Chapter 2
The first door chime came at eighteen forty five.
“What the hell?” Richie was on his knees in the kitchen, still mopping up pureed tomatoes with basil and sweet peppers from under the cooker. None of the soup could be salvaged. He was wondering whether he had enough asparagus to double up on the starters, or whether he could serve the mushroom and port pate from the larder instead, with extra watercress and coriander salad. Or, more specifically, if he’d been particularly wicked in a previous life, to deserve such misery. His remaining line chef and a temporary, part time vegetable chef were still squabbling over whose fuckin’ clumsy fingers had dropped the fuckin’ soup thing in the first place. A couple of the blokes they’d brought along with them to help as waiters were brand
