G - You Were With Craig Last Night

The ma?tre d' blundered into the kitchen unshaven with his coiffeur
awry and a long pale streak of hollandaise sauce down the centre of his
tie. He snatched a three-quarters full bottle of New World (I forget
the exact country - let's say it was Calfornian) Zinfandel from next to
the magnetic strip where the knives were racked, and pulled out the
rubber stopper with finger and thumb. The stopper struck the tiled
floor, bounced. He lifted the bottle to his mouth, tilted the end up,
then stopped and stared at Marcus.

"What?" His eyebrows were bootlace thin and arched. Marcus glanced at
the maitre'd's tie. Spiced capsicum and lemongrass soup glugged and
burbled in a tall, stainless steel pot.

"Uhh," began Marcus inauspiciously. The ma?tre d's eyes narrowed. He
took a swig of wine, wiped dark crimson tears from the corners of his
mouth.

"What is it?"

Marcus put down his spatula. He nodded towards the ma?tre d's tie.
"You've got some sauce&;#8230;"

"I've got some sauce?" He took a second gulp of wine and snarled.
"You're the one who's got some effing sauce, what with yer apologies
and yer sodding answering machine every sodding time I try to get
through to yer." He drew a short burst of humid kitchen air in through
his nostrils. "Stupid me, eh?" He glared at Marcus. "Eh? Think I
deserve that, do yer? That's love, is it? D'yer think I deserve
spending the night on me own? What's the point, eh?" His voice grew
louder as he went on. "I'm through trying to get through to yer.
Nothing gets in. I try to do me best by yer, and what do I get? Brain
damage." He stabbed at his cranium with a finger. "Brain damage and a
bloody, a bloody heart attack, probably." A sharp intake of breath.
"And where's Craig?"

"He phoned in sick." Marcus lowered his head. He picked up the spatula
and poked at a wokful of beansprouts guiltily. The ma?tre d' looked
around for a glass. He unhooked a large ladle hanging above the range
and, clutching it halfway down the handle, decanted some Zinfandel into
it. He put the bottle down on an unused hob and took a hasty sip. The
beansprouts started to sizzle.

"I&;#8230;" Marcus stopped, heaved out a sigh that lifted his chest
and shoulders. He reached up and adjusted his checked chef's hat.
"John, that's not fair." The ma?tre d' tilted his head back, put the
ladle to his lips and upended it. Red wine ran down his cheeks. He was
still for a moment, his face pinched, poised, then he hurled the ladle
into a soup tureen. It ricocheted out with a clank, skimmed the hobs
and landed in the turbid froth-cusped waters of the sink.

His eyes went straight for Marcus'. He took a step forward. "Explain to
me," he breathed, slowly, exactingly. "How's it not fair?" The last two
words he spat. Marcus looked up, met the ma?tre d's gaze. His hand
shrunk away from the spatula. A gauze of steam passed between the two
men.

Then the phone rang. The ma?tre d' looked first to the phone, then to
Marcus, then back at the phone. He held up a quavering index
finger.

"Hold that fucking thought." He marched to the phone and put the
receiver to his ear. "Bonsoir, Jeu de Cartes." He stood by the double
doors that led out to the restaurant, his back to Marcus, the cream
phone cord stretched almost taut. His accent was crisp and fast, each
word roundly enunciated with deft flicks of the tongue. "Bonsoir
Mademoiselle Rivoire. C'est John. Ah bon? Je suis tr?s d?sol?. Oui,
bien s?r. Je m'excuse pour ce retard. Oui, pardon. Une petite probl?m?
avec mon voiture. Le moteur." He shifted his weight from foot to foot
as he spoke. Marcus watched through slotted spoons and balloon whisks.
"Oui, bien s?r. Bien s?r. Naturellement. Craig? Ah&;#8230; on m'a
fait comprendre qu'il est indispos?. Mais oui, mais oui. Avec Marcus.
Oui, oui. Tout est en ordre." The maitre'd turned, began to approach
the phone. "Bien s?r. Oui. Merci Mademoiselle. Au revoir." He took the
warm receiver from his ear, grimacing as if he were pulling a piece of
gum from his hair, and placed it back in its cradle.

"John," Marcus said, stepping out from behind the central range, one
hand moving to remove his hat.

"Not now, Marcus," said the ma?tre d', briskly crossing the room, "Her
Nibs just threw a wobbler. We're in shit street." He opened a cupboard,
went up on tip-toes. He lifted a red ring binder and pulled out the
laminated menus underneath.

"But John-"

"Marcus, there's customers already out there. We're short-staffed,
Karin won't be in til gone seven&;#8230;" He halted mid-stride.
"Don't look at me like that."

"John, it's important."

The ma?tre d' shook his head. "If it weren't important enough last
night, it's not important enough now, right?" Marcus stood, arms at his
sides, in the middle of the kitchen, looking defeated. "Am I right? Now
get behind that fucking range." He tucked the menus under his armpit,
made for the double doors.

"It's not about-"

"Will yer change the bloody&;#8230;" The ma?tre d' let out a grunt
of annoyance. "Just drop it!"

"But your&;#8230;" The restaurant doors had already swung closed.
The breeze sent a tremor through the dangling saucepans.
"&;#8230;tie," Marcus finished, to an empty room. Behind him,
towards the bottom of the wok, the tips of the beansprouts were just
beginning to blacken. He stood, head lowered, listening to them cook.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. They did not reply.