Rainbow Milk

by Paul Mendez

  That would work in normal circumstances, but Georgia’s been walking the boards here for six years now and knows many of the regular customers, especially the suited guys at lunchtimes who’ve been coming to the Light Café for twenty years and wish only to be served by girls. So, regardless of whose section she’s in and whatever the state of her own, she’ll go to those tables, who often don’t even bother to book because they feel like they’ve earned their stripes. As far as they’re concerned, Jesse’s here today, gone tomorrow like so many waiters in their time, even though he’s been here for three years himself.

  Ben’s already rapping his knuckles on the ticket rail, a beautiful soft clatter that reverberates in the space and furthermore in Jesse’s sleep, to get someone’s attention to run an order to the bar, but Jesse’s in the middle of telling his new two-top the specials and pouring their carafe of house white wine, and Georgia’s having a chat with table four, a couple of patronising old peers who toddle around like they own the place but hardly ever spend any money. Terry’s answering a call and there seems to be quite a queue of new guests building up at the door. Jesse quickly runs the two salads—kohlrabi and caper-berry; heritage tomato and goat’s curd—to the bar, and finds the staff there already busy and running around, asking him if he can also bring them a basket of bread. Georgia’s practically foaming at the mouth laughing with the men on four, and Terry keeps on seating tables. Jesse can see there are already bottles of mineral water and jugs of tap waiting for six tables, but has to take an order for his two-top who insisted they were ready but now have questions to ask about all the dishes that he has to describe in full from farm to fork. The dispense bar is rapidly filling up with unserved drinks Terry has put through the till; the bartenders, who can’t leave their stations while there are checks running through, are starting to watch the ice melt in their Lillets.

  Before putting the order through the till, he has to run food. Ben gives him a knowing look as he runs starters to a table in Georgia’s section whose order Terry took, then sees another couple of tables who’ve sat down and need bread and to be asked for a water-and-apéritifs order. He now has a four, two twos, a three and a five in his section that he hasn’t even been to yet. He lowers his chin, furrows his brow and quickens his pace. He’s glad he put on his black Air Max 90s rather than his MHL monkey boots. They all get bread thrown down; he interrupts their conversations, whilst apologising for doing so, to tell them the specials and ask them for their apéritif orders.

  He runs out to the bar and loads a tray with two gin and tonics, two Lillets, three glasses of house rosé and two halves of lager, whilst squeezing two bottles of sparkling water under the same arm and collecting the handles of four jugs of tap water with his free hand, running them all through to the waiter station without spilling a drop. People look at him then look away and continue their conversations like this is normal, like this is what a waiter should normally be able to do. Sometimes he feels like a whipped servant. The elderly men on four think they’ve got Georgia all day; she spends longer unscrewing the top off their house Picpoul than Jesse does uncorking bottles of chilled Côte de Brouilly, Sancerre rosé and Pouilly-Fumé, whilst taking a mental note of all three tables’ food orders. He is already quite low on patience; there may be complaints today, he thinks.

  “Thanks, darling,” says Georgia as she beats him to the till, so he crosses the room to the other, which is engaged by Terry taking ages to find the button to order the prize 2005 Chevalier Montrachet table nine have powerfully ordered to impress their Chinese clients, along with the 2005 Château Mouton Rothschild Jesse would never have recommended for lunch in this heat. Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Excuse me, what’s kohlrabi?”

  “Excuse me, can we order, please?”

  “Where are the toilets, please?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Can we order?”

  “Jesse, could you run drinks from the bar, please? They’re busy with walk-ins out there.”

  “What’s…kohlrabi?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “What’s goat’s curd?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Hey, there! Nice to see you again! Are we in your part of the restaurant? You gave us such good service last time!”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Darling, did you put the order through for twelve? Ben says they’re staring at him and he doesn’t have a check.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “What are heritage tomatoes?”

  “It’s really hot in here, isn’t it! Can you turn the air-conditioning up, or something?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Where are the toilets, please?”

  “Could you tell us again what the specials are? I could get up and look at the board but I’d rather hear it from you in your lovely British accent.”

  “Excuse me, is the mackerel fishy?”

  “Tripe? Isn’t that supposed to be disgusting?”

  “Excuse me. Do you have a kids’ menu?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “I’m allergic to gluten, dairy, garlic and onions, and I’m vegetarian, but not vegan, so I eat eggs. What do you recommend?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Tell that chef he can fillet my plaice anytime. Is he married?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “We’re waiting to pay.”

  “Where are the toilets, please?”

  “Kohlrabi. Fish?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Could you turn the air-conditioning down, please? It’s blowing a gale in here.”

  “Excuse me, more ice, please.”

  “Which wine would you recommend to go with the plaice and the devilled kidneys?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Excuse me, can the chips that come with the tripe be ordered as a side dish?”

