The Glebe St Chop-House, a Thursday
She ordered the same thing every time she came in and she never seemed to enjoy it. Her visits were always on a Thursday lunchtime, always some point between one thirty and ten to two; she would come in and sit at the furthest table from the door available. She never booked. She looked to be in her early sixties, maybe older but had looked after herself, the gloss of the comfortably off, always well-dressed; nicely turned out, my Nan would have said.
Julien, the maitre d, would escort her to the table, where she would pour herself a glass of water from the bottle already there and he'd hand her the menu. She always looked as if she was reading it carefully, after a few minutes she’d beckon him over and order, without fail, the sea bream fillet with wilted spinach and beurre de tomates. She always ordered a small glass of Muscadet to go with it. It was a fairly lengthy menu, the restaurant wasn’t yet at the level where you can get away with only having five dishes on, but she always ordered the bream.
And so, each Thursday lunch, without fail, I would brush an opalescent fillet of bream with clarified butter and season it before laying it skin side down on the plancha. Every Thursday lunch I would smear some tomato butter across the plate with the back of a spoon, lay the finished fish on top at an angle between the spinach and a small stack of Pommes Anna , lean two charred baby leeks against the fillet and spoon over a few drops of a fish stock and white wine reduction so that the skin glistened. I'd dot a puree of roast pepper between the drops of reduction and send the dish out.
And every week, without fail, she would eat half of it with an expression of mild distaste before pushing her plate away and signalling for the bill. Every week I’d will her to finish it. Every week she didn’t. Sometimes she finished the leeks.
Eventually, I left the restaurant. Nothing lasts forever in this business. A sous chef’s job had just opened up at a one star in Dorset, so I couldn’t really say no; it was a chance to step up, I said. The head chef said I was an ungrateful bastard who’d be back with his tail between his legs inside six months. No, he didn’t want any notice. Why didn’t I just fuck off now, so I did.
I walked out across the restaurant’s floor, I'd normally use the staff exit but that clearly wasn't a problem any more, so it was a nice fuck you to the head chef. I walked slowly. She was still eating and so, as it didn’t matter anymore, I stopped and asked her why she always ordered the same thing. “Sorry to intrude”, I said, “it’s just you don’t seem to even like it very much. “
She regarded me with more amusement than she’d ever regarded my food, laid her knife and fork neatly on the unfinished plate and thought for a moment.
“I suppose” she said “that I just can’t think of what else to order, I wouldn’t take it personally”. She smiled at me, and beckoned to Julien for the bill.
Julien, the maitre d, would escort her to the table, where she would pour herself a glass of water from the bottle already there and he'd hand her the menu. She always looked as if she was reading it carefully, after a few minutes she’d beckon him over and order, without fail, the sea bream fillet with wilted spinach and beurre de tomates. She always ordered a small glass of Muscadet to go with it. It was a fairly lengthy menu, the restaurant wasn’t yet at the level where you can get away with only having five dishes on, but she always ordered the bream.
And so, each Thursday lunch, without fail, I would brush an opalescent fillet of bream with clarified butter and season it before laying it skin side down on the plancha. Every Thursday lunch I would smear some tomato butter across the plate with the back of a spoon, lay the finished fish on top at an angle between the spinach and a small stack of Pommes Anna , lean two charred baby leeks against the fillet and spoon over a few drops of a fish stock and white wine reduction so that the skin glistened. I'd dot a puree of roast pepper between the drops of reduction and send the dish out.
And every week, without fail, she would eat half of it with an expression of mild distaste before pushing her plate away and signalling for the bill. Every week I’d will her to finish it. Every week she didn’t. Sometimes she finished the leeks.
Eventually, I left the restaurant. Nothing lasts forever in this business. A sous chef’s job had just opened up at a one star in Dorset, so I couldn’t really say no; it was a chance to step up, I said. The head chef said I was an ungrateful bastard who’d be back with his tail between his legs inside six months. No, he didn’t want any notice. Why didn’t I just fuck off now, so I did.
I walked out across the restaurant’s floor, I'd normally use the staff exit but that clearly wasn't a problem any more, so it was a nice fuck you to the head chef. I walked slowly. She was still eating and so, as it didn’t matter anymore, I stopped and asked her why she always ordered the same thing. “Sorry to intrude”, I said, “it’s just you don’t seem to even like it very much. “
She regarded me with more amusement than she’d ever regarded my food, laid her knife and fork neatly on the unfinished plate and thought for a moment.
“I suppose” she said “that I just can’t think of what else to order, I wouldn’t take it personally”. She smiled at me, and beckoned to Julien for the bill.
posted by Matt at 6:13 AM
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