No Reservations Required

Julian was perched on the edge of the chair. Bent forward, elbows on his thighs, clammy hands clasped together, he stared at the floor. One knee bounced rhythmically. The elegant chair was barely able to contain his wiry awkwardness. He trembled, conscious of the rapid drub, drub, drubbing in his chest. Repeatedly, he clutched at the tight collar of his starched-stiff white jacket, pulled at it to ease the hot itch beneath. Claude Albert placed his knife and fork down, in parallel, on the plate. He pushed the plate to his right and aligned it, just so, in the corner of the table. Julian saw that Claude hadn’t eaten much. The meal had been picked apart; deconstructed and strewn about the plate. The vibrant yellow pool of egg yolk was vivid; the only splash of colour against the pristine white table setting. Claude shook out his napkin, used it to dab at the corners of his mouth. He refolded it into a precise triangle and positioned it; the longest side corresponding exactly to the table edge. He adjusted each sleeve in turn, checked that they were equal in length, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, still chewing slowly. Claude fixed Julian with a steady gaze and, at length, swallowed the food.

‘Hmmm...’ Claude rubbed his chin. Julian shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny. He swept his fringe from his eyes with the back of his hand and glanced about the restaurant. It was still early morning and the row of tall windows revealed another grey, cheerless day. An immaculately uniformed waiter strutted around the restaurant. He inspected glasses and cutlery at random; deftly polishing those that did not meet his expectations. He held them up to brilliant light from lavish chandeliers. The lustrous silver shone, iridescent glassware glittered like cut gemstones. Aside from these three, the restaurant was empty. Claude spoke suddenly with a sharp clap of his hands.

‘So!’ Julian was startled. ‘You are eighteen years. Yes?’ He spoke brusquely, hints of the Parisian accent still evident. Julian’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
‘Er...yeah. Eighteen. Nineteen in a couple of months though and....’
‘And you ‘ave worked in restaurant before?’ interrupted Claude.
‘Er...no, not really. I worked in my local for a....’
‘Ah! So you are good with microwave!’ Claude mocked. Julian looked into his lap, pulled at a lose thread on his top. ‘Well. Then I give you the feedback now.’ Claude inhaled deeply, hands held as though in prayer, fingers pointing towards Julian. ‘I like the way you select your ingredients; with the great care. I like your food. I do. The muffin was toasted jus’ right. The eggs; they are perfectly poached. The bacon is good; crispy. Nice, buttery ‘ollondaise sauce. Good. Technically, very good. The presentation...it’s okay. It’s jus’ okay. It needs a little work but...’ Claude shrugged and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Something is missing. I am feeling....in some way....hmm....disappointed...’

Moments later, Julian stepped out into the miserable morning. Rain struck his face like shards of glass. Clutching his jacket tightly across his chest, he hindered the stream of deplorable commuters as he ambled towards the supermarket. Julian didn’t care that he was late for work. He didn’t care if he never stacked another shelf. The idea of working even one more shift beat him down. The bottoms of his jeans had been dragged through puddles and were sodden. Great, fat globs of rain dripped from his nose and his hair was pasted flat. ‘It must just be me.’ Julian thought. He rubbed his eyes; sore and gritty. ‘He just didn’t like me. He didn’t want a loser like me in a flashy place like that anyway.’ Julian shook his head, his body hunched and his face twisted against the sharp rain. Questions had begun to thrash around in his head. ‘What did I do wrong? What did he mean? It’s not just the bloody presentation! What the hell does he think was “missing”? If the cooking wasn’t bad, what the fuck else did I do wrong?’ The faster the questions came, the faster his feet pounded, the tighter his fists. He crossed a small side street where kitchen rubbish spilled from tipped bins. Julian lunged for an empty can and kicked it to the wall. It didn’t lessen the frustration that sat in his chest like a small, hard ball, getting heavier, more compact; indigestible. The can bounced back with a thin, metallic clatter and came to a halt at his feet, oozing the last of its thick, red juice. Impulsively, Julian turned and stormed back to the city centre.

