Authors: Simon Wroe
T
he days roll by. An earthquake in Japan. Portugal collapses. A Tory MP posts pictures of himself in Nazi uniform on the Internet. Nazis everywhere complain. The wheels keep turning. Builders open a long derelict house on Eversholt Street and find hundreds of dead pigeons inside. Let gentrification commence. The flower seller on Parkway is moved to beside the ladies' public toilet. Somewhat displeased, you could say. One night my father finds me scribbling thoughts about the city, and for a few days is convinced that I should write a book about him, his sporting triumphs and so forth. I don't think this book will be what he wanted. Roadworks finish on the high street. Roadworks begin on Camden Road. Traders sell, tourists buy, tubes strike and traffic roars. This is how time moves for a chef. A jumble of events in no particular order. Are we taking great leaps or are we treading water? Unless the menu changes, how do you measure the passing of time? The monotony of the chores, the daily routines. Weeks turned inside out. Whole months lost. No seasons. Hot or hotter. Tangled streams of consciousness. Spuds, stocks, bones, blood. Most of the last not mine. When writing of the kitchen, it is important to remember the blood.
What else do I remember? Only moments, voices . . .
Shahram and I out on a Sunday morning, pushing a shopping trolley full of milk through the streets. All the well-to-do Camden couples with their prams. Shahram's trousers in rags. Shaky Shahram, jiving gently. An odd couple, he and I. Our baby not like the rest.
Fucking knew you were a pastry boy.
Running up the stairs with oranges in my apron. Deep gastros of confit lamb breast pulled from the ovens and stashed underneath the benches for later. Fat bubbling where the foil was torn. A delivery of game on Saturday evening before service. Hind legs poking from potato bags as we haul them to the cellar. Deer among the beer. And pheasant too: eyes closed a little too tight, feigning sleep, still in their feathers, red collars around their necks.
There goes my day off
, said Racist Dave.
Shouting, swaggering, elaborate rap bragging.
Chinchilla coat is my dog's bed.
Greasy laminate of the kitchen bible. Every recipe The Swan has ever known. Bob's mum's Victoria sponge. Pasta dough revised. Consistency the watchword. Smells competing. Doneness. Her dark eyes, unreadable.
You got any other stories?
The sarcasm.
Oh, chef, don't cut yourself with that knife.
Racist Dave on quality control.
Why is this lemon curd bitter?
Dibden taking the pith.
Ramilov putting words into the kitchen porters' mouths.
What Shahram is saying, in his own little way, is that he wants to see a good hour of mise out of you.
The film actress coming to eat one day and we, the chefs, sneaking out to catch a glimpse. The scene framed through the doorway. Another world. The starlet, laughing easily with friends.
I'd fucking break that in half.
Racist Dave confronted by beauty.
Two worlds always in tension. Each choosing to forget what the
other is like, or else the whole show falls apart. The art of forgetting: something my father never learned, something I am still mastering.
A forkful slipped into a diner's mouth.
Oh, my, have you tried? Utterly delicious.
The same plate coming through the kitchen.
Let that sauce down, chef. It tastes like my ring piece.
The leisure at table.
Would you like any coffee, petits fours?
The haste at stove.
Coming up fast on a rav chaka. Whenever you like next thirty seconds.
The aesthetic appreciation of one.
Look at those swirls of sauce. A picture.
And the other.
See that last plate? I proper gayed it up.
The manners of the front of house.
Absolutely, sir, that shan't be a problem.
The manners of the back.
You've got the fattest arse I've ever seen. We should get your arse in a pan and render it.
Those groomed and glowing customers, eyes sparkling in full faces. Sweeter, neater, cleaner, greener. Satisfied. Indulged.
Casting imperious glances toward the pass.
Absolutely famished.
Literally dying.
From outside our kitchen appears quiet, thoughtful. Inside it is a cauldron. Smashing pans, blazing jets. Manufactured grief. Little wailing, much gnashing of teeth.
You've split the béarnaise.
Run it through the oven.
More chiff on this bass!
I don't think Darik likes you today. I think he thinks you're a fat prick.
Late-night frenzy of the clean down, wanting to be done. Sniffing the mise, throwing stuff away. Cling-filming the containers. Rolling the fridges.
I want that all pulled out tonight. Get behind it.
Oui.
And you better be using blue spray over there.
Dave assembles the order lists, retires to the office to phone it in. The kitchen relaxes. Music climbs.
Gotta get up, gotta get out
. The chefs singing along, painfully keen. Extraordinary rendition. An envoy is dispatched to make peace with the much-maligned front of house. Camp Charles looks to the heavens and forgives. Now ask.
Please, sir, may we have some beer?
The slack fooling that follows. Chefs stinging one another with rolled-up cloths.
Don't move away, you pussy. Stay still.
No, you'll get me in the eye.
