Chez Robert

The old sorting office had been up for sale for a couple of years. Its windows were grimy and some of the brickwork was crumbling. Weeds covered a little patch of earth in front of it.

"It's such an eyesore," said Washington. "Who'd want it?"

Ernst shrugged.

"Good brown field site though," Washington continued. "I'm surprised no developer's snapped it up. If I could stump up the cash, I'd bulldoze it and build a block of designer flats. There's supposed to be a housing shortage."

"Yes, but designer flats aren't the answer."

They drove past the building every day on the way to the adjoining state of the art office blocks where they spent their days wheeling and dealing with other people's money.

Except it was different today. The old building was surrounded by contractors' vans.

"Shall we take a look?" asked Washington.

Ernst nodded and soon the two men were chatting to a strange man, not the sort you normally saw on projects like this one. His amber eyes sparkled and he grinned. "This will be the best restaurant you've ever seen," he said. He had a faint French accent.

Ernst shook hands with him and noticed how soft his skin was. Yet he had just seen him unloading a truck.

"I can't believe it," said Washington when they got back in the car. "Another restaurant. Do we need another restaurant in this town?"

They probably didn't. There was never any problem getting a table if you wanted to eat out, even on a Saturday evening or on a public holiday; there seemed to be a restaurant for every six people in this place. It was a wonder more of them weren't going out of business. Every bank, hairdresser’s and retail outlet that had closed had turned into a restaurant.

They continued to drive past the development every day.

The progress was rapid. There were new windows. The outside was tidied up. There was even a pretty little garden created in front of it. It still looked like a sorting office, though, until one evening they passed again and a huge sign over the door read "Chez Robert."

"A French restaurant, then," said Washington.

"That's a first," said Ernst. There'd been Greek, Italian and the usual burger joints before, but never a French restaurant. "I wonder whether it will be expensive."

"Probably."

Over the next few days they saw furniture being moved in and one day what looked like a kitchen.

"It's bound to open soon," said Washington.

"Most likely" said Ernst. "Hey, let's ask him." It was the contractor they'd seen before. He was no longer in his working clothes but in a pair of jeans and a smart shirt.

The man nodded enthusiastically when they asked him about the progress. "It will be finished in two days," he said. "Will you come along to the opening?" He fiddled in his pocket and pulled out a card that was edged with silver. "20% off dinner for two," he said.

"I don't know," said Washington when they were back in the car. "There's something fishy about this."

Ernst agreed reluctantly. He was curious. But Washington persuaded him that they were both too busy to go to the opening night. They would watch and see what happened.

They couldn't resist walking past the restaurant that evening though. It did look inviting.

"You've got to admit it; they've done a good job," said Ernst.

There were a few tables out on the street. The wait staff were smartly dressed in black and white. They could hear the music from a very good string quartet. The place looked packed and everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Washington shrugged. "I'll reserve judgement until the reviews are out," he said.

"Well. Who'd have thought it?" Washington was clutching the local newspaper. Chez Robert had received a five star review. Charles Andrews, the local food columnist, had never given a five star review before. Ever.

"So, had we better give it a try?"

They arrived at seven thirty the next evening. They came in Washington's Porsche, his fun car. Ernst grimaced as he got out. He wouldn't be able to cope with anything so low slung for much longer.

"May I help you sir," said a black-suited individual who had been hovering in the car park. He offered Ernst an arm and Ernst hoisted himself up.

Washington giggled. "Showing your age a bit here, sunshine." He rubbed his hands together. "Can't wait to see what's on offer."

The man in the suit bowed slightly. "This way, please, gentlemen. Have you reserved?"

"No. That's not a problem, is it?" Washington frowned.

"Indeed not, sir. We have had a cancellation." He led them through the restaurant that was again full. He showed them to a table for two that was set into a bay window that looked over the side of the old sorting office. Ernst was astonished to see that even this had been spruced up: a row of attractive potted plants graced the small yard.

There was a problem though. As Ernst looked round the restaurant he realised that other people were considerably better dressed than they were. Most of the men were wearing at least lounge suits. The women were in sophisticated dresses. He and Washington were in jeans - admittedly designer ones - polo shirts and moccasins. "Is that normal for French?" he asked.

Wait staff flitted back and forth but at least they didn't look askance at the two men. There was a mumble of people talking softly and the live music was this time an acoustic jazz trio. Soft furnishing and spaced out tables helped to keep the noise down. They were more used to the type of places where you could hardly make yourself heard; that generally did away with the need for people to make conversation.

