In the Kitchen Read Online Free PDF Page B

with my deputy.
    I'll tell him not to disappoint you.' He banged the hand down and a stack of papers took flight. 'Loyalty,' he barked. 'That a word you understand? Where do you come from, Chef ? ... What? Where the fuck is that? Do they know about loyalty up there?'
    Gabriel passed through the revolving doors and stood at the kerb looking up at the dark stone walls of the hotel. Midnight. Sixteen hours he'd worked today and the one time he'd tried to take a break he'd been dragged into a meeting with an environmental health officer who, despite finding no reason to close the kitchen, had found plenty of excuses to waste Gabe's time.
    He spent a moment regarding the mullioned windows and the carved grotesques sulking beneath the parapets. The stone looked cold. The door released a guest and a blast of hot air that carried the vanilla scent of the lobby. Gabe looked in at the sleek black reception bar, the high perspex stools sprinkled among the distressed leather armchairs, the purple and chrome 'sculpture'
    suspended from the ceiling, the 'architectural' flowers that could take out an eye. Viewed like that, outside and in, the effect was somewhat schizophrenic.
    The Imperial would never be truly great again. Jacques would never live up to its name. Great restaurants, like great hotels, delivered coherent design and consistent standards. Gleeson's 'silk, please' flowers gave the game away. If the Imperial were a person, thought Gabe, you would say here is someone who does not know who she is.
    *
    By the time he'd walked up to Piccadilly Circus a soft rain had set in, caught in the headlights of the cars that edged fractiously around, crinkling the air and shining the pavement. The electronic billboards flashed the golden arches, Samsung, Sanyo, Nescafé. Above the fountain, the Eros statue looked glum, usurped by the monumental LED displays. Car horns sounded; a pair of young women tottered towards Haymarket screeching and cackling and holding each other up. On the fountain steps more drinkers, professionals who would dedicate their short lives to the cause. A hot-dog van let off steam and an oily onion smell. A businessman, officious overcoat and moustache, wanted to cross the road and struck the railings that blocked him with his sturdy umbrella. A middle-aged woman, a chihuahua tucked under her arm, hesitated beneath the foggy halo of a streetlamp, judging if it was better to ask directions or to remain a little lost. The rain, the smells, the billboards, the rumble of cars – Gabe walked and took it all in although his mind was engaged elsewhere.
    He had seen Mr Maddox in action many times. With the hotel guests, the important ones, he was charming. He remembered their children's names. He was humble without being fawning. He knew what it was they wanted before they knew it themselves. With the staff he insisted that he was just one of the crew. He had come up the hard way, from the kitchen to the top floor. He walked the halls and corridors and spoke to everyone from PR chief to chambermaid, though he was more likely to be rude to the former than the latter, a fact which nudged Gabriel into grudging admiration. If someone was not working properly he'd jump right in and tackle it. 'Never ask someone to do a job you wouldn't do yourself.' He would clamp a chambermaid's shoulders and move her gently aside. 'Now look how it's done. Bit of elbow grease, yes? You get me. I know you do.' He was cheerful and direct and always made sure to reiterate his point. He praised and punished openly like a good and honest man. In pursuit of managerial goals he deployed humour, incentives and a keen grasp of psychological matters. In short, he was a first-class bully. And he induced in his underlings a fear that they often confused with respect.
    Gabe knew it on that first meeting.
    'Private client work,' Mr Maddox had said, 'it's the dog's bollocks. I know a lot of people. Month on a yacht round the Riviera, six weeks in a mansion in LA,