Dish of the Day

Chapter 1 Richie Morton dragged a couple of mis-matched chairs out of the storeroom at the back of the restaurant. One of them creaked badly and the other one got caught on the door hinges, dislodging a chunk of the freshly-painted woodwork. Cursing under his breath, he gritted his teeth and persevered, steadying the chair legs and setting them around the final table. He straightened up, glancing once more around the room. It was six o’clock in the evening, and he was due to open Bubble and Squeak, his new South London restaurant, in just over an hour. He was taking stock of the current status and, oh God…he could feel depression clutching tightly around his heart. Get a grip, Richie. This was one of his greatest dreams come true. This was something he’d been working towards ever since he left University, and all through the tough years as a line cook, when he was often nothing more than a glorified pan washer, then several positions as sous chef, and finally the elevation to successful head chef. Or modestly successful, anyway. He couldn’t afford to be complacent. And now he had his own restaurant, with a mission to serve the best in European food, with special attention to British ingredients and traditional cuisine. What on earth could be wrong, tonight of all nights? Richie sighed. Let me count the ways. Firstly, he was short of two place settings. He’d sent one of the temporary waiters out to the crockery supplier, stuffing his last bag of pound coins into the waiter’s fist to pay for it. So where was the bloke now? He’d never reached the supplier; he’d never come back to Bubble and Squeak. Needless to say, neither had the cash. And what else? The table flowers Richie had collected from the florist must have been forced to bloom early because they were already wilting, dropping shrivelled petals over the salt cellars. Also, the delivery of prawns that had been promised him since dawn today was obviously taking a slow mule train from the North Sea coast, because nothing had arrived yet. Oh, and apparently one of his two line chefs was currently lying drunk in a gutter at the other end of town—or so the man’s furious, cursing wife had said, when she rang to let Richie know. And this was the grand opening night. Richie thought he might weep. Or swear. Or—to hell with it—both. And he wasn’t the kind of man to give in to either under normal circumstances. The phone rang in the back office behind the kitchen, and his whole body shuddered. Three rings, and then it abruptly stopped. A party of guests cancelling already? Another crisis with the suppliers? Greenpeace, with the rallying cry that they’d released the domestically-reared prawns back to the wild? Maybe it was Ben, at bloody last. Richie had barely heard from his best friend for several days. And then he felt ashamed of his resentment. Ben would be working on the restaurant’s business plan, of course, trying his best to keep Richie’s finances afloat. Tonight, he’d at least be here in spirit, if not in the flesh. Richie shivered guiltily at the thoughts that phrase conjured up: of Ben’s very attractive, very sexy flesh. Dear God. Richie closed his eyes briefly, even more ashamed. Lusting after his best friend. How clichéd was that? It just showed he really needed to get laid, but his leisure time had been non-existent for months. If he could just get the restaurant launched, could just build a small but loyal clientele, could just make enough money to cover the next quarterly equipment hire when it fell due… Yes, then he’d think about his libido rather than lease payments. Richie had been at University with Benjamin Fitzpatrick, the third, and very bright son of a disgustingly rich family. They even had some far distant hereditary title from aristocratic Europe, though the family abandoned claim to it after an embarrassing incident to do with the onset of the Franco-Prussian war, which Ben never fully explained. Whereas Richie had struggled to pass the academic requirements for his Hospitality degree, despite being a fabulous cook, Ben had modestly sailed through Business Finance as the top student, apparently succeeding from nothing but night-before cramming. Handsome and witty, pursued by every eligible woman under fifty his father could find to throw in his way, he was a nice bloke as well, despite his reputation throughout the campus for partying hard. Very hard. Richie had first met him one Saturday night, drunk in the park around the back of the student bar, with a couple of “new friends”—one male, one female—who both seemed keen on seducing Ben out of his clothing. Not that Ben had looked too disturbed at being ravished, but he threw the new friends off immediately at the sight of Richie. “I don’t think we’ve met—” Richie began, nervous of greeting the famously glamorous fellow student. “We have now,” Ben had said, breathing a happy, beery smile over Richie’s face. “Save me from myself, won’t you?” He leant even closer and said in a stage whisper, “I think they’re journalists on the hunt for scandal. Comes to something when they have to create it themselves, eh?” “Benjamin?” the female journalist whined. She looked more disappointed at being refused than her job should have merited. “A quote, darling?” Ben straightened his half buttoned designer shirt, linked his arm in Richie’s, and turned back to stare at the woman. “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” he said blithely. “There’s a quote for you, though of course it’s not mine. Good night.” Since then, Ben had never ceased to give Richie unequivocal friendship and help. After University, Ben had been snapped up for a career with a firm of aggressive venture capitalists, but he and Richie kept in touch. Of course, there’d been that