In the Kitchen Read Online Free PDF

incarnations as it did flying buttresses and gargoyles on its Gothic Revival exterior.
    Following the respectability and 'discreet luxury' of the Victorian era when the smoking and billiards rooms kept the ladies out of harm's way, the Imperial enjoyed a roaring twenties reputation for dance, decadence and statutory rape. Charles Chaplin's 1921 visit (escorted through the fans by no fewer than forty policemen) had made the Imperial de rigueur with the stars and starlets of the British silent screen. In 1922, in a case widely reported, Tyrone Banks (best-known picture Heave Ho! ) was caught with his pants down and three under-age flappers beneath the shotsilk sheets. The escapade remained curiously omitted from the hotel brochure but Mr Maddox had enjoyed relating it to Gabe when he interviewed him for the job.
    After that he had appeared to lose interest and swivelled his chair round to look out of the window, so that Gabe was left staring at the column of iron filings that ran down the back of his neck. 'Noël Coward,' Mr Maddox had said, 'composed songs here. Big deal. The Aga Khan had a permanent suite. Theodore Roosevelt "gave his name" to the drawing room. Generous, would you say? Who else? Haile Selass ie. That's in the brochure. Bunch of marketing geniuses I got downstairs.
    'I need five years from you,' he continued, coming round and sitting on the edge of the mahogany desk. A big man in an expensive suit. Careless with authority, as though he had much to spare. 'Be coming up to sixty then, Gabriel. Where do the years go? Been promised my last five somewhere more suitable. For a man my age, I mean. Bahamas, I fancy. British Virgin Islands.
    Take a gimp, I mean deputy manager, of my choosing. Ease off a bit, wind down.' He stretched his arms and clasped his hands behind his head.
    Gabe noted the discoloured patch on his inside wrist where a tattoo had been removed.
    'They're not expecting miracles. We're not talking Michelin and all that crap.
    Just some food you can eat without gagging. They spent a few bob on this place, you know.'
    'They' were the PanContinental Hotel Co., which had purchased the Imperial from Halcyon Leisure Group a couple of years ago, marking, it was hoped, rebirth and renewal after the hotel's long half-century of decline.
    In the war it had been requisitioned by the government, providing sickbays for convalescing officers and a transit point for soldiers on leave. Afterwards it went back into business but by the early fifties the doormen were fighting over the guests and the hotel was forced to close its doors. Somebody saw the potential for office space. A tobacco firm moved in, followed by an American pharmaceuticals outfit that put a cycle track in the roof space that was only for senior executives and a volleyball court in the ballroom for those from the lower floors and corporate rungs. In the seventies there was an attempt to restore the Imperial's former glory but by the mideighties it was hosting 'value breaks' and salesmen who packed samples and Alka-Seltzers and dutifully filled in the service questionnaires.
    'Back when,' Mr Maddox had said, 'Monsieur Jacques ... well, you know the story.' The restaurant still bore his name. 'Escoffier did a quick stint, not many people realize, before he buggered off to the Savoy. Think you measure up to Escoffier, eh?' He winked and laughed, with little pretence at mirth. His brow was low and heavy, a ridged escarpment above the potholes of his eyes.
    'I give you five years, then what?' said Gabe. In his head he added Ł10K to the starting salary. Another friendly joke and he'd go up another five.
    'Six exec chefs in two years.' Mr Maddox shook his head in a regal fashion, as though his crown might slip. 'Bunch of tossers. Tell you what, give me the five I'll give you my dick on a plate. Sit down, for God's sake. Relax. How about a cigar?'
    'About the salary,' said Gabe through his teeth.
    Mr Maddox stopped him with a flick of the hand. 'Sort it out