the meantime . . .
'Let me shake your hand again, mate. I think we are
going to work very well together.'
'What a gent!' someone shouted, but Jake's delighted
smile quickly turned sour. His hand was hurting so much
he wouldn't have been surprised if Harry hadn't broken a
bone or two.
Chapter Five
The Capital was so trendy it was rumoured that even
Gwyneth Paltrow was unable to get a table one night.
Members of cool and edgy rock bands ate there, and
television presenters who wanted to be seen as cool. It was
so expensive that Jake would have had to take out a
mortgage to afford dinner.
The chef who had created its reputation was currently off
work, enjoying a protracted nervous breakdown. In his
place was his brother, who couldn't cook quite as well but
was sleeping with the owner's wife.
Jake got the distinct impression that, despite appearances
to the contrary, the restaurant was on its way down.
It happened. Restaurants come and go – actually, most of
them go. Coming down with a bump after the happy glow
induced by the principal's praise, he saw in reality that the
atmosphere in the kitchen was often so bad (think sinking
ship and rats) that he didn't really want to stay, if there
hadn't been the urgent matter of an overdraft to pay off
first. He had spent a brilliant but pricey week in Italy,
learning how to make pasta from a master, and now was
seriously in debt. But it had been worth it. The chef's wife
had taken him to her heart – literally. Every morning he
would be enveloped in a squishy, garlic-and-herb fragranced
embrace, fed huge amounts of food and told
that he looked too peaky. He had worked hard, but the
food, the glorious red wine and the sun had left him feeling
as fit as a butcher's dog.
Harry was furious that Jake hadn't died in a plane crash
on the way, or at the least chopped his fingers off in a pasta
machine, but they were both lowly commis chefs at the
moment so Harry's plan of action called for discretion and
cunning.
Harry had plenty of spare energy for this, because on his
days off he could kip at his cousin's flat in Hampstead,
lulled to sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets and cocooned
from the traffic behind triple-glazed windows. When he felt
peckish there was always some fillet steak or smoked salmon
in the fridge.
Jake, on the other hand, had found the cheapest bedsit
in the whole of London. It was above an Indian supermarket,
and opposite the sort of pub whose clientele
consider it a poor do if there isn't at least one fight at night.
Jake would lie in bed, under a woefully inadequate duvet,
shivering and listening to the sound of glass bottles
breaking over people's heads.
His diet would have been just soup, made from
vegetables picked up from a local market, because that was
all he could afford. But he had made friends with Mr Patel
downstairs, who had left Bombay twenty-five years ago but
was still dreadfully homesick, and was thrilled by Jake's
genuine interest in Indian cuisine. He took to leaving a
portion of the family's curry on Jake's doorstep most nights.
Jake was usually so tired he would eat it cold, standing up,
before falling into a fitful doze on a bed so uncomfortable
he was tempted to lift the mattress up to see if there were
nails underneath.
When he came into work hollow-eyed, Harry would look
over in mock concern and say: 'You look rough. Been
burning the candle at both ends again?'
Although Jake's work was always impeccable, Harry's
words gave the impression that Jake was a bit of a party
animal, which made their boss, who was seriously stressed
to start with, look at him with some suspicion.
Kitchens are busy places and people often bump into
each other, but Jake always seemed to get jostled when he
was using a sharp knife or stirring a hot sauce. Scalded or
cut, he would swear profusely, and Harry would shrug and
grin an apology. It gained Jake an entirely undeserved
reputation for being humourless and grouchy.
Also, if they all went out for a drink after
'Let me shake your hand again, mate. I think we are
going to work very well together.'
'What a gent!' someone shouted, but Jake's delighted
smile quickly turned sour. His hand was hurting so much
he wouldn't have been surprised if Harry hadn't broken a
bone or two.
Chapter Five
The Capital was so trendy it was rumoured that even
Gwyneth Paltrow was unable to get a table one night.
Members of cool and edgy rock bands ate there, and
television presenters who wanted to be seen as cool. It was
so expensive that Jake would have had to take out a
mortgage to afford dinner.
The chef who had created its reputation was currently off
work, enjoying a protracted nervous breakdown. In his
place was his brother, who couldn't cook quite as well but
was sleeping with the owner's wife.
Jake got the distinct impression that, despite appearances
to the contrary, the restaurant was on its way down.
It happened. Restaurants come and go – actually, most of
them go. Coming down with a bump after the happy glow
induced by the principal's praise, he saw in reality that the
atmosphere in the kitchen was often so bad (think sinking
ship and rats) that he didn't really want to stay, if there
hadn't been the urgent matter of an overdraft to pay off
first. He had spent a brilliant but pricey week in Italy,
learning how to make pasta from a master, and now was
seriously in debt. But it had been worth it. The chef's wife
had taken him to her heart – literally. Every morning he
would be enveloped in a squishy, garlic-and-herb fragranced
embrace, fed huge amounts of food and told
that he looked too peaky. He had worked hard, but the
food, the glorious red wine and the sun had left him feeling
as fit as a butcher's dog.
Harry was furious that Jake hadn't died in a plane crash
on the way, or at the least chopped his fingers off in a pasta
machine, but they were both lowly commis chefs at the
moment so Harry's plan of action called for discretion and
cunning.
Harry had plenty of spare energy for this, because on his
days off he could kip at his cousin's flat in Hampstead,
lulled to sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets and cocooned
from the traffic behind triple-glazed windows. When he felt
peckish there was always some fillet steak or smoked salmon
in the fridge.
Jake, on the other hand, had found the cheapest bedsit
in the whole of London. It was above an Indian supermarket,
and opposite the sort of pub whose clientele
consider it a poor do if there isn't at least one fight at night.
Jake would lie in bed, under a woefully inadequate duvet,
shivering and listening to the sound of glass bottles
breaking over people's heads.
His diet would have been just soup, made from
vegetables picked up from a local market, because that was
all he could afford. But he had made friends with Mr Patel
downstairs, who had left Bombay twenty-five years ago but
was still dreadfully homesick, and was thrilled by Jake's
genuine interest in Indian cuisine. He took to leaving a
portion of the family's curry on Jake's doorstep most nights.
Jake was usually so tired he would eat it cold, standing up,
before falling into a fitful doze on a bed so uncomfortable
he was tempted to lift the mattress up to see if there were
nails underneath.
When he came into work hollow-eyed, Harry would look
over in mock concern and say: 'You look rough. Been
burning the candle at both ends again?'
Although Jake's work was always impeccable, Harry's
words gave the impression that Jake was a bit of a party
animal, which made their boss, who was seriously stressed
to start with, look at him with some suspicion.
Kitchens are busy places and people often bump into
each other, but Jake always seemed to get jostled when he
was using a sharp knife or stirring a hot sauce. Scalded or
cut, he would swear profusely, and Harry would shrug and
grin an apology. It gained Jake an entirely undeserved
reputation for being humourless and grouchy.
Also, if they all went out for a drink after
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