Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman
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it’s quick to defrost frozen food and cook vegetables, Chef. It’s really good at that.”
Chef Peter was thoughtful. ‘There’s nay problem here wi’ steaming vegetables, lad. And it’s better t’defrost food slowly. Does new-fangled machine do summat else,
worthwhile?”
“Well, if you put cold soup in a bowl it’ll heat the soup, but not the bowl. That is
unless you go overboard with the settings, or leave it in too long,” Fred gushed.
Silence.
“Aye, hot soup in a cold soddin’ bowl, fantastic. What else?”
“It warms food, Chef.”
“I see no use for it.” Chef declared, shutting down the conversation. The levity had peaked and died in seconds.
On Chef Peter’s advice Dad dismissed the new fangled microwave in favour of a swash-buckling, new turbo gas grill. Much to Chef’s delight, he ambled off whistling the latest hit California Dreaming.
After Fred left, Gramps commented, “I’m pleased he doesn’t work for us, he’d have trouble selling a vowel.”
Another salesman called selling a franchise for chicken. We listened to his spiel.
“Aye, their blurb sounds good, but under closer scrutiny do they not rely on getting eight portions of pressure cooked chicken from one wee bird?”
Dad agreed with Chef Peter. He worried their franchise fees were too expensive. “We’d have to sell vast quantities of product to make it pay,” he warned.
“Aye, paying so much in commissions makes their deal unattractive. Summat like that’ll not catch-on, ye’ll see.”
“I think Kentucky Fried Chicken is too Americanised for Royal Tunbridge Wells,” I said, turning their glossy brochure over in my hand.
Pandy was rapt, with its slogan ‘Finger-lick-in’ good’, and Colonel Sanders in his
sparkling white suit. But she stood alone in favour of her Colonel.
Chef Peter shook his head. “Aye, it might do all right in the West-End of London slap bang beside a Wimpy Bar, but not here.”
Dad gave Chef Peter a small increase in wages for his valuable wisdom and business acumen.
I figured seeing as money was free flowing, I might venture the topic again of me being paid. “When might I expect to see some remuneration?”
Dad looked at me as if I was a moron.
I sulked back to the kitchen. If I could get the Crème Brûlées out of their containers
before breakfasts tomorrow—I might be looking good.
Chapter 20
Three Old Crones
Our restaurant cliental included three difficult women, old enough to have sailed with
Admiral Horatio Nelson. The last time they dined, I felt like a Rhesus monkey cornered up a tree.
In search of some sympathy I appealed to Gramps. “I’m unable to take a trick with those three old biddies.”
Gramps was thoughtful while he rolled a cigarette. “Ah yes,” he replied, “the gift of time, but then again who wants to live until they’re a hundred?” He paused, “I know I don’t.”
“Maybe someone who’s ninety-nine,” Gran offered from elbow deep in her washing up sink, “then again, they’d be no peer pressure.”
Justin our new part-time silky smooth waiter had a serious after hours binge-drinking problem, which we thought best to ignore. Skinny, mousy-haired and in his early twenties he had a face like a parson. Busy polishing the same glass over and over, he eventually held it up to the light to examine his handiwork.
“You know,” he mused, “watching a century-old Buddhist monk wrap his left leg over his right shoulder prompts my thought—if I’m ever that old—will I get a leg over?”
Smiling at Justin’s joke Gramps continued, “Maybe we should have told those three old biddies right from the start the only bitching tolerated in our hotel is our own.”
“Aye, true. But aren’t ye supposed to pride yourselves on highest standards of
hospitality,” Chef Peter said.
“According to Dad, Chef, there are no guests who are arseholes. If a guest has a thorny moment, it’s only because they have special needs. But I’ll grant you we’ve stretched it with this trio.”
“Their whalebone-stiffened attire with the decorative lace isn’t the only inflexible thing about them,” added Justin. “Dressed to a tee in their high buttoned nineteenth century
get-ups, I can’t help but groan whenever they visit.”
Dad had appeared at the mention of his name. “Your team should be highly qualified to solve catering problems by now,” he glared.
“I agree we’re gaining ground,” I smirked. “But failing that, at least we’re trained to sympathise.”
The old crones never booked ahead but always wanted their favourite bay window table. It was an Anthony Armstrong-Jones photo opportunity on clear days but with a steady drizzle the brolly ballet bobbed like jelly fish adrift on the tide.
Grey sky, grey people, grey cars, and a greyer-than-grey street to look out at.
When the wind got up strong enough to blow fluff off a peach, everyone’s umbrellas turned inside out in-brolly-central. Our old timber sash windows closed, courtesy of Gramps and his six inch nails, rattled like snare drums. That was our cue to turn up the lights and draw the heavy drapes closed.
Once, I suggested a more agreeable table.
“Young man, if we wanted your dubious opinion as to where we should sit in your inferior establishment we would have asked for it. Until then please remain silent until you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
On another occasion, when the restaurant wasn’t quite diverting enough for them, they insisted on being shown our rooms.
“Far too bright and modern,” Grand Duchess said, glaring at me through her
monocle. She then wagged her finger under my nose. “If we decide to come here young man, you can take that ghastly television thing out.”
I swear spinach would have wilted under her gaze.
Gramps shook his head. “Take no notice. Their curiosity just got the better of them, that’s all. They probably wanted confirmation they’re on a better deal where they are.”
“Who are those awful old ladies, Gran?” Pandy asked.
“Don’t you worry your head, Sweetheart. They’re up themselves. Crafty old biddies as greedy as puppies wanting something for nothing, that’s all.”
“Suddenly I feel like a post pubescent tape worm with a bad haircut,” I groaned.
Gramps frowned. “You have only to look at their lack of rings. They’d be a good match for a bloke all right. But only if they sweat Scotch and fart pound notes.”
“You might find a more practical use for the common yet,” Gran giggled, a twinkle in her eye.
“Them eating in our restaurant is a novel experience for us. They never eat from a la carte because it’s more expensive,” Justin added.
“They’re not short of cash, but their guinea’s safer than in a miser’s purse. It’s all about getting their bill reduced. That’s why they’re serial complainers.”
“You’re