by T. F. Pruden
“Thanks Rene,” Wayne replied, with a look of relief appearing on his face, “Maurice liked it too and I’m glad it meets your approval.”
“Tabernac!” Maurice spoke as he entered from the kitchen with a tray in his hand, “I knew you two were talking about your chef, non?”
“We sure were you scoundrel!” Rene answered before Wayne could, “Tabernac! Were you eave’dropping?”
“Non!” Maurice replied with a smile, “your damn voice is so loud ‘dey can ‘ear you in da’ ‘otel from ‘ere!”
The chef balanced the tray on the edge of the table. He placed a plate with a cheeseburger and fries steaming upon it in front of Rene. Then he dropped a paper napkin on the table next to the plate.
“Dere’s your burger avec fromage,” the tall chef said, “I ‘ave given you frites wit’out gravy ‘cuz you should be watching your wais’line like Wayne ‘ere, Tabernac!”
“Merci mon frere!” Rene answered, “allow me to ‘ave a quick bite an’ ‘den les’ discuss ‘da lates’ reques’, oui?”
“Oui,” Maurice replied.
“Absolutely,” Wayne said.
Wayne slid on the bench to make room for Maurice. The tall chef sat beside him, first placing the tray on the table in the booth behind them.
Rene devoured the burger like a man coming off a hunger strike. A moment later he wiped his grease-covered lips with the paper napkin. He sighed as the comfort of the burger arrived at his expanding belly. Rene looked with satisfied benevolence at the two men waiting for him to begin.
The food prepared him to repel any arguments against his new idea.
“Richie ‘e ‘as asked ‘dat we open for breakfas’ ‘ere,” he said.
“What?” Wayne’s single-word reply was cryptic.
“Tabernac!” Maurice cursed in a soft voice.
“It’s in ‘da lease apparen’ly,” Rene said.
He allowed a note of resignation to leak into his voice.
“An’ ‘e says ‘dat it’s a necessity if ‘da ‘otel is to provide us wit’ ‘da liquor license ‘dat we be open for breakfas’ for ‘da gues’ staying ‘ere.”
“That’s crazy!” Wayne spoke with disgust, “and I’d like to see where it says that either in the lease or on the liquor license!”
“Tabernac!” Maurice cursed again, “Why ‘da ‘ell are we only finding ‘dis out now Rene?”
“It never came up until I mention’ ‘dat we plan’ to open only for lunch an’ dinner,” Rene spoke the lie with little effort.
The swift-made choice to use the lease and the liquor license to enable his explanation pleased him.
“An’ ‘den ‘e tol’ me ‘bout ‘da lease term’ an’ ‘da liquor license too, Tabernac!”
“How the fuck are we going to do that, eh?” Wayne asked rhetorically, “We’re already gonna’ be run ragged with a seven day schedule and now he wants breakfast too? Christ just think of the staff we’re gonna’ need!”
“Tabernac!” Maurice cursed again, this time with resignation in his voice, “I ‘ad no interes’ in working at a breakfas’ joint.”
“That makes two of us!” Wayne agreed with the chef.
Sincere disgust was apparent in his tone.
“I’m already going to have to work seven twelve-hour days to deal with lunch and dinner and now breakfast?”
“Tabernac!” the tall chef said again.
Misery filled his voice.
“We’re preparing to open a steak’ouse an’ now ‘dis?”
Rene though surprised by the level of disappointment shown by his young partners was now convinced they would go along with the plan. They were undeniably miserable at being forced to do so. He decided a note of sympathy would help them swallow the unplanned change.
The plan they made with great care Rene now broke with casual ease.
“I tol’ him ‘dat ‘e was risking my partners,” he said, “but ‘e tol’ me ‘dat ‘da lease ‘as to be respec’ed an’ so I ‘ad no choice but to agree mon freres. But I tell you ‘dat I will ‘andle ‘da breakfas’ operation ma’self an’ save you two at leas’ ‘dat much work, non?”
