Page 40 of Taste

I sighed, and responded with a quick, “Christensen on it. Over,” as Mabel reached for the phone.

“Bye, Mabs.”

“Bye, babes.”

MARK

I’d reluctantly agreed to come in for the evening shift, only because we were short-staffed again and there was another busload of theatregoers who all needed to be served a delightful three-course dinner at seven sharp, so they could move on to their cheerful musical performance forty-five minutes later. Not usually a problem but still a sizable challenge churning out forty-seven piping-hot meals at the exact same time without Doris and Ethel and their elderly entourage complaining that their Somerset Tartelette had gone cold. We made hardly any profit from the theatre dinners and even less in tips for the overstretched staff, but they were a staple in the hotel’s clientele, so I reluctantly tried to allocate enough overtime and agency staff to cover us for the weekend. Exhausting as it was, I secretly loved our elderly patrons and quite looked forward to this evening’s dining event.

We were still, and almost always, stretched to our limits staff-wise, and I was painfully aware my imaginative budget was wearing thin. I needed to sit down with my team and hash it out, but that was another thing I was putting off for a day when my capacity bucket wasn’t threatening to overflow.

Mabel appeared next to me at the lectern, having taken a quick comfort break before the rush started. “Babes, we had a couple of girls come by earlier looking for work. I left their résumés on your desk.”

“Amelia needs to handle those. I haven’t done the new HR procedures e-learning package yet, so I’m apparently not suitably equipped to figure out if these kids have the right work permits anymore. Did they, by the way?”

Mabel leaned back and smiled at me. “Not a chance. I asked about pre-settled status, and they just stared at me blankly. Shame, because one of them had years of waiting experience and the other was a barista. I could’ve used them both tonight.”

“Bloody Brexit,” I muttered. We used to have access to a never-ending flow of the most brilliant staff, many of them students either studying in the UK or taking a gap year, from a wide range of nationalities who would come and bring their expertise and charm to our multicultural team. That was while we still had the freedom of movement and people could get themselves employed on a whim and turn a week’s shopping in London into a year-long adventure working their socks off with us. We had our core staff, who were carefully vetted and trained, but with our guest numbers an ever-fluctuating conundrum and the constant turnover of staff that was common to all hotels, we relied heavily on having extra pairs of hands on-call.

We’d usually have stacks of hardworking people staying in our run-down staff accommodation block at the back, alongside our management trainees and temporary contractors. To be fair, sometimes those people didn’t last out the week, but we’d once employed a fabulous team of amazing humans from all over the world. Now we couldn’t even get an agency temp to stay more than a couple of shifts. I kept begging my European staff to advertise in their social media groups, but with the borders closed to newcomers, fresh faces were thin on the ground. Those who’d stayed past last year’s pandemic and had their paperwork in order were already here being worked to the bone, and it was only normal that people would move on to bigger and better careers, because a waiter’s wage was hardly a stepping stone to big money in central London.

At least tonight’s crew was both willing and able. As the theatregoers milled in, they were being seated by Mabel, who looked unusually smart and was blushing beautifully.

“Looking good,” I teased as I swirled past them, delivering carafes of water to our seemingly parched guests.

“We heard back about the guy who collapsed the other day,” Mabel said, as always fully up to date. “He’s fine. Mr Klutz sent flowers.”

“You mean Mrs Carrington sent flowers.”

“I think it was actually Oliver.”

“Have you seen the new concierge?” Adam butted in. “Name’s Hugo. Cute, willing, and able. Bagsy being first in line to show him the ropes later, because he’s a right flirt, and I have a feeling he’s looking forward to being…educated…over that fine desk of his. Oliver already looks scandalised.”

“Adam!” I gasped in my best horrified voice. I was a little scandalised myself by the state of our concierge, who was more flustered than ever around the extremely easy on the eye newcomer.

“Waiter, is this mineral water?” a gentleman asked, frowning in concern as his crystal tumbler was filled with good old H2O.

“River Thames finest,” I replied with a smile. “Bottled right here on the premises.”

I meant it as a joke, but the gentleman seemed impressed, despite not clocking my very shiny manager’s badge. It made me smile, though. I rarely got to work the floor, and I did enjoy it. Compared to admin and targets and budgets and staffing, the banter and quick-paced service was child’s play…as long as nothing went wrong.

“Perfect!” The man’s wife—I assumed—patted me reassuringly on the arm. “Edward gets a terrible upset stomach from the London tap water. I don’t know what you put in it down here, but we only drink bottled water when we visit.”

I quickly swept the glass out of the gentleman’s way and bowed. “Sir, I have a special treat for you then. Let me bring you a bottle of our British Royal Stillingham water, bottled straight from the source in the Berkshire dales. It’s renowned for its delicate taste and will no doubt be much kinder to your stomach. You have that fabulous musical to look forward to tonight. We can’t have you not feeling your best!”

I doubted London’s finest tap water would do him any harm, but neither would the bottled crap we bought in, which was purified in a bottling plant in Slough. At least his wife looked delighted as I set down the overpriced water in front of them and offered both lemon and ice on the side.

“Edward is allergic to bread,” the wife continued. “Our travel agent did ring ahead to order an alternative.”

“Yes, of course.” I smiled sweetly. “Mr Bosworth, I believe? Chef has prepared a selection of our handmade seeded crackers to go with your soup. I hope they will be to your satisfaction.”

“Oh, no, none of that seed crap. Have you got any French stick?”

“Edward! You shouldn’t be having wheat flour!”

“Oh, shush. I’m on my holidays. Of course I can have bread.”

I moved away discreetly, safely out of the way of their brewing argument, only to be cornered by Anisha, who hid her mouth behind the napkin on her arm.

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