little too close to mine for comfort, ‘we have information that tells us otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ I laugh. ‘I wouldn’t employ anyone illegal, I just don’t. It’s not worth it. It used to be, I grant you, I mean we all did!’ I laugh again, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. ‘But now you guys can pop in whenever you fancy, we don’t. I don’t, none of us do.’

  ‘We’d like to see your paperwork.’ He exhales in my face and his breath smells of cheese and onion crisps.

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, now!’

  ‘But I’ve seen all their IDs! I have photocopies of their passports in the safe and I’ve checked them all and they are all fine.’

  I am now beginning to sweat a little. I quickly thank my lucky stars that Gina is Danish, because I haven’t even got her sodding telephone number, let alone her passport details.

  ‘We need to see the paperwork,’ he repeats.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘It’s in the office in my other place up the road.’

  ‘Get it. We’ll send a couple of our officers with you. In the meantime, you lot can stay here.’

  ‘Well, actually, can I just point out that I am a UK citizen,’ says Andrew, running his hands through his long greasy hair. ‘You may have heard of me? Andrew James? I’ve been a judge on MasterChef?’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ replies the officer. ‘Cooking is not really my thing.’

  On the way up the street to Le Bar, I start talking to the officers who are escorting me. Called John and Conner, they are quite nice blokes and apologize for the heavy-handed approach, saying they are always quite tense before they go in, because, despite the intel, they never quite know what they’re going to come across. They go on to tell me some story about how two of their colleagues were attacked with machetes when they raided the bowels of a Chinese restaurant in Soho.

  ‘They play dirty, those bastards,’ says John as we arrive outside Le Bar. ‘Raiding Soho is not a job we’re queuing up for. They both ended up in hospital with serious wounds.’

  ‘Hello, sailor!’ purrs a plastered brunette as she spies John in his uniform. She and a couple of girlfriends are curled around an outdoor gas-burning heater, puffing away on cigarettes.

  ‘I’m not a sailor, I’m an immigration officer,’ he replies, ignoring her advances.

  We enter the bar and the place is mobbed, everyone the worse for cocktails. Like molecules treated with heat they are moving around, dancing, zigzagging and constantly bumping into each other. I catch Adam’s eyes and he gives me a puzzled look as he takes in my two escorts.

  ‘Immigration,’ I mouth. His eyes widen and he comes over immediately, pushing his way through the crowd.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he shouts above the loud music.

  ‘Fine, I’ve just got to get the paperwork.’

  ‘All right, gentlemen.’ He attempts an ingratiating grin. The officers remain stony-faced.

  The back office is a complete mess. The large black desk is covered in piles and sheets and random bits of paper. There are at least three half-drunk Starbucks cups that have separated into a layer of cold coffee with a thick milky head. There are two jam jars crammed with a collection of barely working pens, pinched from hotels all over the world. There’s a saucer of spare change, endless Juicy Fruit wrappers and a sprinkle of fag ash all over the place. The walls are painted dark claret red, three cork noticeboards line one side of the room, covered in staff rotas, photos and invitations to trendy Shoreditch pop-ups. In one corner, there’s an old wooden hatstand overloaded coats, scarfs and plastic bags. Opposite sits a black filing cabinet with a large, slowly dehydrating spider plant on top and next to its shrivelled leaves is a small, suspiciously smeared-looking mirror and a curled £20 note. I pick up the note and put it straight in my pocket, hopefully quick enough for Immigration not to notice.

  ‘I am sorry about the state of the place,’ I laugh, slowly pushing the mirror under the plant. ‘The records are in the safe.’

  Inside the safe there are plastic files with photocopies of everyone’s passports along with wads of cash, bags of change and my divorce papers. There is also a padded brown envelope that I am pretty sure contains at least four grams of cocaine.

  ‘Here we are!’ I say, swiftly shutting the door.