  “Do you have a colder one of these?”

  “Can we have the bill, please?”

  “Where are the toilets, please?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Excuse me, can we order some fresh financiers? I know we haven’t finished our mains yet but we’re in rather a hurry.”

  “We’re not quite ready yet, sorry…”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Are you an actor?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Excuse me, can I trouble you for some more bread, please?”

  (White bread.)

  “Poor you, being cooped up in here all day in this weather. You must be sweating buckets in that chef’s jacket.”

  “…still not ready, sorry! We definitely promise to look at the menu now…”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Can we get some more ice, please?”

  “Looks like you’re not in the same mood as last time, huh.”

  “I’m pregnant. Is this cheese pasteurised?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Bill, please.”

  “Darling, there are no more ice buckets. Looks like some of your tables are going to have to share.”

  “Sir, do you have another napkin? Mine fell on the floor.”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Darling, could you empty the bottle bin? I would but I’ve got back trouble.”

  “Young man, could we please have some more butter, and order another bottle of wine? We’re switching to red, so we’ll need fresh glasses. Chilled,
preferably.”

  “Will you get to enjoy the sun at all today?”

  “Club soda!”

  “…erm, erm, erm, okay! Erm…”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “You’re doing a brilliant job, Jess. Thank you.”

  “I was a waitress in a hotel at weekends when I was seventeen, so I completely understand.”

  “Excuse me, we ordered our coffees with the waitress quite some while ago, but we have to go back to work so can we cancel and just get the bill, if that’s okay?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “Hi! Do you guys have highchairs?”

  “Washroom?”

  “Check.”

  “Jesse, could you get the door, please?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “What’s this? Did I order that?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Are you a dancer?”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “…oh no, you sold out of the oysters? Oh, I really wanted some! Can you not just check whether they don’t still have some out the back…?”

  “I specifically asked for a candle to be brought with my husband’s dessert! It was all okayed via email and I even reminded the waitress when we arrived!”

  Ben raps his knuckles on the ticket rail.

  “You know what, where are you from? Cos you speak really good English, you do!”

  The two men on twenty-three seem nice enough, and the old Jesse, before Owen came back into his life, would probably have flirted more with them. They are enjoying a boozy, ties-in-pockets Friday lunch, the two of them taking up a four-top and opening their legs wide under it, slapping their palms on the table as they drink and laugh like West Indians playing dominoes. One is Austrian, and seems rather too elegant and well-maintained, with his thick dark hair, nuanced English and perfect rows of teeth, to be associating with the cocky-looking, stout fiftysomething Essexman opposite him. Their laughs have been filling out the space all afternoon, and while they seem mismatched, Jesse is drawn to their promise of fun among the usual unengaging lunchers.

  The service has been less of an ordeal than Jesse had feared; he worked himself into top form and is now feeling more alert and sharper-edged than is necessary—the remaining diners are Friday long-lunchers with nowhere to rush off to. Though the men on twenty-three are in his section, they are close to the door so Terry has been serving them, but the restaurant has started to empty and he’s gone back to his important work in the office.

  They order more wine—a third bottle of chilled 2011 Moulin-à-Vent—which, after about 2:30 p.m., annoys the double-shifters because all they want to do is reset for dinner and have as long a break as possible; while there are customers at table someone has to remain on the floor. As Jesse opens the wine they begin to involve him in their conversation, asking what his name is and how long he’s been working there, then whether he likes football, which team, and speculating about what a smart, good-looking guy like him must be doing apart from working in a restaurant. Talking to drunk people while sober is always a chore, but then comes:

  “You know what, where are you from? Cos you speak really good English, you do!”

  Jesse’s shoulders drop. “Sorry?”

  The Essexman does not alter his cocky facial expression but repeats his question as if Jesse didn’t hear.

  “Where you from? Where’d you grow up?”

  The Austrian doesn’t look at all embarrassed, just nods and laughs to fill the space, seemingly aware of some awkwardness, though not of its source.

  “Dudley,” says Jesse, as he pours their wine from a height so that it splashes up inside the glass.

  The Austrian looks at his fellow diner, who looks confused, for clarification.

  “Dudley?”

  “A historic town with the ruins of a twelfth-century castle in the Black Country. Just outside Birmingham. The West Midlands.”

  “Dudlaaaay!” laughs the Essexman, as if no one ever has before. “Where Lenny Henry’s from! Oh right, so you were born here, then?”

  “You mean, in this country? Yes, I was born in this country, as were my parents,” says Jesse.

  “The Black Country?” asks the Austrian of his English friend.

  “So that makes you, what, third-generation?”

  “I’ve no idea how it works,” says Jesse, honestly.

