by John Hughes
“Reserved – so solly.”
“Not any more,” said Jez, picking up the Reserved sign and throwing it on to the table next door. He sat down. Chris and Toff joined him.
“Regular customer has this table,” explained Mr Ping anxiously.
“You sayin’ they’re more important than us?” asked Toff.
“Not exackery, I…”
“First come first served,” said Chris.
Mr Ping hesitated then decided not to pursue it any further. “Okay okay, you sit there.” He walked to the back of the restaurant, spoke to a colleague – presumably about where to seat their regulars when they arrived and how to explain why their usual table was not available – then returned with some menus. “You like drink?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” said Chris.
“I know I not,” replied Mr Ping. “Don’t know about Pope!”
“Uh?” said Toff. “What’s he on about?”
“Me joke, me joke. What you want to drink?”
“Three lagers,” said Jez. “And no heads.”
“Okay, I get and come back for food order.”
“You do that, slitty eyes,” murmured Toff, loud enough to float after the receding Mr Ping who, if he heard, chose to ignore it.
Jez perused the menu. “What’s it to be… crispy aromatic duck with some pancake rolls to start?”
“Bring it on,” said Toff.
“Poppadoms and an onion bhaji for me,” said Chris.
“Tough, you’re having what we’re having. Then what, go our own ways? I fancy Szechuan king prawns.”
“I’ll have sweet and sour chicken,” said Toff. “With e-fri-ri.”
Chris stared at the menu, seemingly unimpressed by anything he saw. He pulled out his mobile and started sending a text.
Mr Ping returned bearing a tray and a large bowl. “Your drinks, genermen – free lagers, no head, and some plawn clackers.”
“They look like prawn crackers to me, mate,” said Toff, stuffing one into his mouth whole. “You ought to learn to spleak Engrish plopper.” A cloud of cracker bits filled the air around him.
“Ready to order?” asked Mr Ping stoically.
“No,” said Chris, still tapping away on his phone.
“Well make your mind up,” said Jez. “I’m starving.”
Mr Ping noticed a customer gesticulating at him from another table. “I give you more time. I’ll be back.”
“Alright Arnie,” sniggered Toff. He pulled out his phone too and stared blankly at the screen, scrolling up and down. Jez took his out and joined them. They sat in silence and remained that way until Mr Ping returned with a notepad and pencil.
“You decide yet?”
“We’re ready,” said Jez. “Crispy aromatic duck for three to start, with pancake rolls. Then I’ll get Szechuan king prawns, with egg fried rice and some seaweed. Toff, you still having sweet and sour chicken?”
“Yeh, in the style of Hong Kong, Mister Pong.”
“With egg fried rice?”
“Yeh, e-fri-ri.”
“Any sides?”
“Nah.”
“Chris,” said Jez. “What about you?”
“Uh?”
“What do you want?”
“I can’t decide.”
“Jesus, here we go again. You do this every time.”
“Do what?”
“Go into a moody if you don’t get your own way. Look, if you want an Indian, go and have one. The Red Rose is just over the road. If you’re staying with Toff and me, tell Mr Pong here what you want.”
“Ping not Pong,” corrected Mr Ping.
Chris rested his phone on the table and looked at the menu. “Do you do curry?”
“Yes we do cully.”
“Alright, chicken tikka masala with pilau rice.”
“We do chicken cully Chinese style, no Indian.”
“Well that’s no good. Alright I’ll have just a chicken curry, with plain rice.”
“Any side dishes?” asked Mr Ping.
“Yeh, loads. Sesame prawn on toast, Peking dumplings, tempura prawns, house special noodles and… two portions of seaweed.”
“You’ll never eat all that,” said Jez.
“He right,” added Mr Ping. “You eat all that, you exprode, like Mister Cleosote. Make big mess.”
“Well that’s what I’m ordering. Don’t matter anyway, if we ain’t…”
“Alright,” Jez interrupted. “That’s our order. We can share it all.”
“Okay,” said Mr Ping with a tone of resignation. “That what you want, that what you get. Customer always right.” He wandered off to the back of the restaurant and disappeared through a swing door with a circular glass window. Moments later, a chef’s head appeared at the window and stared at the threesome at the window table; a fierce looking face with thick eyebrows, a flat nose and bad teeth, all framed by cropped dark hair and two day stubble. A face with an expression that said: “Crazy bastards.”
An hour later, the table was a mess, strewn as it was with the remnants of the meal. None of the crispy aromatic duck remained, nor of the pancake rolls, but there was a good deal of everything else, including two portions of seaweed and some special noodles that hadn’t been touched. They were on their third round of lagers.
Halfway through the meal, the couple who had reserved the window table had arrived. Mr Ping greeted them with practiced obsequiousness and shepherded them towards a table half way down the dining room. The man was elderly – tallish, smartly dressed with silver hair and thin-rimmed glasses; his wife, similar in age, shorter, elegant in a bright summer dress. They were not happy. The man came over to the table where the three were tucking into their meal.
“I say you lot, Mr Ping tells me you stole our table.” None of them replied. “Did you hear me?”
“We heard,” muttered Jez.