  Back at Le Restaurant and only a small gang of the staff remain standing to attention in the kitchen. Andrew, Oscar, Barney, Matt, Davide, Anna, Luca, Gina and a few of the others who have managed to prove their human right to be here are sitting around at one of the back tables drinking wine. I am not sure where the bottle has come from, but given the day we’ve had, nor do I care. There’s still a group of sweaty nervous individuals who need my help proving exactly who they are.

  ‘OK,’ I say, licking my finger and leafing through the photocopies. ‘So this is Alfonso, he’s Italian, from … Capri. Capri?’ I say, turning to look at him. ‘I never knew that?’

  ‘You never asked,’ he replies.

  ‘Yes, well.’ I nod. ‘And he’s thirty-eight years old.’

  ‘Right.’ One of the officers leaning on the pass ticks the names off his list. ‘Next.’

  ‘Next is Mikus … something unpronounceable. Polish. Gdansk. He is twenty-four years old.’ I hand over the photocopy and they check it over carefully. ‘And here is Jorge de los Rios – Cadiz, Spain.’ I smile at Jorge, handing over the photocopy of his passport. He is standing with his hands behind his back, chin up, like he’s on parade. ‘He’s forty-three. Forty-three?’ I exclaim. ‘You’ve worn well.’

  ‘It’s the genes,’ he replies, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Where are you from, mate?’ asks the officer, leaning on the pass, scrutinizing the papers.

  ‘Cadiz, Spain,’ says Jorge.

  ‘What’s your date of birth?’

  ‘Um, sixteenth of May nineteen sixty-six, no, sixty-nine.’ There’s silence. I look at Jorge. The officer looks at Jorge.

  ‘These papers are forged,’ says the officer on the pass. Another two go to verify it.

  ‘Forged! Don’t be so ridiculous!’ I can’t believe it. ‘Forged? But Jorge has been here for years, he’s my right-hand man, he’s one of the best maître d’s in town. He’s brilliant. He’s fantastic with people.’ He is also a disloyal tosser, but let’s gloss over that. ‘They can’t be forged. The man is—’

  ‘From Brazil,’ says the officer on the pass.

  ‘Brazil?’ I stop in my tracks. ‘But he’s Spanish.’

  ‘Brazilian,’ the officer corrects. ‘Usually it’s a Portuguese passport. But it happens all the time. Your industry is packed with Brazilian chefs who come over here on a student visa where they can work sixteen hours a week and they end up doing nine shifts a week of seven hours a day; they work for two years, max out on their credit cards, pay sod all off and leave having built a new home in São Paulo.’ He sniffs and looks a Jorge.

  ‘Well, firstly, Jorge is not a chef, secondly, he’s been here for years and thirdly, he doesn’t have a house in São Paulo.’

  ‘And fourthly, here is his student visa.’ The officer holds it up. It is so old Jorge’s photo is almost unrecognizable.

  ‘Christ!’ I turn and look at him. ‘You’re illegal?’ He shrugs. ‘How long have you been in the country?’

  ‘Over ten years,’ says the officer.

  ‘You’ve been illegal for all the time?’ He smiles and nods. ‘And you’re from Brazil?’

  ‘São Paulo,’ he confirms.

  ‘So you have built yourself a house in São Paulo?’ I am so shocked, I have to hold on to the pass. I have been out and about with Jorge, we’ve got drunk, we’ve shared se
crets, he’s been my right-hand man for the past five years, and now it transpires that everything I know about him has been a lie.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he says. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘A little bit more than sorry,’ I replied. I feel bitter and hurt, as if I’m being dumped by another one of my many girlfriends.

  ‘Come with me, then,’ says the officer closest to the door, reaching into his back pocket for a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘What will you do with him?’ I ask, suddenly feeling very nervous for my duplicitous friend.

  ‘We’ll take him to the station for processing and then he’ll be straight on the plane.’

  ‘What, deported?’

  ‘Deported.’

  They cuff him and lead him away out of the back of the restaurant.

  He stops and turns. ‘I am sorry,’ he says, cutting a forlorn-looking figure in his Armani suit and his shiny shoes. His dark eyes are red with tears. ‘Can you get someone to clear out my flat? Send my things back?’

