Chop Chop Read Free Page A

More plate wipes!”
    â€œParsnip puree top up! In my tall!
”
    â€œ
Drop chips for an onglet!
”
    â€œLittle shit!” Ramilov cried in pain from the fridge.
    The ticket machine exploded into a fit of squawks, refusing to be silent.
    â€œThe big ’un from Wigan,” said Dave.
    â€œ
Ça marche! One chaka, one fish board, three rav, two bass, one onglet, one eel, ONE LOBSTER! All together, on and away!
”
    â€œ
Oui, chef!
”
    â€œMonocle,” said Dave, “ask Ramilov for a lobster. Now.”
    I knocked on the fridge door.
    â€œI know,” said the voice of Ramilov. “Lobster.”
    I cracked open the door and the sinewy zombie hand emerged again. Its index finger was extended, a little accusingly, I thought, in my direction. A large midnight-blue lobster was hanging from the second knuckle by a pincer.
    â€œTake this one,” Ramilov said in a tired voice.
    The lobster had a good grip. As I struggled to pry it free, Ramilov called me many dark and impossible things. Then the door was shut and he was heard no more. Ramilov should have blamed Bob for his misfortune, or the lobster at a push, but who is it that gets the blame? The commis receives a lot of grief that is not deserved.
    â€œ
Coming up on the big ’un in seven!
” Dave shouted.
    â€œ
Oui!
”
    Dibden was sweating now, heating sugar for a caramelized pear dish in one pan while he poured clafoutis batter into two floured ramekins and slid them into the combi oven. He pushed aside Dave’s confit Jerusalem artichokes.
    â€œDesserts on top,” he said. “That’s the rule.”
    â€œSuch a pastry boy,” said Dave.
    Dibden ignored him and leaned across his section for the unsalted butter. He threw a few cubes into the pan of sugar and shook it, then turned again and grabbed three pears from his service fridge, quartered and cored them and chucked them into the pan with the caramel. One piece fell on the floor.
    â€œDo another one, chef.” Bob was watching from the pass, a wolf outside a pig’s house.
    Dibden rushed back to his service fridge, scrabbled for another pear, cut one quarter out of it and cored it sloppily, then threw it into the pan with the others. Now he was behind. He spun back to Ramilov’s section, searching madly for the smoked eel mix, couldn’tfind it, cried out, then saw it, tore the plastic wrap from the top of it, grabbed two spoons and a clean plate from the rack beside him and began quenelling furiously, scraping the edge of one spoon into the hollow of the other, molding the mixture into a smooth oval. His hands were starting to shake. The kitchen watched him silently. Bob’s eyes were hungry and sly.
    â€œYour pears,” said Dave.
    Dibden ran to the stove and caught the caramel as it started to smoke, strained a glug of brandy into it and shook again, then swung over to the combi, tried to fit the pan on top but couldn’t because of Dave’s artichokes, muttered something under his breath and slammed them in below. Someone on the big table told a joke and there was a sudden burst of laughter, trailed by other subsidiary jokes and eddies of laughter. You couldn’t hear what the jokes were in the kitchen, and you couldn’t see the kitchen from where the table was, but the merriment seemed somehow, indisputably, directed at Dibden and his current misfortune.
    â€œDibden,” said Bob, “that’s not the plate for the eel.”
    Dibden looked about wildly.
    â€œWhat is the plate for the eel, chef?”
    â€œYou should know that, chef,” said Bob.
    Please, everyone was thinking, please let Ramilov out.
    â€œThe square one,” said Dave.
    Dibden scraped the eel mix off the round plate and back into the container and started quenelling again. His hands shook so bad the mix was flying off the spoons, spilling all over the worktop.
    â€œThree minutes on the big ’un.”
    Dibden