brief, embarrassing moment last year, when Richie confessed his restaurant dream and Ben had offered him a start up loan. It had been sharply though gratefully refused by Richie—or, rather, by Richie’s anguished pride—and then they returned to being the best of friends. Richie glanced at his watch again. Ben said he’d been to the bank several days this week, trying to negotiate an extension to Bubble and Squeak’s outrageously huge business loan. He’d been trying to make Richie’s advance order book look less like a black hole and more like a herd of influential diners, champing at the bit. Or that’s what Richie had assumed after he’d stubbornly refused Ben’s offer of investment. Again. And as a result, and without any apparent pique, Ben had taken time away from his own busy career to cajole the financial establishment on Richie’s behalf, and nurse Richie’s project along as best he could. Richie felt familiar warmth at the thought of Ben’s care, even if he was sure it was only for Richie’s bank balance. Ben wouldn’t waste time to call, just to massage my ego, would he? Richie shivered, despite his inner warmth. Funny, but it always had that effect on him, hearing ‘Ben’ and ‘massaging’ together in a sentence. Oh but yes, he did need to get laid. But Craig—where was he, then? Master of Ceremonies, Purveyor of Publicity, as Craig Shepherd styled himself, with a grin as wide and infectious as typhoid, though obviously without the unpleasant side effects. He was also meant to be helping Richie out. Craig was the enfant terrible of his London promotions agency, but maybe Richie’s own situation had been too much of a challenge. And he doubted that even Craig Shepherd ranked himself above God. He was another friend from University, a year above Richie, and had joined up with Richie and Ben in his last year. They complemented each other well, and the friendship lasted long after Craig, a notorious practical joker, scraped his way through graduation just a few precarious minutes ahead of being suspended. Craig was a breath of fresh air, athletic, charismatic rather than classically good looking, and always enthusiastic. Bloody exhausting to be with, really. But Richie smiled to himself. Riding alongside Craig on his madcap schemes was always a buzz. Craig was proudly and loudly out, too, which was a boost to Richie’s own courage in living his life as a gay man. In fact, there’d been a time when he had the beginnings of a crush on his larger-than-life friend, despite the fact Craig was rarely without a much more attractive acolyte on his arm or in his bed. Thank God Richie had never acted on his obvious, s****l desperation. How embarrassing would that have been? Initially, when Richie tentatively suggested starting up his own restaurant, Craig had great ideas for publicity: social media campaigns, magazine interviews and articles, celebrity guests. He knew everyone, was on the fast track to success, and would take care of it all for Richie. Etc., etc. “Richie,” Craig had said. “You concentrate on the food and leave the pimpage to me. I know a guy at Time Out. And Angelina is in town that month, you know?” Richie had laughed at Craig’s blatant confidence around celebrity. And Craig’s eyes had shone as he watched Richie laugh, as if glad to have made him relax; as if his bragging was a performance to enchant Richie. But was that all it had been, a performance? All these months later and now the actual day was here and…well. Craig had been rather evasive when Richie quizzed him about the advance bookings for tonight. In fact, downright shifty. Richie grimaced. It wasn’t that he blamed his friends for being absent. They already had busy lives of their own and, after all, the restaurant was his venture, his risk. And tonight, unfortunately, was entirely his problem. But he’d realised early on that his commercial flair was lacking in some areas, and he’d appreciated their help. He could create magic in the kitchen, but nothing but a mess in his accounts books. Nor was he comfortable with self promotion, preferring to be master in the kitchen rather than front of house. But it looked like he was on his own right now. No sophisticated Ben, no extrovert Craig. Just plain, hard working but rather unimpressive Richie. He looked around the empty restaurant, imagining he was a potential diner. Most of it looked good, he admitted to himself. The décor was based on warm harvest gold and autumn copper colors. Rich fabric curtains framed the windows, and although the tables were cheap, they were covered in quality, crisply laundered cloth. The lights had been dimmed so that, as the evening wore on, long, slim shadows would slide across the furniture, building a pleasant ambience. There were only six tables, plus a modest bar at the edge of the room. Glasses sparkled on the tables; thick napkins were folded artistically. The flowers were…Richie sighed again at the sight of the limp bouquets. He wondered if he should dash around each table and dead-head some of the blooms. Wondered if there’d be anything left if he did. Suddenly there was a crash in the kitchen, succeeded by a stream of profanity in several languages including, eventually, English. Richie heard the hiss of boiling liquid spilling on something it shouldn’t, then the crack of crockery hitting a tiled floor, and the splinter and shattering noise that inevitably followed. Richie had only one soup tureen, which had cost an arm, a leg, and the promise of internal organs. And because he had abandoned all hope of success tonight, he knew without a doubt that it was the victim. He groaned, grabbed at the remnants of his “in with the love, out with the hate” mantra, and turned to go back into the kitchen. He suspected the tureen wasn’t going to be the only victim tonight.