  ‘Won’t you be allowed to go home?’ I ask, somewhat stunned. Everyone shakes their head. That’s it. He’s gone. A six-year friendship goes up in a puff of smoke.

  By the time I come back out of the kitchen, everyone looks miserable. I plonk myself next door to Gina on a banquette and stare vacantly into space as I try to take in what’s happened. My phone goes. It is not a number I recognize.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good evening,’ says a very Russian voice. ‘My name is Alexander Petrovsky, I am the owner of—’

  ‘I know what you own.’

  ‘I just wanted to say that I have asked your maître d’, Jorge de los Rios, to come and work for me and he has gladly accepted my offer and he will be starting with me as of Monday.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I gather you are supposed to tell the person,’ he says and pauses. ‘So consider yourself told.’

  ‘You’re welcome to him. Although I suggest you get yourself down to Soho nick.’

  ‘I am sorry. I do not understand. Who is Soho Nick?’

  I hang up, while Gina pours me a very large drink.

  11 p.m.–12 a.m.

  There is nothing like the loss of a major player, or indeed a part of the family, to bring the rest of the team together. We all sit round a few tables at the back while Barney and Alfonso bring out some food. It’s an odd selection. There are a couple of orders that were waiting to go out before the raid, a few rabbit, a steak, two sea bass and a pork belly, plus the most fantastic selection of puddings that had all been prepped and ready to go. There’s a temptation to see if any of them can fight and live to see another day, or tomorrow lunch at the very least – however, I can see no one is in the mood for me to be a tightwad.

  Anyway, I can’t help but think this is a more civilized way of behaving. Rowley Leigh, the cleverest, most charming and one of the few men in whites ever to have gone to Cambridge University, is famous for always sitting down in his own place for a spot of supper after service. During the Kensington Place days, when it was the hottest place in town, he would often be joined by various select customers and then other chefs and maître d’s from restaurants round the corner would tip up for a tipple. Sometimes it could turn into quite an evening. Obviously, Rowley’s smart and knows what he’s doing, but you have to be so careful when it comes to the old hospitality. Before you know it you’re on the brandies, offering around the port, drinking the profits, and you’re the arsehole who wakes up with a headache, having spent over £500 of your own money at your own bar. Also, if you’re always the ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ type, then the customers begin to expect it, so if you don’t fancy a drink or you’ve got something better to do, they take offence. They’ll see it as a personal snub: you’ve turned them down for a drink, you never turn people down for a drink, you didn’t want to join their table, you’re now clearly an arrogant git with no depth or profundity. It is a lose-lose situation.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ says Luca, shaking his head. ‘He was always so fun.’

  ‘He was certainly gay,’ interjects Andrew who always found Jorge’s exuberance, particularly the kissing, hard to handle first thing in the morning. ‘Although I will never forget him kicking a rowdy bunch of very drunk men out into the street and one of the blokes shouted at him: “I’m bisexual and I wouldn’t fuck you!” At which point he replied: “It’s my night off, darling!”’

  Anna laughs. ‘My favourite was him telling you which men gave him the eye during service. They were always with women, but were always in reality gay. He says he could turn anyone.’

  ‘He was very good at his job,’ I conclude, taking a large slug of my wine. It’s a very nice red Sancerre. There is rather a large collection of half-full bottles on the table, gleaned from the fleeing guests. There is nothing we like more than finishing off that half you left behind, anyway. Often we’ll serve it back to you by the glass the next day. Double bubble, if ever I’ve heard it. But I don’t remember anyone ordering the Sancerre Rouge. It is one of my favourites and it’s so good I take another look. This is a brand-new bottle. ‘I didn’t know we had any of this left?’ I say to Michelangelo, who is sitting opposite me.

  He smiles. ‘We have a few. For special occasions.’ Honestly, bloody barmen and sommeliers, they could hide a corpse if they had to. And I’m not joking; ask them to squirrel away something – anything – and even if it were a dead body, you could have PricewaterhouseCoopers crawling all over them like maggots looking for a flesh wound and they’d come away with nothing.

