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‘Cool. See you then, gorgeous.’ He pecked me on the cheek, then walked out of my room.
‘Bye, Seb.’
6
Would You Like Hair With That?
From the moment I stepped into work, just before eleven o’clock, I knew it was going to be a tough shift. Kelly’s blue hair was limp, and her orange foundation was streaked like lightning bolts down her cheeks from crying. She looked so overworked, to the point she nearly walked out of breakfast service and kept chucking frypans into the sink and barging past waitstaff who were in her way.
She gave me her quick, masculine nod. ‘Hey, chicken. Wish this stupid brekkie shift would end already.’ She exhaled. ‘Can you believe Daniel made me do all this on my own?’ She chucked another frypan into the sink, and it clattered as it hit the bottom. Then she zoomed back to a frypan on the gas stove and stirred the scrambled eggs.
I knew it wasn’t the time for a conversation, so I got myself ready for the shift by placing my work gear under the sink and washing my hands.
Martin was preparing his section by folding a tea towel and placing it under his chopping board so it didn’t slip. He didn’tlook up when I walked past, which was always a giveaway that he wasn’t feeling his usual flirty self, so when he handed me enormous bunches of parsley and coriander in silence, I wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t like he needed to say anything – I knew what to do – but still, I wondered if anything in particular was responsible for putting him in this mood. More than anything, though, I was relieved he wasn’t going on with that ‘Pinky’ nonsense. Imagine if I called him ‘Lanky’ – but, no, I’m not that mean.
Paul walked in just on time to break the mopey vibe.
‘Kelly, you need to stop going out and drinking every night. You look bloody awful,’ he said, shaking his head.
Kelly rolled her eyes and thundered outside, leaving the remainder of the breakfast orders to him.
Paul ignored her behaviour and cooked the rest of the orders with ease.
Fifteen minutes later, Kelly returned much jollier following twenty or so nicotine hits.
I drew a breath and braced myself for the incoming lunchtime madness as dockets came flying in from the waitstaff.
Paul was in head-chef mode and was attending to the orders, as was Martin, while I waited for mine to come in. I busied myself plucking the herbs and sorting them out into containers, which I had labelled with the name of the herb and the date on masking tape. It wasn’t long until Kelly, with her sad face on, was sidling up to Paul. Before she even opened her mouth, I knew what she was about to say, and I also knew what Paul’s reaction would be. Sure enough, he laughed in response to her asking to go home early and continued flipping a steak in the hot frypan. The butter sizzled as Paul ignored her request and started plating up the smashed potatoes and asparagus for the medium-rare steak order.
Martin called out ‘behind’ as he walked past Paul and got a tray out for a side of ciabatta. Every side of bread came with virgin olive oil and dukkah.
Paul shook his head at Kelly, who stood staring at him while he plated the steak. ‘Kelly, move. You’re being ludicrous. We’re in the middle of lunch service. Grab your cup, fill it up with icy water, and take a Panadol, for God’s sake. Just don’t start a drama right now.’
‘I feel like I’m going to be sick.’ She held her hand over her mouth and ran out the back door.
Paul shook his head in disgust once more, then rang the bell for service.
‘Hey, what did I miss? Why’s Kel running out again?’ Tyren asked as he waddled in.
He was a plump boy with chubby, red cheeks and a face only a mother could love, but judging by his inexplicable confidence, he thought otherwise. He insisted he was a chick magnet.
Paul and Martin were too busy cooking mains to respond to Tyren, so he waddled over to his section and began sharpening his knife.
‘Tyren, you’re working with Martin today, so anything he needs – you know the drill,’ Paul said, not breaking eye contact with the stove.
‘Yes, chef, got it,’ Tyren replied instantly and gave a nod.
The only dockets coming in were for mains, so I busied myself wiping my bench and fridges. Joel wasn’t on until tonight, which resulted in me washing dishes for the whole of lunch service as I didn’t have anything else to do. There were no pizza orders, which, come to think of it, was kind of weird.
By half past two, the restaurant was dead, and everyone busied themselves cleaning down their sections.
Paul and Tyren did prep, while Martin left to have a much-needed break.
On my break, Deb called me over to the table at the back of the restaurant under the framed photograph of the Ait Ben Haddou (the Golden-stoned Fortress). I’d never been overseas, but that place in Morocco looked so dreamy, especially during golden hour. I looked down at the table and noticed the hot vanilla latte waiting for me. The subtle hint of vanilla mixed with the strong scent of coffee made my mouth water.
‘Oh, you’re the best,’ I said as I squeezed behind the table to sit and took a sip.
‘So, no pizza orders during service?’ She raised a surprised brow.