“It’s not the work that bothers me,” Wayne spoke with bitterness, “it’s that we’re gonna’ havta’ lower our standard from a pure lunch and dinner steakhouse to a breakfast joint that pisses me off!”
“Tabernac!” Maurice cursed yet again, “for sure ‘dats not a change for ‘da better Rene an’ not one ‘dats gonna ‘elp us to be successful wit’ our concep’ either, non!”
“Mon freres it won’ ‘urt us I tell you,” Rene said, his voice insistent, “I will tend to ‘da breakfas’ operation ma’self an’ you won’ even notice ‘dat it’s ‘dere! Our lan’lord ‘e will be ‘appy an’ we won’ ‘ave to deal wit’ securing a separate liquor license an’ t’ings will be fine, you will see an’ on ‘dis I give you my word, Tabernac!”
“It’s going to press us for storage space too,” Wayne said as he looked at the unhappy chef beside him, “and the breakfast staff will have to clean the kitchen daily before the lunch crew arrives for prep.”
“An’ ‘dat means quick too,” Maurice chimed in as he looked at Wayne with defeat etched on his features, “cuz’ ‘dose lunch preps’ ‘dey need to ‘ave control no later ‘dan mid-morning to ‘ave service by noon, Tabernac!”
“Mon freres don’ worry,” Rene now spoke with relaxed confidence, “I promise you ‘dat ‘da breakfas’ crew won’ be any trouble to ‘da res’ of ‘da team, an’ fur’der I tell you ‘dat I weel’ ‘ire ‘dem ma’self an’ manage ‘dem too!”
Wayne looked to Maurice at his side. He scanned the profile of the tall chef. They were trapped into accepting the onerous and inappropriate change to the still unopened restaurants’ concept.
“I guess we have no choice if the lease and the license are tied to it,” he said in a low voice to the tall man.
“Tabernac!” Maurice replied from beside him, “You’re right mon ami.”
Rene struggled to reveal nothing to his partners of the elation filling him.
With ease he won his point.
The young men had suffered a stinging defeat. He need only make sure his victory didn’t turn pyrrhic at the last minute.
The breakfast service would allow him to play a role in the daily operations of the business. It should also enable him to keep a close watch on the well-being of his young partners. Though not a direct suggestion by Jane their conversation made clear he must play a larger role in the business.
By adding the early service he could do both.
For the restaurant to serve breakfast was thus a good and necessary idea in Rene’s mind if not in those of his partners.
“Thank you for your support mon freres,” he said.
Rene allowed a note of sadness to enter his voice and thrilled at his acting skills.
“Your sacrifice will allow us to make our lan’lord ‘appy an’ I promise ‘dat adding breakfas’ to our concep’ won’ be a problem,” his voice was low as he continued, “I weel’ ‘andle all of ‘eet, from staff to managemen’, an’ you won’ be disturb’ at your ends of ‘da business at all, for sure you ‘ave ma’ word.”
“Whatever you say Rene,” Wayne said, “whatever you say.”
“Tabernac!” Maurice cursed before agreeing half-hearted with Wayne, “like ‘e say’ Rene, whatever you say, for sure, whatever you say.”
Rene reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve his cigarettes and lighter.
He would enjoy a smoke in silent celebration. He could now look forward with ease to his next meeting with Jane. She would be pleased by his decision to keep a closer eye on his investment. She might not be thrilled by the new and as yet unknown demands placed on his time because of it.
His nights’ work done, and confident in his ability to manage the new responsibilities, Rene at last relaxed, satisfied the business remained on track.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maurice turned the hot water faucet to the off
position.
He placed the pressure wand on the customized hook mounted above the stainless steel backsplash behind the sink. The thin man stood tall with his hands on his hips to stretch his lower back, which ached from a day of prepping vegetables and washing dishes. He glanced to the clock on the wall above the entrance to the kitchen. In less than three minutes his shift would end. He could wait no longer to meet with the fat chef before the great man grew too busy with dinner preparations to speak.
