Dishing It Out

Dishing It Out

Most diners did not arrive clasping notebooks, so the Evening Herald
restaurant critic was easily discernible. Expensively dressed and
eating for free at table 14 on a typically animated Saturday at
Gervase's. Scribbling shorthand between courses; shorthand that would
ultimately evolve into next Thursday's Eating Out supplement.

The guacamole (now there was a nice tortuous word to transcribe into
Teeline!) was a delectable hors d'oeuvre: delicately buttery avocado
fused with explosive garlic, arranged upon a bed of fragrant
coriander.

To follow, a veal steak in white wine sauce, which though rich never
bordered on overpowering. It left one desiring more; in fact, it left a
convenient void for a chocolate and praline terrine. Brittle, yet
silkily toothsome, this dessert was a work of art: nuzzling between
rosy strawberries sliced thinly as gauze, on a vast dish ethereally
dusted with icing sugar.

Fine adjectives indeed - what a shame not one of them would make it
into print!

Stephanie blanched when she finally risked squinting at her reflection
in the ill-fitting uniform. The black skirt was tasteful enough, but
the blouse which Michelle, the head waitress at Gervase's, slung at her
to accompany it, was a masterpiece of hideousness.

"The new recruit always has to wear this one," Michelle had smirked
with marked malevolence, clearly enjoying Steph's goggling reaction,
"so we can spot you easily. Now get yourself off to the bogs to change
- we open in fifteen minutes. Tie your hair back and scrape that
make-up off an' all! This isn't a modelling agency!"

Steph could scarcely bear to touch the grubby white garment, much less
don it. It was a good two sizes too large and flecked with grease - but
still might have looked moderately respectable had its collar not been
festooned with an enormous crimson bow.

"I look like Krusty the Clown's sister!" she wailed to the mirror. All
she needed was a red nose and a frizzy green wig and the guise would
have been complete. She was waiting for that damn bow to light up and
twirl around, maybe even squirt water over the customers; that would
keep them really entertained.

When Stephanie dared unbolt the door, Michelle nodded with smug
approval at the ludicrous shirt, scrubbed skin and austerely ponytailed
hair before tramping her down to the kitchen.

"These are your new colleagues. Girls - this is Sophie."

"Stephanie."

"Yeah - whatever!"

The six young harpies, with their spiteful little eyes, sullen lips and
bow-free polyester blouses, exchanged barbed glances and digs in the
ribs.

That first three-hour shift was utter chaos. Back and forth, to and
from the sauna-like kitchen, doling out prawn cocktails to ungracious
couples while being prodded and tripped up by their sticky, demoniac
children. Ordered to attend them with the most nauseating servility.
Yes, sir. Can I take your order, madam? Here's your fillet steak, sir.
And your knuckle sandwich, madam.

Back and forth, back and forth. Stephanie's blisters were the size of
baubles. The once glorious odours of frying chips and onions permeated
her skin in a noxious way that made her long for lettuce leaves.

And thus it was for six laborious months, whilst Stephanie funded her
progression through college: bawled at by Michelle, alternately
patronised and commanded by the clientele, scowled at and gossiped
about by her fellow waitresses, blasphemed at by the chefs - creatures
alongside whom Basil Fawlty would have seemed mild-mannered - and ogled
by the washer-upper, a very odd, silent individual with a bulging
forehead.

Until the beautiful day dawned when she collected her P45 and embarked
upon her long striven-for 'proper' job. She never looked back.

Which is what, three years later, led Stephanie Gordon, the Evening
Herald's newest restaurant critic, to her plates of complimentary
avocados and veal at Gervase's. Revenge had been a long while coming,
but had not some wit once remarked that it was a dish best served
cold?

On a coriander bed, in this case.

Steph's biting critique was already formulated in her mind's eye. The
guacamole would become 'an insipid pulp,' the veal 'greasy and measly,'
the praline pudding 'the wrong side of cloying,' the drinks
'monstrously overpriced,' and as for the service....

From a legal standpoint, she was quite safe. Should a complaint ensue,
she would exercise the defence of 'fair comment,' which permits
reviewers to be less than flattering so long as they are expressing
'honestly held opinions.' Granted, she was expressing nothing of the
kind - but who was to know?

"Can I fetch you anything else, madam?" the waitress simpered.

"Just the bill please, MICHELLE," Stephanie pronounced the name on the
girl's lapel badge with an emphasis that was entirely lost on her.
After all, Michelle was hardly liable to recognise elegant Steph as the
dogsbody whom she once garbed in a lurid uniform - not, as was claimed,
to distinguish her as the new girl but to 'punish' her for being too
pretty. 'Smelly Shelley' would probably struggle to recall the name of
the 'red bow girl' now.

But not for much longer. Come Thursday, she would know it all
right!