Mr Goodnight

I gave my cat Benny a quick kiss on the head as I hustled off to work. He let off a brief purr and a fart before going back to sleep as the door closed behind me. He was farting more often lately, and I'd been meaning to see the vet but couldn't afford it for the time being. I made the bus at 6:55, which would drop me just outside work.

Right on cue, my phone rang. I thought about answering it then did.

“Hi Art.”

“You're late.”

“Art it's five to seven and I'm five minutes away. How can I be late?”

(this was an all too familiar conversation and went by the numbers)

Arturo Jones was typically bolshy.

“Changeover takes time. You need to be here early!”

“And are you paying me to be there early Art?”

Silence for a while, apart from clanging and bashing from the kitchen. “Just get here.”

“It's happening.” I said and hung up, and checked in my bag for my special herbs and spices which Arturo didn't know about. Rachel, who worked the earlier shift, and I had the changeover down to a tee. No way I'd keep her waiting with two kids and a doggo at home.

I arrived (a minute early) at Sabbatini, named for the surname Arturo would have liked if he'd been born in Sicily and not South Wales. A frustrated Italian – he did a reasonable range of pasta and pizza, served with a sauce and a slice of barely suppressed rage. Drank red wine from morning to morning and let his inhibitions fly as free as spittle. We'd taken to wearing surgical masks in the kitchen.

We sorted changeover smoothly, with a minimum of eye rolling and quiet bitching, I hung up my coat and made my way into the kitchen. I put my bag down next to me as I got to prepping the first order I saw, a simple hollandaise.

“You shouldn't have that bag in here.” He said while chopping bacon fiercely.

“I need it for my meds.” I lied.

He grumbled something about wishing for someone else who didn't need meds, which I ignored as usual.

Fact was, I was actually in pretty good shape overall: the bag at my side contained pill bottles all right, but full of cinnamon, cardamom, poppy seeds, tarragon, this and that. Bought out of my own pocket, but hey, I have an eye for perfection in a way. Things that added a little something, mostly to our desserts but the sauces too. Look, Art wasn't a bad cook: but he'd never make more than sous chef in a pro establishment. So I just added the odd sprinkle and stirred it in when he was out back having a smoke. No complaints from the customers, who kept coming back.

I plated the eggs benedict on ciabatta toast, added some speargrass for touch, checked the table number and brought it to the gentleman who was seated in the corner, away from the noise.

He wore a dark suit, was sixties maybe, and looked at me with a thin lipped smile. He thanked me graciously and kind of...looked me over. It didn't feel creepy, just like he was...appraising me.

I shrugged it off it and went back to an angry kitchen, with Arturo throwing his toys again.

After throwing any number of insults, it finally turned out I'd apparently left the mushroom sauce too long. I hadn't actually: I'd let the mushrooms saute in a way he never did and they were just now ready for a touch of pepper and some cream. Ready in two minutes. I grabbed the plated up sirloins, added the potato gratin with garlic butter, julienne carrots, and poured on the sauce. The two young men I served it up to seemed appreciative.

“MAGGIE!” The holler from the kitchen came with another angry clatter of pots and pans. Shrugged that off too, and went to collect the plates from the elderly couple who came regularly for their bolognaise or our specialty meatballs (when I say “our” - guess who made the mix, wink). I checked they enjoyed their meal, which they happily assured me they did as always, and smiled all the way back to the kitchen, where I stopped.

“MAGGIE!” Arturo roared again, while his son Joseph, who'd just come in for nightly dishpig duty, was cowering over the sink and scrubbing for his dear life. I set the dishes near him and turned to Arturo, smiling dishonestly.

“Eggs benedict.” He grumbled, not looking at me. “Coffee, black.”

I stayed looking at him for a moment, then he took his towel off his shoulder and threw it randomly.

“Late order. Hopefully the last.”

I set about prep then hesitated and just felt like I had to ask - “Everything all right Art?”

He turned and looked at me kind of mean. “Just cook the man some eggs.” He said.

Felt like I'd heard that somewhere before, not sure where but it put me on edge. I hustled with a quick hollandaise, eggs, herbs, a couple of strips of streaky bacon just in case and away. Had the coffee ready to go as I plated up and brought it out to, what do you know, the older gent from the other night, and a few more before now I thought of it. I smiled at the sight of him.

