Fry 'em
By tom
- 569 reads
F is for Fry 'em
Another busy night surrounded by the screech of cutlery against china,
random conversations and booming laughter bouncing between walls and
tables. The only difference between now and his early days in the
catering industry, was that Sean owned this place now. His skivvy days
were over; no more soap-sud fingers, dropped-knife toes or belted ears
as the result of some fat-necked customer or anal food critic's
comments. Times had changed ever since he made this place a reality. It
hadn't been difficult to come up with the idea, sorry 'unique concept'
that would let his dream rise up on gilded wings above the other West
End eateries; littered as they were like tacky tinsel covered
blancmanges around this part of town.
The idea was simple; the building had previously housed a notorious
Victorian brothel, hence the name and theme for his restaurant 'Whore
House'. Maybe that was how it was anyway? He couldn't actually remember
whether the brothel had been on the same site or next door or had even
existed for that matter. Whatever, there was bound to be a harem of hot
flesh somewhere nearby.
Looking around his culinary kingdom; he could see why it was so
popular; nestling so sweetly, as it did, between fashion's more gauche
outer edges and the homely security of the Sunday supplement restaurant
guide. What a genius he was, what an absolute genius, a god even! As he
stretched up his arms to yawn he could almost feel the path his fingers
made as they trailed limply through the ambrosia grass of the lower
reaches of Heaven. Or maybe it was just this morning's slight crust of
nasal cocaine kicking in again that made him feel this way? Whatever,
'Whore House' was certainly his brainchild and it had stood him
well.
It wasn't simply a predictable copy of a brothel either; sure there
was a blonde girl with million mile legs perched in a kiosk on the
door, and a lipstick pink neon sign rudely straddled the smoke-tinted
front window outside. Yes, the tables glistened beneath a layer of red
PVC and the table legs resembled stiletto heels in some strange kind of
way. And, indeed, the ingredients to the main dishes were purported to
have aphrodisiac properties, and the pepper was ground from phallic
foot-long ebony pepper mills. Likewise, new diners were frequently
struck by the heart-shaped peepholes in the toilets and the artistic
seventies erotica adorning the lampshades along the bar. Even the story
about the weather girl and the coat stand in the cloakroom was probably
true, as was the urban myth that the artist who carved the nudes for
the ice flumes modelled them on two incestuous junior members of the
Danish royal family. But despite all this the idea was bigger than
brothels - it was a work of marketing genius. Anyway it wasn't like a
brothel at all; there were no whores, pimps, torture chambers, shabby
men in stained macs or sexually transmitted diseases lurking in
backrooms behind the kitchens. Looking around at this evening's
clientele of media luvvies and fashion casualties he couldn't be so
sure that the same could be said for his diners.
Just then his eyes came to rest on a bald, little man sitting at table
seven - the one with the vibrating love-pads in the seats. Amazingly,
it was a food critic who'd once nearly lost him his job in a restaurant
beside Greene Park. The food critic didn't recognise him now; he was
too busy attacking the 'predictably sad d?cor' and 'slightly tacky
themed' menu. Sean was about to decide on a fitting revenge when he
stopped dead, as indeed did everything else; well nearly
everything.
Laz walked the length of Rupert Street one more time. 'This pissy
place must be somewhere,' he said to one of the two walking tower
blocks with eyes that only said 'No,' who swayed behind him. As he
turned, he suddenly caught sight of the sign on what he had thought was
a restaurant but which now obviously wasn't. These days, people were so
brazen. It hadn't always been like that; he remembered a time when you
didn't just need to know the address of a brothel, you'd need to know
the Madame's middle name and how many times to knock on the door before
being let in. Times had definitely changed or rather they hadn't; he
still needed to break a few legs and arms to remind people to keep up
their payments, and by all accounts this place needed some serious
reminding. 'Cut the day dreaming Laz,' he suddenly thought, it's time
for work. With that in his mind, he swung the sawn-off out from beneath
his jacket in a perfect semicircle like the sweep of a rower's
oar.
He watched the lead pepper the front glass with a hole as big as his
head, then called to one of his friends holding the petrol behind him
to, 'Fry 'em.' As burnt orange flames began to lick between the pink
neon letters over the door Laz was gone. After the first shot Sean had
gone too, to somewhere that also had lots of flames although he was
lucky enough to be accompanied by his friend the food critic and a few
of his regular customers. Two doors down the road, in a room with
nothing but a bed, an electric heater and a seventeen-year-old with
inverted nipples, Richard Sunderland - an estate agent was just leaving
too; it was late and his wife would probably miss him soon.
- Log in to post comments