“Well, what do you have to say?”
Chris looked up. “What makes it your table? Do you own it?”
“It was reserved for me and my wife.”
“Well we got here first.”
“We always sit at this table. Mr Ping had it reserved for us and he says you moved the sign.”
“So what?”
The man was bristling with indignation. “You’re rude, impolite and selfish.”
“Nope, we’re Jez, Chris and Toff. Pleased to meet you.”
“You know very well what I mean.”
Jez nodded. “Yep, I suppose you’re right there.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“No mate,” said Chris. “What do you want us to do? We’re sitting here eating our food. You expecting us to move tables in the middle of our dinner just so you can have your usual spot, like you own it? Really?”
The man was taken aback, suddenly appreciating the reality of the situation and not knowing precisely what he did expect of them.
“No, I…”
“You should learn to chill, old man. Take things easy… be more flexible. Especially at your age. Blood pressure and all that.”
Realising there was nothing to be done, the man took several steps backwards.
“An apology would be nice.”
“Hasn’t Mr Pong done that already?”
“Your manners are appalling,” said the man as he turned away.
“Hey grandad,” called Toff. The man looked at him quizzically. “Bring us another lager will you?”
Later, over shots of Jägermeister, the three were again all staring at their phones. Chris was first to look up.
“So how much d’you reckon we made then?”
Toff shrugged. “I won about three hundred.”
“Double that for me,” said Jezz.
“Same here,” said Chris. “Would
have been more if that last mare hadn’t decided to walk round the course. Probably still going. Winged Messenger – pah, should of known better.”
Silence prevailed again. Chris yawned; Jez followed suit.
“We gonna do it then?” said Toff absentmindedly.
“We sure are.”
“What’s the plan?”
Jez leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The usual. I’ll ask for the bill, then I’ll go and get the car. When you see me out the front, you run. Chris in the front, Toff in the back. Right?”
“Right,” said Toff.
“Right,” agreed Chris.
Jez stuck his hand in the air, whistled and called out: “Oi, Pong… bill.”
Two minutes later, Mr Ping laid a circular silver platter on the table. The bill lay on it underneath three After Eight mints. Jez picked up the long, thin strip of paper, skimmed over the contents and handed it round. He stood up and, for the sake of Mr Ping, who was watching from the far end of the restaurant, laid a twenty pound note on the table as his share before walking out of the door.
As they waited for the car to pull up outside, Chris and Toff counted out banknotes as if working out how to split the bill fairly. In the process, Jez’s twenty was scooped up and added to the reckoning. Every now and again, they glanced out of the window, trying to appear blasé.
All the while, Mr Ping hovered in the distance, next to three other waiters. The fierce looking chef watched from the kitchen through the circular window. They had read the signs and were prepared. The chef turned and shouted at one of the other chefs who picked up a set of keys and hurried out of a back door.
Jez seemed to take an age.
“Where’s he got to?” whispered Chris.
“Probably having a fag.”
As Toff spoke the words, a car pulled up immediately outside the restaurant entrance, a black BMW that had seen better days. A familiar figure sat in the driver’s seat. The window was half down and Jez’s features were clearly visible, looking calmly towards them.
The wads of banknotes disappeared into pockets. Chris and Toff looked at each other. Chris nodded and said: “Go.”
They leapt from their seats and through the door into the street. Chris ran round the front of the car, opened the passenger door, climbed in and slammed it shut. Toff stumbled on the pavement and fell against the rear door. He grabbed the handle and pulled, but his weight was against the door and nothing happened.
“Hurry up, you knob!” yelled Jez. “Get in.”
“I’m trying!”
“Well try harder!”
Toff eased back, the door opened and he tumbled onto the back seat. He just managed to pull the door shut as the car screeched forward, cutting across traffic and narrowly missing a car coming towards them. They were under the railway bridge and up the Brighton Road in seconds.
As they sped away, an almost identical BMW, only newer, cleaner and more powerful, turned out of Victoria Avenue and drew up outside The Mandarin Palace. Mr Ping appeared at the restaurant door, closely followed by the fierce looking chef, who was carrying a baseball bat. They climbed into the car and sped off in pursuit.
* * *
“Piece of piss,” smirked Chris.
“Yep,” agreed Jez. “Food tastes better when you don’t pay for it.” He shifted down a gear as they approached the Ace of Spades roundabout, then they were straight over and making their way through Hook, heading towards their home turf of Ewell.
“I hate Chinks,” said Toff. “Serve ‘em right. Love their food, hate them.”
“Look what the bastards did to our soldiers in the war. Tortured them, starved them and worked them to death building railways. Payback time.”
“That was the Japanese,” said Jez.
Toff shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Let’s rip off a Paki place next time,” said Chris. “Have a good curry.”
“Okay, it’s your call next.” Jez yawned. “Jesus I’m knackered. Good day, what?”
“Yeh, good,” agreed Toff.
At the next roundabout Jez turned left and from there it was a straight road into Ewell. Five minutes later they were pulling up in the parking area of their estate. He switched off the engine and sat back in his seat, eyes closed, allowing the calm to flow over him.