“You're becoming a regular.” I said as I served him up.

He smiled himself. “I do like the food. And the service.” He glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “By and large.”

Arturo was still cursing and clattering about in there.

“We could turn the music up I suppose.” I joked.

He chuckled. “No, that would destroy the ambiance.”

I chuckled myself as I went back to what I hoped would be wrapping things up for the night. No such luck, as just at this point, a gaggle of fairly tanked up ladies turn up fresh from the opera, slumming it in the West End and gagging for some spag bol and more red wine. Oh and some of those cakes, and so on. I relay all this to Arturo who takes it like a death sentence, many unrepeatable words. Again I wonder what's with him but don't want to ask.

Hey, he was angry before, what changed for the worse, I should care. That's how I felt, I was tired myself. Wanted to get home to my cat.

Anyway, he left me to the bolognaise mix and stalked off out back for a smoke. I could hear him on the phone, shouting and had a feeling I should be a bit quick about sneaking in the flavour enhancing herbs and spices, and the right touch of cream for a change.

I wasn't quick enough.

I heard a crash which sounded for all the world like a phone being hurled against a tin wall, then another one as Arturo came lumbering back in to the kitchen like a wounded bull.

“MAGGIE!” He crashed around like he was looking for somewhere to fall over. I slid a stool under him, he fell onto it.

“What are you doing to my sauce?” He was almost sobbing. I didn't want to, but said, maybe a bit spitefully:

“I'm making it edible Art. Take it easy, I'll come back to you.”

I plated up and served the ladies, already pretty deep in their cups too but hey, was this their big night out, complete with appetites and raucous laughter. More wine served up, and I glanced over and there was our old mate, enjoying his coffee and reading a book peacefully. I felt a bit stuck between three different worlds, know what I mean? Not sure I do even.

I went back to the kitchen, expecting Arturo to still be there huddling like a wreck but no: he met me almost at the door, reeking of port wine and rage, brandishing a ladle. The big mole on the side of his big nose looked like it might burst. His eyes were fierce under his big brows. I backed up as he advanced, swearing, up to a point where I stopped and raised my hand.

“Art, I don't know what-”

“YOU don'a toucha my sauce.” Said Art, breathing heavily.

(he always went into this fake cartoony Italian accent when he got drunk and mad, both of which were often enough, and at the same time. Like he got raised on gangster movies or something. Did make it a bit hard to take him seriously)

“has actually got you so mad -”

“YOU DON”A TOUCHA MY SAUCE! I never gonna turn my back on you again. I don'a trus' you. I don'a trus' anyone! Not you -”

Waving his ladle at the ladies who were just drunk enough to watch with interest.

“Not him -” waving it at the gentleman finishing his coffee and putting on his coat -

Not anybody!”

And he slammed his ladle down on the counter hard enough to bend the handle, just at the moment the gentleman appeared at my side. Art stared at him, still wild eyed. Then he stepped in between me and Art. He looked somehow more imposing, in his coat and with his cane – funny, I hadn't noticed he had a cane. He didn't raise it or anything, just looked at Art calmly.

“Sir.” he said, “in the interests of preserving a reputation for fine cuisine and excellent service -” he glanced at me - “I feel it would be a good idea to apologize for your outburst, and to this young lady in person for your treatment of her.”

Arturo's eyes bulged, and he looked like he was about to explode when our friend leaned in closer, and said something in his ear which I couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it had an instant effect. He paled, shrank and stood like a naughty schoolboy.

“Yes, sir, yes you are quite right. I do apologize to you and everyone here, and especially to you Maggie - “

“Do you prefer Maggie or Margaret?” Our mate interrupted.

“Oh I don't really mind.”

He nodded.

“Very well.” And placed his bill in cash with a hefty tip on the counter.

Arturo straightened up and extended a hand. “Thank you, Mister, ah...?”

He smiled his thin lipped smile.

“Goodnight.”

He turned and left, flashing that smile at the ladies as he passed.

Arturo was pretty subdued for a while, relatively calm, polite even to both me and Rachel. I could still see, though, something simmering under the surface like his signature chilli sauce, which I wouldn't touch, honest.

