Chop Chop Read Free

entire brigade. When the prisoner finally emerged, shivering and blinking into the fluorescent light, sympathy was in short supply. The sentence proved the crime. The lobsters were a new touch, but that was Bob: the man had an exquisite grasp of suffering; he was an innovator of pain. It was a rare genius that unleashed the lobsters before looking for the victim.
    Aside from Dibden, who bore The Mark of Bob upon his hand and who, despite that, still defended him when the insults were swarming over pints in O’Reillys, there was not one man or quiet dark-eyed girl or kitchen porter in the place who did not hate Chef Bob. No one fought with him as Ramilov did, but I knew how they felt even if they never told a soul, because I am the commis. In the kitchen the commis is everywhere. Like a fly, he sees things that no one else sees, things he is not supposed to see. It is his job to buzz this way and that, from fridge to section to dry store to pass to wine cellar, fetching and prepping and chopping things the other chefsdo not have time to fetch and prep and chop. I am the one beside the chef whom Bob is bollocking, topping up his herb bundles. I am the one sweeping the yard, unnoticed, when plots are being hatched over cigarette breaks. I am the one in the dry store trying to pull a fifteen-kilo sack of flour over your weeping body. I am the third who walks always beside you.
    You are the one with the puckered arsehole
—I can hear Racist Dave now—
fucking hurry up and tell the story
.
    The bass was on the pass. The two charcuterie boards were up. Dibden, who had found the ravioli, scooped them from the chauffant of swirling jade water and slid them into a pan of butter browning with fried sage, tossing gently.
    â€œ
Where’s that fucking rav?”
    â€œTen seconds, chef
,” he shouted, still tossing.
    â€œIf you toss that again, Dibden,” said Bob, “I’ll toss you.”
    Dibden stopped tossing and swiveled round with the pan to plate up, straight into Shahram the KP, hunched over the pot bin looking for washing up.
    â€œ
Backpleez!”
Shahram cried in fear and pain.
    â€œSugar!”
Dibden shouted, managing to steady the pan. “Say ‘
Backs,’
Sharon! Always say ‘
Backs’
!”
    â€œFucking
chaud behind
, yeah, Sharon?” said Dave.
    â€œ
Backpleez,
” said Shahram again. He was terrified, dancing nervously from one leg to the other like he needed to piss, eyes goggling out of his skull, face twisted with incomprehension. Shahram’s English was very respectable as far as it went—chauffant, moulis, ramekin, gastro, small spoons, more black pans, potato, backpleez, fucking chaud—only it did not go so far. He knew what a chinois was but not a chair.
    Camp Charles, the maître d’, stuck his head around the door.
    â€œTable of eight just
entered
, chef.”
    This prompted roars of disapproval from the chefs, who had figured on a quiet service, a quick clean down and an early night. Curses were extended in the direction of Camp Charles.
    â€œOut of my kitchen, gaylord,” said Bob.
    Camp Charles gasped in mock indignation.
    â€œ
So forceful
,” he mouthed. In the dining room he was charm itself, infinitely accommodating, always discreet. Away from the front of house he spoke entirely in sexual suggestion. Everything out of diners’ earshot sounded like the purest filth. He could make the word
plate
sound so nasty you wouldn’t have one in the house, let alone eat off it. “Give me two
beef
, darling,” he would deadpan from the other side of the pass. “Where’s my
meat,
you
bitch
?”
    Now the ticket machine squawked.
    â€œ
Ça marche desserts! Two pear, two claf, one ganache! On and away!
”
    â€œ
Oui, chef,
” Dibden answered forlornly. It had started sooner than expected.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, chef?” sneered Bob.
    â€œNothing, chef!”
    â€œ
Monocle!