I won't get you in the eye.
You did last time.
I won't.
Drinks after work in O'Reillys. Shattered but you will have one. Rude not to. Is Camden an island, or a bigger creature that we're living on?
Epizoon
, that is the word. Second always goes down easier. Spirits rise. Nora the landlady watching crossly as Ramilov, demonstrating a sexual activity illegal in the state of Texas, spills lager on the tired carpet. Dibden red-faced, ashamed he is laughing. Those powerfully sad Irish and their songs. Chefs discussing love.
True love is sticking with someone no matter what.
That's blind love.
No.
Yeah. Like a dog.
Ramilov asking one of the old boys if he can make a brass rubbing of his face. Throwing oneself out, a sign of good grace. Cold air hitting, winter's blade drawn. Shivering, a young fox sprawls in the street. Hit by a car, they reckon. Do you call a vet for a wounded fox? Not so big beneath that fur. Not so wild up close.
The regrettable Sunday-night conversations in Mr. Michael's drug den.
In Camden, the corner shops sell individual steel scourers especially for the crackheads. That's recognizing your market.
Too busy listening to listen, too caught up telling it like it is to tell it. The chefs talking about their dreams . . . of owning a pig farm, of running a ten-cover place with the wife as front of house and no choices on the menu. Like it or lump it. Open tomorrow if they only had the money. Mr. Michael's midrange Charlie vanishing up the nostrils. Where does it all go?
For they, the sinners, reasoned unsoundly, saying to themselves, “Short and sorrowful is our life, and there is no remedy when a life comes to its end, and no one has been known to return from Hades. For we were born by mere chance, and hereafter we shall be as though we had never been, for the breath in our nostrils is smoke, and reason is a spark kindled by the beating of our hearts; when it is extinguished, the body will turn to ashes, and the spirit will dissolve like empty air. Our name will be forgotten in time, and no one will remember our works; our life will pass away like the traces of a cloud, and be scattered like mist that is chased by the rays of the sun and overcome by its heat.”
Dibden speechifying to the moon-eyed masses. While I, tight-jawed, lecture mute Rossi on
Crime and Punishment
. Carrying my
shame home on Monday morning past school-bound kids. Appalled by my own banality, the uselessness of my remarks. Praying I don't meet Mrs. Molina on the stairs.
Good morning, Mrs. . . . Yes. Popped out for a stroll. My eyes? Must be the fresh air.
Or worse, my father.
You didn't come home last night. You didn't . . . you didn't get some, did you?
His disbelief at once affectionate and infuriating. Because I could if I wanted to: a number of doorway shadows had suggested their enthusiasm. And all the while unraveling under his gaze, having my soul picked loose, terrified of his suspicion. So we spend the best days of our life. At the end, day or night, he is always there, curled around a kebab or the
Racing Post
. Pride and self-pity jostling for pole position.
I should get the bed. Seniority.
If I could get a hundred on him ante-post, trust me, I wouldn't be asking you for cash anymore. You'd be asking me.
Detritus of cornflakes and toenails encircle him. Perhaps he fears my intentions. To hear attackers, those at risk of assassination are advised to surround their beds with newspaper when they sleep.
Sometimes he pierces my dreams to ask if I am still awake. It seems we are forever at opposite ends of time, he and I.
Any word from your mother?
Dad, it's late.
I know that. You think I don't know what time it is?
Over time I stopped answering him. Letting his questions fall on the night.
Son? Son?
Occasionally, an emotion creeping in.
R
acist Dave says this story is too much about me and my issues. He says I'm telling it all wrong and asksâinsistsâthat he be allowed to contribute. Well, this is a chapter about Dave, one that only he can tell.
It is March and The Fat Man casts his shadow over us once more. At the pass one evening he leans in for a word, and Dave, though quite adamant he would never go back, hears something that makes him change his mind. Another dubious dinner party is on the cards. Another mysterious dish. This time a commis is not required. We are getting closer to the night everything changed. Beneath the glittering mass of flies a shape is slowly appearing. A skull of some kind, not quite human.
Where possible, I have tried to remain faithful to Dave's consideration for grammar.
I didn't just become a vegetarian overnight you know I'm not a fucking twat. People give me shit about it now because I share the veggie meal with Shahram and I used to say only terrorists and rabbits ate that food well those people never had to do what I had to fucking do so what do they know. Long story short The Fat Man is a disgrace he got what was coming to him good job our boy. This was not so bad as that but still fucking gash you will not catch me doing that again in a hurry or ever. Understand this I weren't scared at any point just fucking gagging over it really cos it were wrong I knew it were. Some cunts are going to say why d'you go back after you had to drown the birds Dave
well killing little birds is one thing but this were something else. You should have called the Old Bill they'll say but I ain't that type of guy. Besides it were a fuckin' grand and I don't know any chef that wouldn't drown a little bird or do a bit of bad gash for a fuckin' grand. It ain't fuckin Sunday school, chefing.
