Page 42 of Taste

“A vital part of every evening,” Oliver agreed, giving me a nod as he scurried off.

Half an hour later, I had an armchair set up at the back of the kitchen with an oversized conference TV tuned to the right channel, and an impeccably dressed Mrs Hussein being fussed over by Anisha and Ben, as well as one of our stewards who spoke Gujarati. I had no idea what he was saying, but he had Mrs Hussein blushing like a schoolgirl.

“She likes lamb,” the steward translated. “Not this English food.”

“On the way. I’ve ordered from Naveen’s. Good choice?”

He gave me the thumbs up and went back to help Mrs Hussein with her napkin, only to disappear and return with a chef’s apron, which made Mrs Hussein burst into tears. They seemed to be happy tears though, mixed with laughter at whatever the steward was saying while Anisha helped her put her feet up on a stool, carefully keeping the sari off the floor.

“Mrs Hussein, I hope you’ll feel a little more comfortable here at tonight’s chef table. If you still want to go to the theatre, we’ll arrange a driver to take you, but if you’d prefer to stay, we’re more than happy to host you.EastEndersstarts in ten minutes, I believe?”

“I…I can sit here? All evening?”

“If you want to. We would love to have you keep us company.”

“Can you let me know if Frankie comes back? And what happened to Suki?” Anisha asked. “I loveEastEnders. I watch the omnibus every Sunday.”

“Oh, I can’t give away all the spoilers.” Mrs Hussein laughed, patting down the chef’s apron over her front. “Am I still having the soup? My cup is in my handbag…”

“You can have anything your little heart desires this evening. So…” I crouched beside her and took her hand again, her tremors visibly less violent away from the eyes of strangers. Not that we weren’t strangers, but the smaller setting, despite the overbearing noise of the kitchen, had to be better. “Would you like headphones? Or I can turn on the subtitles if you prefer?”

“I’m not deaf, young man, but appreciated. So…I don’t have to go to this musical?”

“Of course not. As I said, if you wish to go, I’ll arrange a driver.”

“No, I’m comfortable here. And a little excited. So I’m not having soup?”

“No, my dear Mrs Hussein.” I laughed. “The soup is officially off the menu.”

The theatregoers departed on time with full tummies and cheerful smiles, throwing us all into another evening of full-on dinner service. We were rushed off our feet, but Mrs Hussein made me smile every time I came into the kitchen to pick up my orders. She was the queen of multi-tasking, with one eye on the TV while she bantered with the chefs in English and gave the stewarding team hell in Gujarati. They were all laughing, though, and four hours later, when I finally dumped my dirty apron in the laundry bin, two of my chefs were sitting with our guest, advising her on police dramas and how to navigate Netflix while one of them spoon-fed her from a sample platter ofevery single oneof our desserts.

These small moments of doing good, creating something different and fun, was what made me grateful that I was the boss. I could get away with being over the top and making someone’s evening a small piece of happiness without some overbearing manager ramming profit margins down my throat. Yes, profit margins were important, but so was hearing Mrs Hussein’s delighted laughter, and the jalfrezi had apparently been a hit. Oliver had tipped the delivery man out of his own pocket, which no doubt meant he had some kind of deal in place there. And if you believed Adam’s gossip, Hugo was one hundred per cent up for partaking in whatever Adam’s debauched plans were. I didn’t want to ask, but I could well imagine Hugo having quite the evening after tonight’s shift.

“Mark!”

“Yep? Oh…”Fuck.Here we were again. Because of course Ben had gone and cleaned the blender, something I’d repeatedly banned him from doing. He may have been a celebrated chef, but I had never met a more accident-prone man in my life. He landed heavily on a stool, holding his hand over his head as a thin line of blood trickled down his arm and his face quickly drained of colour.

“Down on the floor, mate.” I grabbed his waist to cushion his inevitable fall. Accident prone and squeamish at the sight of blood, which was bizarre, seeing as he was a skilled butcher.

“It’s not bad,” he said, eyes squeezed shut, as I patted his very white cheeks.

“I brought the saline,” someone shouted, plonking a bunch of first-aid equipment on the floor next to me.

“Don’t you dare pass out,” I warned, trying to support Ben’s hand and break the seal on the first-aid box. Bloody seals. Bloody shitty packaging that was impossible to open with one hand. At least someone had opened the saline, so I could squirt clean liquid over the remains of Ben’s hand.

“Need that big wad of whatever!” I shouted.

“That will need stitches,” someone else called.

“Mark? We just had that party of ten walk in—the ones with the booking two hours ago. We need you.”

“Get Mabel,” I said. Anisha hurried out onto the floor.

I knelt next to Ben to try to have a closer look at how badly he’d mangled hand this time. “You only do these things to get me on my knees for you.”

“I’ve seen what you can do on your knees, mate,” Ben said with a groan, throwing his non-destroyed arm over his face. “Stuff that I don’t really want to be reminded off.”

“Like cleaning out the chillers after the fish fridge has been jammed for a week?”

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