"The specials are salad niçoise and filet mignon," said a young waitress as she offered them the menus.

It all looked very appetising. And the two specials sounded good as well.

"Have you seen?" said Washington. "There are no prices."

He was right. What did they say? If you have to ask you can't afford it?

"Eh, miss!" Washington clicked his fingers at the young woman. "How the fuck are we supposed to know what we're paying?"

Ernst felt himself blushing at Washington's words. The young woman, however, didn't flinch. "It tells you at the bottom of the page, sir." She pointed to the small print.

"Well I'll be damned," said Washington.

Ernst looked at the bottom of his menu. "Customers are asked to enjoy our food - order as much as you really need - no more and no less - and pay what you think its worth." This would be interesting.

"Okay, so the black pudding with scallops," said Washington. "Followed by beef Wellington and all the trimmings."

"I'll have the tomato soup and the lemon sole," said Ernst.

The waitress nodded. "A good choice. And I can recommend the house rosé?"

Washington shook his head. "No, we'll have a look at the list," he said.

The waitress handed him the wine menu.

"Mm," he mumbled. "I always go for the second cheapest but you can't see what that is here."

Ernst looked up at the waitress. "We'll have the house rosé as you suggested."

Their food arrived quickly. It was served on large plates that made the portions look small but Ernst couldn't help noticing that there were five large slices of black pudding and four large scallops on Washington's plate. His own tomato soup came in a shallow but wide bowl. It smelt appetising.

"Enjoy," said the waitress as she put the plate and the bowl on the table.

"This looks good," mumbled Washington.

Ernst took a spoonful of his soup. It was hot but not scalding and really delicious. "I don't think this is a can of Heinz' best," he said. It reminded him of the one his mother used to make when she could still be bothered to cook from scratch; these days it was all Wiltshire Farmer and ready meals from Tesco. "So what's yours like?"

Washington was just chewing a scallop. He swallowed. "Well of course I've had these loads of times before." He picked up a piece of black pudding, put it in his mouth and started chewing. "But I have to give it to them," he said, still chewing and spitting a little of the sauce on to his plate as more of it dribbled down his chin. Ernst had to look away. "This is really good."

Ernst wondered whether his friend would be able to manage the main course. There was something just slightly threatening about that "order as much as you really need - no more and no less". What would happen if there was food left on your plate at the end of the meal?

The soup was just right: flavourful and light. It wasn't taking his appetite away but making him look forward to his main course.

"It's a bit mad here, isn't it?" said Washington. "I mean pay what you think it's worth. How are you supposed to be able to work that out? How will they ever make a profit?"

Ernst shrugged. Perhaps they didn't want to make a profit. He finished ages before Washington. He would be ready for his main course. Washington finished at last.

"Hmm, not bad," he said as he put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth.

The waitress came over to the table. "All done here?" she asked.

"Thank you. It was delicious," said Ernst.

Washington grunted.

"Then I'll clear away. Your main courses will be here soon."

Ernst didn't know what to say now.

Washington drummed on the table. He fiddled with his cutlery. He brushed imaginary crumbs off the table cloth. He looked at his watch. "Service is a bit slow, don't you think?"

Ernst shrugged. He couldn't agree with Washington. He was finding it just right. He appreciated the short break between courses.

He was glad, though, when the waitress arrived; perhaps Washington would settle down now.

"The beef Wellington for you sir," she said as she placed a plate with a large pastry parcel and an assortment of vegetables on it in front of Washington. "And the lemon sole for you." She smiled at Ernst.

Ernst's meal looked tiny in comparison with Washington's.

"Shall I pour the wine?" asked the waitress.

Washington waved her away. "No, it's fine. We're quite capable of doing that ourselves."

She smiled and bowed.

Ernst raised his eyebrows.

"Well, go on then," said Washington, nodding his head at the bottle in the cooler.

Ernst carefully poured them a glass each. He sipped his. It was rather good. Then he took a mouthful of his lemon sole. It was exquisite. "How's the Wellington?" he asked.

Washington's mouth was full. He waved his hand, nodded his head from side to side and shrugged." I've had worse but I've also had better," he said, his mouth still half full of food. "It might have gone better with red wine."

Ernst could not say the same about his. This was the finest lemon sole he had ever tasted. He ate slowly. Even so, he finished long before Washington.