Maurice planned to deliver his required one week notice of resignation to the fellow today.
In two weeks the grand opening of ‘Rene’s at the Marlene’ would take place. In spite of Rene’s surprise announcement made the evening before he had decided to stick with his plan.
“Tabernac!” he cursed to himself as he thought back to the previous evenings’ conversation with his partners, “breakfas’ service my ass!”
His natural reticence when sober meant he said little about the crazy notion during the short meeting at the empty restaurant. Though he remained convinced it was a disastrous idea. It would likely doom the business to failure no matter what his partners might believe.
He spent the night tossing in his bed as he considered the decision. Its effect on the restaurant as well as upon himself and his professional reputation would be immediate. Despite an overwhelming desire for the business to be a success he could not convince himself the change demanded by their landlord was for the best.
How he wished for the exuberant rudeness that permeated his character when under control of the demon booze to appear at the surprising and unplanned meeting. For under the influence he would shout his outrage and disgust at the proposed addition.
That he had foresworn alcohol for more than a calendar year was befitting of the increasing impotence of his desires. Be they physical or mental his interest waned. It was the first time he wished for a drink since giving it up for the life of sobriety. The bitter anger over the proposed change to the yet unopened restaurants’ concept he could not subdue.
The lengthy hours of a sleepless night served only to further magnify his growing awareness of it.
“Tabernac!” he cursed to himself yet again, “truly you are fuck’ now mon cher!”
Maurice wiped his hands on the towel hanging above the sink. He replaced it before turning to walk with quick determination to the door of the great man’s office.
He would speak with him now before his nerve was lost to the growing weakness that seemed to permeate his mind.
The night staff hurried in as the shift change was upon the busy kitchen. He headed for the open door of the chef’s small office. He adopted a rapid pace lest one of his fellow employees beat him there and his chance to speak with the great man be lost.
As he reached the office, he removed his hair net and knocked on the frame of the open door. With nerves taut and his mouth dry he stood as tall as he could in the vain hope of portraying a confidence he did not feel.
“Monsieur Chef?” he asked with a slight quaver in his voice, noting the great man’s nose pressed into a cookbook open on his desk.
“How are you today Mr. Deschampes?” the great man said from behind the desk.
He did not rise from the seat but removed his glasses to affix the prep cook with a pleasant smile.
“I am well thank you, Monsieur Chef,” Maurice answered.
It surprised him when the fellow recalled his name. He was at once flustered by the friendly greeting.
“An’ I ‘ope ‘dat you are too.”
“Certainly I am and glad to hear that you are as well, my good sir,” the fat chef said, still refraining from rising from his seat, “and what might I help you with today?”
“I would like to speak wit’ you for only a moment,” Maurice answered, silently cursing the timidity of his weak reply, “please Monsieur.”
“Come in, come in my good fellow,” the great man said, waving a hand to the chair across the desk from his own, “and do tell me how I can help.”
Maurice entered the small office and sat on the edge of the seat. His courage evaporated as he did. He knew he must speak now if he was ever going to and again damned his lack of nerve.
“I am sorry to ‘ave to tell you Monsieur,” he began, his voice cracking from the emotional strain of confronting the brilliant chef only feet away from him, “dat’ I am leaving ‘da employ of your great restaurant an’ ‘dus I would like you to accep’ my one week notice of resignation at ‘dis time.”
The chef placed his glasses onto the desk in front of him. He looked with paternal good will at the anxious prep cook seated across the desk from him. The man’s nerves were raw and his distress plain. The great man wanted only to relieve him. That the tall and dour man in front of him was distressed by delivery of his notice was obvious. As the fellow proved a good and faithful employee throughout his tenure with him duty bound the chef to absolve him of the misery.
“A little bird told me you might be leaving us Mr. Deschampes,” the chef spoke with quiet dignity, “for pastures much greener than those I have provided for you here.”
Maurice hung his head as he waited. He expected the fat maniac to deliver him a monumental dressing down suitable to his betrayal and resigned himself to accept it.