Julian stood at the Maitre D’s desk, both hands leaning heavily upon it.
‘Good mor...’ The waiter began as he approached the desk and opened the large, black book.
‘Can I see Chef please?’
‘Oh. I’m sorry but Monsieur Albert is...’
‘Please. I must see Claude Albert.’ Julian interrupted, unsettled by his own deeper, more authoritative voice.
‘Ah...yes. Of course, Sir’. The waiter nodded and disappeared to the back of the restaurant. Julian folded his arms tightly, shuffled from foot to foot.
‘Monsieur Albert says that he will see you in the kitchen. Please. Will you go on through?’ The waiter gestured towards the kitchen door, unable to disguise his withering glance. The kitchen door swung open all too easily, bounced on its hinge and came back to hit Julian as he passed through. He winced with the pain as he stood before the pass under glaring spotlights, smooth, silver-blue metallic surfaces dazzled. Until that moment, the kitchen had been a commotion of charged activity but instantly, knives ceased to chop, plates stopped clattering. All movement halted; but their eyes turned.
’Julian. I am surprised to see you again so soon.’ Claude held up his heavy looking, black handled knife and tilted it in Julian’s direction. The blade glinted dangerously along its edge.
‘Mister Albert. I..’
‘Monsieur Albert, if you please.’
‘Monsieur Albert. I...I...didn’t really understand why you...I can cook. You said so yourself...and...and,’ Julian paused, rubbed his temples. ‘Look. I...should just go.’ Claude held up his hand to silence him.
‘Julian. Take this. Tell me. What do you think of it?’ Claude handed Julian a tomato. Julian took it, stupefied.
‘Well, it’s...it’s...a tomato and...and...’
‘Yeeees, this much, I know, Julian.’ Claude sneered. There was sniggering from another part of the kitchen. Slowly, Julian rolled the tomato in his palm, squeezed it gently.
‘It’s red, smooth, fresh...and...beautiful. And it ‘gives’ just enough. It’s perfectly ripe and...’ his mouth watered as he lifted the tomato to his nose ‘it’s got an earthy sweetness; a really clean scent. Ripened on the vine. Not like those bullets you get in the supermarket. They’re wrong, see, completely the wrong shade of red, and too hard. Artificially ripened. With ethylene. This is...this is...’ instinctively, Julian took a bite of the succulent tomato ‘like eating summertime! I’d put it with a few fresh basil leaves and make a...’ Julian opened his eyes and caught Claude watching him, intrigued. Claude’s expression was quickly banished. ‘I...err...I just pick this stuff up when I’m stacking the shelves.’ Julian explained.
‘And this?’ Claude handed Julian a plate on which sat a small slice of cured meat.
‘It smells of... pork fat, and it’s a bit...smokey.’ Julian put it in his mouth. ‘Mmm...I’m not sure what that is but...Parma ham?...I’ve never tried it. It’s good. It’s...whoa!...it’s quite spicy isn’t it?’
‘Yes Julian. I like it because it ‘as a little fire.’
‘It’s a bit chewy but I like the texture. Might it go well with...err...seafood? I think it would go wi...’
'Actually, it is a chorizo.’ Claude cut him off. ‘It is a Spanish dry-cured pork sausage. But now, Julian, I am a busy man. So please. Jus’ tell me why you are ‘ere and then, per’aps, I continue with my work, yes?’ Claude spoke firmly and fixed Julian with that familiar steady gaze. Julian took a deep breath.
‘I want to cook for you again. I don’t know what you think is missing but... I don’t have qualifications, I know that, but I am willing to learn. I know I can cook. And I want to learn. I know I can do it and...’ Julian bumped his palms together as he spoke, bobbed his head. ‘I want the job, I know I’ve already got a job, but I want THIS job!’ Julian’s clenched fist slammed down on the pass as he glared at Claude. Claude flinched. Julian stepped away, red faced, breathing heavily. His fists were still clenched, arms held stiffly by his sides. Claude’s face remained unchanged. Julian turned to leave but Claude blocked him; stood toe-to-toe with Julian. Claude grabbed his upper arm, gripping it firmly. Shrinking back, Julian resisted the urge step further away. A smile gradually eked its way across Claude’s face. Julian’s forehead creased; confused and speechless. Matching every syllable with a finger jabbed in Julian’s face, Claude revealed with relish:
‘And this, Julian, is the passion I ‘ave been waiting to see!’