Another thing too it weren't like I had no choice. Fat Man comes up to me at The Swan all matey like an' says you should do this, I'm like nah but he don't take no for an answer gets this creepy smile on his face and says it could pay off some of the debt. I don't know what the fuck he's on about and I tell him so. Oh I think you do says The Fat Man still with the creepy smile you owe some friends of mine a lot of money. Well I don't owe no one in London a fucking penny and I said that to him but Fat Man shakes his head still smiling and says not in London, in Manchester. That fucking freaked me out I tell you. How do you know about that I say. It's my business to know he says. Well I'm thinking if I piss him off and he tells those guys they'll fucking kill me straight up. So I said yes.
That day I've turned up at The Fat Man's gaff and it's the same deal as the first time with the whispering behind the walls in the corridors and the big empty kitchen. Fat Man goes through a list of stuff all pretty basic liver parfait trippa alla romana carpaccio of beef and that then he says to me oh we've got a special treat tonight you'll enjoy this. I'm thinking will I fuck. He unlocks that cupboard of his and comes out with something under a black cloth. I'm thinking oh shit already cos last time it were those fucking tiny birds and I don't want the trouble but this is worse. He's pulling the sheet off now and I can see there's a cage underneath with proper big bars and everything. Fuck me if there i'n't a baby tiger in there.
I'm like er what the fuck where did you even get a fucking tiger? Well he just smiles at that and asks am I having second thoughts about it. I weren't scared. . . . Shocked maybe. Is it legal though? I says. Davey
Davey he says clucking his tongue, what do you take me for I'm a community man.
This didn't exactly answer my question but before I can say anything he's talking again saying how I had to drown it in the sink like I done with the birds then skin it stuff it brown it off in a skillet and chuck it in the oven for twenty minutes. Said it had to be basted regular as it were very lean. How the fuck did he know that? Is there a cookbook for this shit? Then he tells me not to bring the tiger in 'til bell has rung three times. Then he leaves.
Muggins here just stands in the middle of the kitchen not knowin' what the fuck to do. Just stood there. It got dark and I still hadn't made up me mind. That tiger were looking at me dead funny and the house were giving me the creeps and I could hear the low voices comin' through the walls like sayin' stuff to me and tellin' me to do it and think about the money and how boss it would be to have it. And all the time I felt like I were being watched and this were part of the fun.
I were in a weird mood like bored but edgy and I didn't know what to do with meself. Started looking in the drawers and cabinets checkin' out the gizmos. Then I saw The Fat Man had left the door to the cupboard open and I thought why not no rule against it little peek won't hurt no one so I went in there and sniffed about a bit and I found something proper weird lookin' in a jar. At first I was like no way is that what I think it is but then I looked again and it fucking was. A finger. No lie. A fucking human finger. Pickled in a jar. I don't know what the fat bastard was doing with a human finger and I don't fucking want to know.
Finding that finger sort of made up my mind though and I fucking did it anyway didn't I. Drowned the little thing. The sound it made when it were going into the water were horrible. I didn't like doin' it but I weren't thinkin' right. I prepped it and cooked it up just as The Fat Man said and tried not to think about it. Then I bring in the other food and like last time the room is empty but empty like a knowing empty if you
know what I mean. I go back and wait in kitchen for the three rings and when I hear 'em I bring the tiger in on a big silver tray and there's all people round the table with the black sheets over their heads again and I can't see none of their faces and I'm thinking oh fuck Dave this is weird i'n't it. And I remember what The Fat Man were saying before about not wanting god to watch you as you sin like when you're doing evil eating wrong things and that.
I've put the tiger down and I'm standing there thinking oh what happens now when I realize they're all waiting for me to fuck off before they start they won't move while I'm in the room. Fat Man's got the envelope waiting for me on the table. So I take my money and as I'm leaving this one bloke in a black sheet nearest the door grabs my wrist and whispers help me. He's got a good grip on my wrist and there's a big old burn on the back of his hand just like the one Bob used to have. Don't go Dave he says all quiet like and I'm thinking it does fucking sound like Bob except I never heard Bob beg for nothing. Shut up says The Fat Man under his sheet at the other end of the table. I've done my time says Bob. It's not a discussion says The Fat Man you'll do it 'til I say.
Well that just freaks me out more hearing Bob like that and wondering why he's talking so and I weren't sticking about to find out. I prized his hand off me and I walked out and I'm thinking fuck you if I'm ever coming back here again and as I walked I were saying you stupid fuck Dave a fucking tiger and fucking all that bother for a fucking grand you stupid fuck. I ain't never going back, simple as. And when someone takes the piss out of me for turning veggie I say fuck you you didn't find a finger and fuck you you didn't peel a tiger. The end.