They heard the sound of another car pulling in behind them but paid no attention.
“British is best,” said Chris smugly, also lounging back in his seat. “We’re more smarter, more wiser, more intelligent. How can anyone think otherwise.”
Toff was lying sideways across the back seat. “Too right. Skin colour tells you everything you need to know about someone. The darker it is the worse it is. Chinkies are like halfway. You just have to look at them slitty eyes to see they’re worthless. Good for cooking and serving in restaurants but that’s about all.”
“Hmmm,” mumbled Jez in agreement.
“I mean, can you name a decent Chinkie footballer?”
There was contemplative silence. No one could.
“What’s happening tomorrow?” said Chris. “We doing something? Where are we eating for free? Any suggestions?”
The driver’s side door next to Jez opened, fast and with force. Hands grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and tugged him out of his seat. A second later, the same happened on Chris’s side and he too was pulled from the car. Toff was suddenly the only one left inside. He looked up in bemusement and said: “What the f…” Then the door behind his head opened and he too was dragged out; backwards.
They were bundled together in a corner of the car park, standing back to back, like a three-edged statue. To one side of them stood the fierce looking chef, the baseball bat in his hand; to the other, the driver of their BMW, sliding a metal nunchaku between his hands and making a clicking noise with them. In front stood Mr Ping, legs apart, arms folded. He stared at the threesome for what seemed like an eternity. Toff was shaking, so was Chris. Jez appeared in control, but inside he was scared because he knew what was coming. There would be pain involved. Eventually he plucked up the courage to speak.
“Hey, Mr Ping. Fancy seeing you here.” He tried to sound light-hearted, nonchalant even, but failed.
No reply.
“Sorry about shooting off like that and not paying earlier – slipped our mind.”
Mr Ping moved closer to Jez and looked him in the eyes, but said nothing.
“I’ve got the money… here in my pocket.”
“Yeh,” contributed Toff. “Loads of cash. Happy to pay you.”
Mr Ping started to giggle, then suppressed it by putting a hand over his mouth. “We no want your money. We want pay you. Pay you a lesson and teach you some manners. That why we chase after you.”
“That’s good of you,” said Chris. “But we’d just be happy to settle up and be on our way.”
Mr Ping walked round and stared him in the face. “Too late for that – too late for words. We just let baseball bat and nunchaku do talking.”
Chris whimpered.
“We’ve got manners,” said Toff. “Just forgot them, that’s all.”
Mr Ping turned his attention to Toff and walked round until they were face to face. “You say we serve cat instead of chicken.”
“I never did.”
“I hear you.”
“Well okay then… just a joke, that’s all.”
Mr Ping took the baseball bat from the fierce looking cook and waved it in Toff’s face, then pressed it delicately against Toff’s nose. “You call me slitty eyes.”
“Another joke.”
“Not funny.”
“I guess you’re right. Sorry.”
“You left or right-handed?”
“What?”
“You hear.”
Toff looked puzzled. “Right-handed. Why?”
“That the arm we blake.”
“You’re kidding me!”
Mr Ping moved along to Chris. “You left or right-handed?”
Chris paused for some time before answering hesitantly. “Right.”
Mr Ping giggled again. “You lie. We blake left arm… also left leg for lying.”
“Jesus, no, please!”
“You,” said Mr Ping, addressing Jez. “You left or right-handed?”
Jez’s face was pale, his lips quivering. He was too scared and confused to consider whether or not to lie, so he told the truth. “Right.”
“Okay,” said Mr Ping. “I no sure you lie or tell truth, so we blake both to be on safe side… also for being ringleader.”
“You’re not really going to are you, over a few quid?” Jez’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he was struggling to speak at all. “We’ll pay. Double, triple if you want…”
“If you got loads of money, why you not pay for meal in first place?”
Toff replied. “Like Jez said, it slipped our mind, that’s all.”
Mr Ping shook his head. “Now you lie. You take piss so we blake both arms and one leg. I feel in good mood today so let you choose which leg.” He stepped back a few paces so he could see all three. “Why you look down on us? Why you treat us like shit? Why steal from us and try to ruin our livelihood?” There was no response from the threesome. “Why you think you superior?”
Again no response.
“Because your eyes not slitty?” He stepped forward and poked Toff in the side. “Or you more interigent? Maybe that it. If that what you think you clazy because it obvious to me you not.”
“Just mucking about, that’s all,” said Chris, his voice quivering.
“Maybe you behave like this coz you speak from moral high ground? Better educated, better mannered, better behaved? I no think so. If you think that you clazy. Evidence show otherwise.” Mr Ping sighed. “Okay so now our turn to muck about.” He handed the baseball bat to the fierce looking chef. “Go ahead, start blaking bones.” He pointed at Toff. “Him first.”
Chris started to cry. Snot dribbled out of his nose. He wiped it on the sleeve of his jacket. But it was Toff, not Chris, who at this moment became the centre of attention. His eyes had glazed over with fear. When Mr Ping identified him first for a beating, he started to shake more violently. A dripping sound came from the ground beneath him as he lost control of his bladder and started to wet himself.
