The Fat Bearded Muslims

The fat, bearded Muslims emerge from the basement kitchen at midnight.

The have been there all along, of course, they are the low-grade kitchen staff who put the food on the plates of customers, who have no idea they exist.

At precisely 12.00 a.m. the kitchen closes and they join the grumpy barman at a table upstairs. The barman glares at the remaining customers, hoping they’ll go away. The fat, bearded Muslims play with their phones, free Wi-Fi being one of the few perks of the job.

One time, I said hello to them, but didn’t get far, I don’t speak Muslim and they din’t understand me.

They share a beer, one bottle and two glasses, but seem happy with their lot.

I try to remember my summer job in a hotel kitchen many years ago, when I was at uni, but all I can recall is the heat and the feeling that I was slogging my guts out for nothing; a pay-packet I barely noticed and a barman who treated me with contempt.

I asked their names, the fat, bearded Muslims, that time I tried to speak with them, I introduced myself, but they didn’t understand and were more interested in their phones.

I should go. I’m the last customer and I know that I’m keeping them all up, the barman has told me so at least a dozen times.

But I’m trying to find the words, or perhaps a gesture, some universal language I could employ, to communicate with the fat, bearded Muslims, who most people don’t even know are there and who only emerge from the kitchens when the clock strikes midnight and their chains and shackles turn to rats and pumpkins.

I need to find a way. For without the fat, bearded Muslims we are nothing.