Page 41 of Taste

“Mark, the lady at the end has terrible tremors in her hands. She’s ordered the soup. I’m concerned.”

I snuck a glance over at the immaculately dressed lady. The peach silk sari she was wearing gave me a glimpse of a future disaster ahead. I agreed. Not the best idea, even though this evening’s soup was gorgeous. She may well be perfectly fine with the soup, but Anisha was, as usual, spot on with reading our guests, and the lady looked embarrassed and terrified. She also seemed to be travelling on her own with nobody to assist her.

“Do we have a name?” I mouthed back. Anisha pointed at our guest list. Mrs Hussein. Fine.

My staff was fantastic, and my heart warmed a little as I watched Anisha pick up where I’d left off on my water round, smiling at a gentleman and launching into the kind of wooing that made her one of the best. She complimented his choice of tie, expressed genuine excitement about the musical experience ahead of him and discussed the current fair weather all while colourfully describing the flavour of our warmly spiced red pepper soup. But I had better things to do than marvel over my staff, so I pulled up a chair and sat next to Mrs Hussein, offering her my hand, which she took. I kept hold of hers I spoke. My calm chatter was making her smile, but I could feel her tension building and the tremors persisted.

“Mrs Hussein,” I said quietly, “I want to ensure you have the most wonderful meal with us.”

“I…” She turned in her chair and reached into her bag. “I struggle with foods, but…” Keeping her hand out of sight, she showed me a well-worn plastic sippy cup. “It’s embarrassing, and I really don’t care for soup. My daughter-in-law thought I would enjoy a trip to the city, but I don’t know any of these people or anything about musicals. I’m missingEastEnders.”

“Mrs Hussein, I can assure you, nobody will be embarrassed this evening.” I patted her hand. “Tell me, what’s your favourite meal at home? What is something that you long to eat?”

After a brief pause, she said, “I miss good chapattis. I used to make my own, but I don’t trust my hands anymore. I always made a nice pot of spiced lamb on a winter’s weekend like this. We had a wonderful butcher.”

“Oh, you’re a woman with taste, you can’t have lamb without a bit of bite, I fully agree.” I smiled. “How are you with heat?”

“I like things spicy.” She gave me a cheeky wink and squeezed my hand. “The hotter the better. I get meals on wheels delivered these days, and it’s all too bland. I can’t stand mashed potato, and every meal comes with that slop. Food is not the same without a kick. I used to make a mean spice blend—my husband always said it was better than any five-star restaurant.”

“Mrs Hussein, I want to come talk to you about spices later. I bet you can teach me a thing or two—if you’re happy to share your secrets. I can guarantee there will be no mash anywhere near you this evening. I’ve officially banned it on your behalf. Let me go speak to my chef and see what he can magic up.”

“Oh no.” She gripped my hand tighter. “I will spill on myself. My daughter-in-law will be so cross if I ruin this sari. I haven’t even managed to wear it properly. My husband would be so upset if he saw me now.” Mrs Hussein looked distraught again, and it broke my heart. Nobody should be embarrassed in my establishment, and nobody should be out for a restaurant treat and not be thrilled with their meal. Not on my shift. Not at my tables.

“Has he passed?” I asked quietly, trying to build a better picture of this dear lady, who I now would ensure had the most brilliant night. A treat like this, a rare night away from home, could be the most anxiety-inducing mistake anyone could make, and right now, I couldn’t think of anything worse than to be placed in Mrs Hussein’s situation.

“Six months ago. We were married for forty-seven years.”

“Mrs Hussein, will you bear with me for a minute? Please don’t worry about anything. I’ll be right back.”

I patted her hand and moved away, beckoning to Anisha, who swiftly disengaged with a smile and came over.

“Are you good with saris?”

“Of course I am, Mark. I wore one for my wedding.”

“I remember, and you looked beautiful. When you get a minute, can you come help Mrs Hussein to the Ladies’ so she can freshen up? I’m going to set something up.”

She nodded, and I rushed off into the kitchen, then turned around and legged it out to Oliver’s concierge desk, giving the newcomer another appreciative glance. The guy was the ultimate twinky brat, a messy mop of hair in a smart suit and a cheeky smile to boot.

“Gentlemen!” I beamed at the two of them. “Help a hungry lady out. How fast can you get the best chapattis in town and a hot-as-fuck halal lamb jalfrezi on a table?”

“Thirty minutes?” Oliver wrinkled his nose. “But it’s Saturday and the traffic—”

“Naveen’s,” Hugo said, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “They’re ten minutes away and I know the chef’s son. Let me ring him and see what I can do. You want it burn-your-tongue-off or heart-attack-inducing hot?”

“The lady looks…seventy-odd?”

“The most lethal kind then. My granny used to snack on raw chillies for a laugh, but then she was kind of nutty.”

“This Naveen’s place…” I’d never heard of it.

“Best curry in town.” Hugo put the phone to his ear.

“You’ll need to replate it,” Oliver said. “It comes in paper boxes. Won’t be piping hot on arrival, but I hear good things.”

Bloody Oliver, but at least he was safety conscious and paid attention to detail.

“Bring it to the back as soon as it arrives. I’m laying the chef’s table in the kitchen. And can you get someone to bring me an armchair from the bar, a working TV, or a laptop, whatever? The lady needsEastEnders.”

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