  ‘Well, it’s very good,’ I say lamely. ‘How many do we have left?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He does that puzzled look very well. ‘A few?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and get them?’ I suggest. ‘I think everyone could do with a drink. Especially Oscar.’ He is talking to Matt and hears his name. ‘You’d like a drink, wouldn’t you, mate?’

  ‘A small one,’ he nods. ‘Then I should really get home. We’ve got a new baby.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were married,’ says Anna.

  ‘I’m not,’ he replies.

  Before I have the chance to hear the details of Oscar’s domestic arrangements I get a call from Pippa who’s filling me in on the covers she’s done tonight. She’s had 63, which I suppose isn’t too bad for a forty-seater restaurant. They’ve managed to turn a few tables, but we’re not far off the Christmas season and we should be turning everything at least twice. If you think Russell Norman can get fourteen hundred covers out of seventy-seater Polpo in the first week he opened, we should be able to do a little more than one and a half tables in the run-up to Christmas.

  I am seriously worried about La Table. It is not a bad site. It’s No-Ho – not quite Soho – but close enough that it should be picking up the media mafia, film and TV bods wanting an alternative to endless sticks of chicken teriyaki at Roka or flicking a salad around at the Charlotte Street Hotel. There was quite a good place on the site before we moved in. Which is helpful, as I often think it is hard to turn around the bad energy and bad karma of a place if it’s always been crap.

  The top end of the Brompton Road, I think, has always been a disaster. There are always road works, there’s not much passing footfall, and nobody lives around there except the French. Nearby Racine is doing well, but apart from that, the French are so fussy and annoying when they go out, like the world owes them a fine dining experience. Honestly, I’d rather some coked-up traders than a table of French – at least I might flog some wine.

  There are dead spots all over town, where no amount of banker’s bonus money thrown at the hand-tiled wall will make any difference. A shite site is a shite site, haunted by the ghost of miserable evenings out. There was a place at the bottom of Portobello Road and Golborne Road, however, which had always been a disaster, playing host to a succession of failing businesses. It is now working, but it took the might of Nick Jones and Pizza East to turn that energy around.


  So it’s not the site that is plaguing La Table, and I’m beginning to think that perhaps it is the menu and the lack of glittering staff. Pippa sounds miserable on the phone. There is nothing worse than a place that isn’t working. It’s depressing, debilitating and enough to drive you to drink. So I ask her over for one.

  ‘We’ve got a very nice Sancerre on the go,’ I suggest and she says she’ll be over as soon as she’s cashed up. Which reminds me, I haven’t been through tonight’s takings and I haven’t sorted out the tips.

  Like most places we have a tronc system, where the tips are pooled and paid out at the end of the week. The amount of cash is supposed to be written down by the troncmaster, usually the manager or the maître d’, and you’re eventually supposed to pay tax on the tips. In the past, restaurants like Conran used to use the tronc to top up staff wages. So instead of paying minimum wage, there was a term called ‘housepay’, which could be anything as low as £1.88 an hour and the remainder came from the tronc. Often the service charge used to go directly to the restaurant and the waiters would only ever see cash tips, as credit card tips would also miraculously disappear.

  I am quite careful with the cash, as I remember a few years ago, one maître d’ I worked for famously used to skim the tronc. He was always the most generous bloke when it came to buying rounds in the pub – perhaps it was the guilt. It was only when he went on holiday we found out what was going on. Another waiter checked the tronc only to find out it was three hundred quid short. Poor chap wasn’t as bright as all that and he’d written down the amount of money that was taken during the week before he pinched it. Eventually he was fired.

  Industry standard, however, these days is for the restaurant to take the credit card tips, pop them into a PAYE account and dish them out after tax has been paid. The Revenue are so pathetically keen to get any cash at the moment that they watch you like a hawk. But it’s tempting with that much cash swilling around. You need to pay a supplier, or you’re a couple of hundred short of an evening, raiding the tronc is the easy answer. The problem is when you need to pay it back.