  “You’ve lost your accent. What, d’ya get elocution lessons?”

  “But you call it the Black Country,” says the Austrian, who suddenly looks genuinely interested. “Like the Deep South?”

  It seems his mind has been degraded by his company. Do not be misled. Bad associations spoil useful habits. Jesse wonders whether he should tell him that the Black Country is an area on the high planes of the island where, like the Maroons of Jamaica, black World War I veterans seized the land and established a thriving district of farms, shopping precincts and industrial estates run by, operated for and employing black people, where there are black schools, colleges, hospitals and universities all contributing to a buoyant black British economy. That might have been the dream, but instead, he tells him the truth; after all, the Essexman wouldn’t have it any other way.

  The two men continue to try to make conversation with him as the restaurant empties, even as he takes their payments, seemingly unaware that his mood has changed. There is little he can do other than laugh along, and he shakes the hands they offer him as they leave, the Essexman engaging him in a sort of arm-wrestle and fist-bump mess he’s probably been waiting for a black man to hit with for some time.

  Jesse and Georgia—who says, That wasn’t actually that bad!—reset the restaurant for dinner, set up the staff table for the 5:30 meal, count the soiled white napkins and tablecloths from lunch and pack them into orange laundry bags, before heading back to the locker room.

  Gini texted him hours ago to say she was organising a picnic in Brockwell Park. It’s been a couple of weeks since they last spoke; he hopes her pregnancy is going well and that she isn’t still being harassed by her father, who has come to claim her now that he has heard she is a successful playwright. It is still reasonably early: half past three. The Victoria line is as close as the London Underground gets to fast and fuss-free. If he can get there for four he can spend an hour and hit the Tube just ahead of the rush hour tidal wave. The last thing he wants to do is go underground in this heat, but the Santander scheme doesn’t trust multi-ethnic Brixton with its hire bikes (the nearest station is all the way in Stockwell), and he needs the company of his black people, who also speak really good English.

  Chapter 2

  Gini was offered places at all three of the drama schools she applied to, but chose LAMDA’s acting course, starting in September 2002, and stayed on to take their MA in directing, ignoring tacit warnings that nobody would take direction from a black woman. Five years of being passed over for the privilege of directing her favourite plays by Chekhov, Ibsen and Tennessee Williams followed, during which time she and Jesse re-entered each other’s lives, working as waiters at a Shoreditch restaurant called Sebastian’s. He couldn’t believe it when she walked her thin, brown legs in for her three o’clock interview, hair braided up into a vertical phallus, wearing a short pink Duro Olowu tea dress, black Superga Flatforms and a Chanel 2.55.

  He walked up to her as she sat at the bar.

  “Excuse me, is your name Ginika?”

  “Yes,” she smiled, curiously.

  “Do you remember me? My name’s Jesse. We worked together for two days at Gilbert’s on St. Martin’s Lane.”

  It took her a second, but they probably heard her scream in the office. He trained her up and together they pretty much ran the place. They became the best of friends; he called her his oldest in London. Owen came in fo
r dinner one night with his publisher, his old friend from Cambridge, Nicholas St. John. Gini was on her honeymoon, and Jesse had never been so pleased to see someone. He had been having a bad day, serving a rude and entitled table of twelve who had chosen that night and that restaurant to host a Robert Mapplethorpe–style death dinner for a charity fundraiser with AIDS; he’d tried to be convivial but they pinched his arm when they wanted something and never said please or thank you. When Jesse recognised Owen, he went straight over to their table, crouched down and cried. Jesse and Owen hugged, laughed, swapped numbers, texted, went on a date, talked, got drunk, kissed, made love, and began their search for lost time.

  * * *

  —

  Owen had got wasted on coke, weed, champagne and whisky that Christmas night—fourteen years ago—and had logged on to Gaydar with Jesse conclusively passed out on the sofa next to him. Both happy in their dark place, they’d been listening to Joy Division’s Closer and Aaliyah’s One in a Million. Owen found a shag all the way down in Tooting, some methamphetamised thirtysomething white guy who showed Owen pictures of his spread arsehole and the soles of his feet. Owen thought the roads would be clear enough to drive and that there would be no police around at five o’clock on Boxing Day morning. He got in his car. It was a simple drive, straight down the A10, straight down the A3, straight down the A24, straight to sleep at the wheel, straight into a high kerb, straight through the window of a Costa. His airbag protected his face and head but the momentum of the crash broke his back in two. They had to cut him out and induce a coma. Plagued by a recurring nightmare before the crash, in which his mother shunned him and missed his funeral, then jumped into his grave—next to his father’s—as the pallbearers shovelled dirt on top of them, it was a great relief to him when he woke up after his multiple surgeries to find her there by his bedside, reading his first poetry pamphlet with tears in her eyes.