He watched as his friend ate. Washington didn't empty his mouth before he shoved the next forkful in; grease dripped down his chin and on to his tie. Ten minutes after Ernst had finished eating Washington pushed his plate away. "I'm stuffed," he said. Half of the Wellington and the vegetables remained. Were there going to be consequences? "Well I'm glad we only have to pay what we think it's worth. I shall only pay for the half I ate."

"Why don't you ask for a doggy bag?"

Washington scowled. "What a horribly bourgeois thing to do," he said.

"It's a shame to waste it, though," said Ernst. He began to wonder how much more of Washington's company he could stand. He hoped the evening would soon draw to a close.

"So, gentlemen, would you like a dessert?" The waitress smiled as she collected up the plates. "The special is the blueberry Pavlova.”

"I guess we should," said Washington. He raised his eyebrows at Ernst. He smiled at the waitress. "So, I think you'd better bring the menu. My friend here isn't too sure."

No, Ernst wasn't sure. Sometimes eating sweet things late at night kept him awake. And there was that clause again. Did he actually need a dessert? Did he even want one?

Washington snapped the menu to. "Right, yes. I'll have the blueberry Pavlova."

"Thank you sir. And any coffee or tea?"

"I'd like a mint tea, please," said Ernst.

"And I'll have an Irish coffee," said Washington.

As the waitress made her way to the kitchen, Washington started drumming on the table again. "Well, this is cosy. Not bad at all, this place. I still think, though, they'd have done better turning it into flats or even bulldozing the lot and putting up a whole apartment block."

A few moments later the waitress returned. Washington's Pavlova looked light and airy but the amount of cream that was piled on to it made Ernst nauseous.

He watched Washington eat. He was sort of snuffling, a bit like a pig in a trough. In fact, as Ernst stared at him, Washington began to look more and more like a pig.

Ernst frowned at his friend. "It's good, is it, then?"

Washington just grunted in reply. He looked up at Ernst and grinned. Blue sauce dripped down his chin.

The waitress came back to their table. She was accompanied by a broad-shouldered man who was dressed in a security guard's uniform. He bent down and tapped Washington on the shoulder. "Come on then, Mr Washington. Time to go, don't you think?"

Washington snuffled again and then started making more pig noises. The security guard helped him up out of his seat. "Come on, sunshine. We'll soon get you sorted out. Come along with me now." He marched Washington off towards the back of the restaurant.

Ernst felt embarrassed for his friend. "What's happening to him?" he asked the waitress.

"Nothing for you to worry about, sir. Monsieur Robert will sort it all out. May I get you something else?"

"Just the bill please."

She bowed and nodded.

Ernst watched the other diners as he waited. They had certainly not reacted at all when Washington had started behaving like a pig. And nobody had seemed to find it untoward that a customer was being dragged through the restaurant by a security guard. The other customers looked satisfied with what they had eaten. And nobody was being greedy as Washington had been.

"Here you are, sir," said the waitress handing him the customary small silver tray that held a folded piece of paper.

He took the tray and opened the folded paper. So, she had been telling the truth. There was no price. Just a short note: "Pay what you think the meal is worth."

The waitress smiled. "I'll leave you to think about that for a while, sir."

So what was a meal like this worth? How much would he normally pay? £60? £70? It was quite a chic establishment. That was the sort of price they normally charged in such places, wasn't it? He'd never before given any thought to how such figures were arrived at. Did people pay the normal sort of price here? Or did they go for something a lot cheaper?

He tried to listen to what was happening at other tables. He couldn't hear anything. He could see people paying their bills - mainly with a card. Sometimes the wait person would smile, other times they would just purse their lips and nod. Did this mean that you were supposed to go way over the normal sort of price?

"You look troubled, sir." The waitress was hovering near him again.

Ernst nodded. "How do people figure it out?"

"Well some people just seem to pluck a number out of the air. Actually they're nearly always quite good, Monsieur Robert says. And others are very mathematical. They figure out how much it's all cost, including the wages of the staff and the overheads, pro rata, for the business and the building. But the customer who actually works out how they personally benefit from being here makes the most accurate contribution, Monsieur Robert says."

"I see," said Ernst.

"I'll give you a few more moments," said the waitress.

So, how had he benefited? Ernst started working it all out. The food itself had been very good. So, he should give them a fair price for that. He was sure the vegetables had been home grown. Was that what they were cultivating in that patch of land at the side of the building?