Still, the phone calls kept coming, and he absented himself from the kitchen enough so I could add the odd sprinkle of this or that to his dishes on the sly. I didn't know, and he wouldn't say, what was happening on the home front there, so all I could do was keep the ship sailing smoothly here.

All the same, it was getting a little obvious that Arturo was letting things go on the business side. I didn't handle the accounts but even to me it seemed like things maybe weren't getting paid – a thing that became clear when no fresh scallops arrived on a Friday – seafood night.

This broke the camel's back for Arturo. He threw his toys like they were never to be used again, howled obscenities, made me go and get some store bought scallops and whipped up a chowder in a frenzy that would have made the fish weep. I served it up with a kind of apologetic look I confess, including to my old friend, who tasted it with something of a frown. The sound of metal and crockery still rang out of the kitchen.

“Margaret?” He asked directly.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind asking – when you close up – if I might have a quiet word with your manager outside.”

That wasn't really a question, I could tell. I nodded yes, and went on about it. Around twelve o'clock I glanced out the front door. He was there, standing in profile under the street light. I told Arturo, who looked at me like I'd just told him he was pregnant. He slowly, silently, wiped his hands, and slowly walked outside.

I watched them from inside, unable to hear anything. The old guy spoke briefly to Arturo, then leaned in just like before, which made Art reel back, turn and run off down the street, Didn't even leave his jacket or anything.

After a moment, old mate re-entered the cafe. He took a seat on a bar stool at the counter and a deep breath. I so did but didn't want to ask so I just set a fresh cup of coffee in front of him for now.

“Something a little stronger I think, Margaret,” he said. “A merlot, perhaps.”

I fetched him up a glass and he played with it for a while.

“So - “

“Yes I know.” He took a sip.

Eventually:

“I told him his house was on fire. And he would do well to attend to his domestic situation.”

He lit a cigarette. Not all good, but also not the time to make a deal of it.

“I doubt he'll be back.”

I studied him for a while. He seemed pretty relaxed, just swirling his merlot a bit and eating the odd slice of the aged cheddar I'd put out as well. Some quiet Italian opera played in the background. Finally I spoke.

“Well that kind of leaves me -” he cut in.

“In need of a new chef I imagine. Since the position of manager is now open.”

I blinked, as you might, and tried to wrap my head around what he was saying.

“Are you saying - “

“This establishment needed new management Margaret.”

(I did like how he called me Margaret, made me feel more...respected, somehow)

He continued: “Mister Jones, frankly, was not doing well. Beside the point though - this neighbourhood will be undergoing some changes quite soon. New buildings will be going up, and some older businesses will be...phased out. I've made sure this won't be one of them.”

He fished some papers out of his coat. “Contingent on you staying on as manager.”

I looked, they seemed like pretty standard employment contracts, one with my name on it, pretty much giving me free range. Big hen on the chicken farm.

“Okay” I said. “Why me?”

He looked at his wine glass and traced the rim with a finger.

“We think you're capable. And of the right character.”

“We?” Had to ask.

“I represent a...syndicate, if you like.”

I didn't know whether to like it or not, but was going with it. He continued:

“You may see a different kind of clientele.”

“Oh really.”

“Yes. Nothing dramatic. Just expectations of your fine service and a degree of...discretion.”

I gave a slow oooohhhkay, in my head. “Understood.” Is what I said.

“You're getting this chance because I – we – think you're up to and deserving of the job”

He finished his glass and set it down on the bar.

“No one's giving you a free ride Margaret.”

He stood and put on his hat.

“Any further instructions?” I asked?

“Just make sure you have fresh scallops next week.” He said, pulling his hat down against the incoming fog.

“Oh don't worry.” I said.”I”ll have them fresh and ready for you.”

He laughed a little as he made to leave. “Oh, you probably won't see me again. Our people will be in touch.”

“Well then I guess thank you Mister...”

He turned with that thin lipped smile, I didn't know anymore whether to find it charming or chilling.

“Goodnight.”

He left, walked into the fog and that was the last I saw of him.

EPILOGUE

So tonight, I finish lock up and see my staff out safely, watching them as they go. I stand under the new signage - “Margaret's”, and smoke a cigarette as I wait for my cab. When it arrives, I stub it out and turn with a smile to my cafe. And call it by its secret, special name:

“Goodnight.”