‘Yeah, you do. You need a proper girlfriend,’ she says.
This is not a lie and I hate how much she mocks me for it. Work hard, play hard. I don’t play. I don’t even mingle. I just sit here in my restaurant: the most unforgiving, time-consuming mistress a twentysomething man can have.
‘I don’t need a girlfriend when I have mash.’ It sounds sad to say this out loud.
‘Well, if that’s where you get your kicks, brother. If I ever find you dipping your wick in a bowl of mash though, I’m quitting and suing you for emotional damage.’
Phoebe is also the sister who is disgusting if hilarious; the one who makes me laugh the loudest. She looks over, glad she managed to squeeze a laugh out of me after a ridiculously busy shift at the restaurant that included over a hundred covers; running out of the sea bass; a woman who was ‘scared’ of olives (‘They look like eyeballs!’); an influencer who came with a ring light, vlogging tools and asked me to comp their £180 bill; and table nine who decided they were going to be those people who split the bill based on what everyone ate. If you ever neededto know the value of GCSE maths, try problem-solving a group restaurant bill amidst statements such as, ‘But I only had half a glass of wine, David, and I ate just the three olives.’
‘Make sure the toilets get a second scrub as well, yeah?’ I say to Phoebe and she flares her nostrils at me.
‘Please don’t tell me someone yacked in there?’ she asks.
‘One drunk vommer but I caught table six having a shag in the end cubicle too,’ I tell her. I exhale slowly to have to say that out loud. It was a young couple who asked their server which fruits were in theirfruits de merrisotto and drank a whole bottle of Tempranillo before their mains arrived. We should have clocked the napkin over his lap hiding his obvious boner.
‘Why do I miss all the fun?’ Phoebe says, wide-eyed. ‘Did you catch them?’
‘Yes. They claimed that he was in there to “help her with her IBS”.’
She cackles in reply. I remember working in a two-Michelin-star restaurant in San Sebastián handling truffles and perfecting mypintxo, thinking I could bring that vibe to this corner of Notting Hill. I wanted to fuse robust European flavours with a homely, ethereal atmosphere. I expected stressful scenes fromThe Bear, being sweaty and keeping unsociable hours. I expected to feed people, to witness their joy in my cooking, to make a place where people could come to chill, celebrate and relax. I expected to feel a sense of completion and achievement. But the reality is that I am chasing errant and unfeasibly loud shaggers out of my toilets with a mop, wondering how to tell a young man I think he’s jizzed down his jeans. I’m watching people drink so much that they don’t even eat the food, they just use it as a catalyst to socialise – to line their stomachs so they have something to throw up later. I’m starting to wonder why I bother to get up at five in the morning so I can fight other buyers for the best tomatoes.
‘You know, I think it’s because of the sex shelf in there,’ Phoebe says casually. She turns to look at me when I don’t reply. ‘It’s handy, you know? For the leverage?’
‘When I was designing that bathroom, all you sisters told me to put that shelf in for your handbags. Norah was adamant. You’re telling me it’s a sex shelf?’
‘I’m simply making a casual observation.’
I rub my temples, wiping at my eyes in fatigue because I now have to think about taking that shelf out.
‘You look knackered, Benny,’ Phoebe says. ‘Have a drink. Try and decompress. You want to dance? I’ll dance with you?’
I shake my head at my sister. ‘I don’t think my legs could take it…I’ll just stay here?—’
‘With your potatoes…’ she jokes. ‘Do you have any of your sourdough out back?’
I nod.
Phoebe runs and I’m strangely flattered that my bread has triggered such a reaction. However, as the metal kitchen doors swing back and forth, I catch the reflection of my sourdough-starter complexion.Why do I look so puffy?The adrenaline of service is melting away; the restaurant is dull and lifeless and my body is trying desperately to wind down. It’s at times like this, sitting by the bar in the light of dying candles, when I can take stock. But this reminds me that I need to do a literal stock take.Sea bass. I need to also make stock. I need to do the five thousand other things that involve the running and managing of a restaurant. I run a hand through my brown, wavy hair.Yeah, I need to wash my hair too. Restaurant grease. That’s attractive. This may be why I’m sat here on my own declaring my love to a bowl of mashed potatoes.
Phoebe emerges with handfuls of bread, closely followed by our older sister, Flo.
‘Boss boy, I am done. Shelter just picked up the last of the meals we prepared,’ Flo says. She is the fellow-chef sister, the one who persuaded me to open this place on the proviso that she would help out around raising her own family.
‘You were magnificent today. Risotto was on point. You’re still my best kitch bitch,’ I say. Flo laughs loudly, her face lighting up.
‘And what am I? Chopped liver?’ Phoebe says.
‘If the shoe fits, babe,’ Flo says, blowing her a kiss. She places her hands on my shoulders. ‘Ben, you look shattered. Have you thought about taking Tuesday off? Norah and I can hold the fort. It’s sure to be a quiet one.’
I shake my head. I haven’t really had a day off since this place opened its doors. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Flo pouts, unimpressed, wrapping a scarf around her head. ‘I worry about your health, that’s all.’
‘Which is why you’re my favourite sister,’ I say as I unlock the latch and let her out into the night.
‘I HEARD THAT!’ Phoebe shouts from across the room.
‘Be careful, please text me when you get home. Love to the boys,’ I say.