The best thing had been getting rid of Washington. Actually that had also been the worst thing: seeing him behaving just like a pig. Yet it had its good side. He had realised for the first time just what a yob Washington was. He was now not at all interested in what had happened to Washington.

That was it. He would pay £150 for the meal. He could afford that easily and it was so worth it not to have to listen to Washington's mumbling commentary on everything and everybody.

He signalled to the waitress.

"Cash or card?" she said. She was already holding the card machine.

"Card, please."

She handed it to him and he entered in the amount he had decided on. She smiled as she handed him his receipt. "That will do nicely sir. Monsieur Robert will be very pleased."

Ernst never did see Washington again. He called him a couple of times and only got voicemail. Perhaps he was embarrassed about what had happened and was avoiding him. That went on for a couple of weeks and Ernst decided it was ridiculous. They were sort of friends and he was actually quite fond of the silly man. So he phoned the office where he worked.

"Tom Washington? I'm afraid he doesn't work here anymore," said the young woman who used to be his PA.

"Oh?"

"He's been transferred to the Liverpool office."

"Why was that?"

"I think he requested it. Sorry I can't help you."

"Thank you anyway."

He tried his mobile a few more times but eventually got a number unobtainable message. He even rang the Liverpool office where Washington was supposed to work but again got voicemail. Washington never returned his call.

Ernst still had to drive past the restaurant every day. It seemed to be thriving. And yes, sure enough, they were growing vegetables in any spare bit of land they could. He really ought to go there again some time. He'd enjoyed it and he was rather pleased about the amount he'd paid for his meal. He just didn't really want to go there on his own. As annoying as Washington had been at times, he had been some sort of company. Could he go on his own? Perhaps he'd give it a try the next weekend.

But the weeks rolled by and still he could never quite make up his mind to go there again.

As he was driving home one evening something seemed different. There was no “Chez Robert” lit-up above the door anymore. People were moving boxes out. Was it closing down?

Ernst stopped his car and got out to have a look. A man dressed in a dark suit was leaning over a fence watching the activity. Ernst recognised him as the man they'd met the first time he and Washington had stopped to look.

"So what's going on?" asked Ernst.

The man smiled and offered his hand. "Simon Robert. I am closing my restaurant down."

So this was the Robert of Chez Robert? "That's a shame. I was hoping to visit it again." What was the matter? Had that quirky pricing strategy failed?

"Yes, you are a valued customer."

"I am?" How did this man know who he was?

"Oh yes." Simon Robert tapped the side of his nose. "Your contribution was very generous."

Contribution? Perhaps it was a contribution, though to what Ernst wasn't sure; he'd certainly paid three times what he normally would for such a meal. "So, are there financial problems or something?"

Simon Robert laughed. "On the contrary. We could open a bigger restaurant in an even more prestigious location. But that's not what we are going to do."

"Oh?"

"No. Chez Robert has served its purpose. This community is working better now. We move elsewhere and start again." He nodded towards the restaurant. "Some affordable housing will be built here. Because of the generosity of this community, including people like your good self, we have been able to raise a good sum to help the local council."

Ernst nodded.

"You still look worried, my friend."

"What happened to him? Washington?"

"Oh you mean the man who used to eat like a pig at a trough?"

Ernst nodded.

Robert tapped his nose again. "Him. Monsieur Robert gave him a good talking to. And he promised to behave better. He too was quite generous in the end."

"I see."

"Ah but you miss him even though he was trying at times. Am I right?"

Ernst nodded.

Simon Robert tapped him on the shoulder. "He was embarrassed. Ashamed. Forgive him." He waved his arm towards the city. "There is a whole world out there. Make some new friends. You can do it. Now if you will excuse me, I must see that they are looking after all of my china properly."

Ernst never saw the French man again though he still passed the site of the old sorting office twice a day. The bulldozers arrived a couple of days later. Within a month some attractive homes were beginning to take shape. By the following spring, people were moving in.

Ernst stopped one day on the way home from work. There was still a small garden at the side and it seemed to be open to the public. He sat down on a bench. A young woman accompanied by a toddler sat down beside him. "It's all right if I sit here, is it?" she asked.

"Be my guest."

She smiled at him. The toddler giggled.

"I feel as if I know you," said the woman.

Well she didn't; but perhaps she soon would. There was always hope. Ernst held out his hand. "Ernst Pritchard. There used to be a restaurant here."

She took his hand. "I know. It's such a different place now, isn't it?"

It was. It was an even better place.