“I want you to know you have been an asset to us here and that I will personally regret losing you to a better opportunity,” the fat chef spoke with respect and affection in a gentle voice, “and I want you to know I appreciate your exceptional work ethic and wish you nothing but the greatest success with your new venture.”
Maurice looked up and across the desk to the great man. The unexpected praise from the maniacal genius stunned the tall man.
“You are a man of not insignificant talent Mr. Deschampes,” the chef continued speaking with a smile to the prep cook staring at him, “and I want you to know you will be welcome to return to the employ of my kitchen any time you should want in the event things don’t work out with your new opportunity.”
It shocked Maurice to hear words of praise spoken by the devil chef staring with paternal care from across the desk. A surprise so complete it prevented an intelligent reply settled upon him.
He sat dumb.
“The business we’re in like most others is capricious at the best of times Mr. Deschampes,” the great man continued in the patient voice, “and for each of us working at it our success is often an accident occurring in spite of our best efforts rather than because of them. I want you to remember that no matter how things might work out for you and your partners.”
The great chef’s knowledge of his forthcoming opportunity further surprised Maurice. It took an effort of will not to break down and beg for his advice.
“Thank you Monsieur,” he croaked his reply, “it ‘as been ma’ great privilege to work for you an’ I t’ank you for ‘da opportunity to learn in your kitchen an’ for your kin’ words.”
“I will tell you however Mr. Deschampes,” the great man spoke with conviction in spite of the paternal tone used throughout the short conversation, “that I believe you and our industry would be best served by your returning to the culinary institute to secure your certification at the first opportunity. I believe you almost certainly have the talent to be a great chef in your own right, and the knowledge gained from the classroom would reveal it to you too unless I badly miss my guess. To this I would add that I never guess about anything, Mr. Deschampes.”
“Thank you Monsieur Chef,” Maurice answered in a voice thick with emotion.
He was both moved and relieved by the short conversation. He didn’t want it to end and hoped the great man was correct.
“I weel’ remember ‘dis advice an’ weel’ do ma’ bes’ to be a credit to ‘da training ‘dat I ‘ave receive’ in your kitchen.”
“My best wishes go with you Mr. Deschampes,” the great man announced as he stood from his chair and extended his hand to Maurice, “and I will arrange for your final pay check with accrued
holiday pay to be available for you at the end of your last shift here next Friday.”
Maurice accepted the hand of the great man with gratitude. The power of his grip and the sincerity of the handshake surprised him. He appreciated the genius of the fellow and now realized working for him had been good fortune.
“Thank you Monsieur Chef,” he said, “dat’ will be fine an’ I will see you for my las’ week of work ‘ere nex’ Monday morning.”
The great man nodded to him with a patrician smile.
Maurice turned and left the small office. Relief and surprise filled him in equal measure after the unanticipated conversation. He would no longer be employed by the maniacal genius in only another short week. He had not bothered to consider what it was he was giving up in pursuit of the new opportunity. The news he had been valued and respected by the evil genius filled him with a keening sadness born of unexpected loss.
Now he understood the business would not be what he expected. He walked with silent dejection through the ceaseless noise of the relentless working kitchen.
He wondered if he might not have made a different choice were he aware of the great man’s appreciation for his talent and commitment to his work.
The idea a man’s success might depend as much on luck as on his talent returned to the tall chef. He stood in front of his locker in the comfortable changing room provided for the kitchen staff of the large restaurant. As he removed the kitchen whites his appreciation for the genius of the great chef advanced.
He again considered the great man’s remarks.
For better or worse the decision was made.
Like it or not, he would soon discover what his luck had in store for his own new appreciated and now undeniable talent.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wayne sat in the booth where he learned of the impending change to the new restaurants’ concept the previous evening.
He surveyed the pony wall now standing in the center of the dining room.
He completed the four foot high structure running the length of four booths in eight hours of sweaty labor. Wayne built it soon after he returned the scaffold equipment to the rental facility.
