Secret Service: 'Some tacticians don’t wear uniforms'
They wear an apron and keep a pizza slicer very close to hand
The idea of Secret Service is to offer a glimpse into the wonderful and weird world of Bristol hospitality — entries are always anonymous, and any defining features of restaurants, kitchens, bars or shops are stripped out. It’s a space for chefs, kitchen porters, delivery drivers, producers and coffee grinders to share their most bizarre and brilliant tales — all of which will be paid for, provided they’re publishable. Know someone who should write a Secret Service? Send them my way.
Dining out comes at such a great cost these days. So I’m forgiving when guests expect only the best service. It should go without saying, however, that it’s a two-way street.
The hiccuping group arrives a stampede of red-cheeked winter evacuees, clutching overladen carrier bags that clink with suspicion. Once a table is taken, menu barricades are hoisted like flags on a battlefield’s margin.
Behind, their faces bob up and down. Like meerkats they reappear in a clockwork cycle, chattering amongst themselves to form a not-so-discrete plan of attack. The guilty cans of own-brand lager in question sit waiting, absent from our menu and reloaded with marksman-like frequency from behind the paper divides.
Each is briefly raised for a provisional glug before returning to its trench. They peek and dive again for cover as the front of house’s searchlight gaze scours overhead.
I’m left in no-man’s land. Somewhere between the home troops inside the kitchen and this new frontier. Soon, though, a gauntlet is thrown. The rabble rise, haphazardly stepping towards me and my till; held out like a shield in front of the assailant.
It’s a round of our cheapest menu items. And, no, I can’t give you a discount because it’s your birthday. Sorry we don’t do prices for students either.
We could have made amends there and then when you left the till. I can forgive cheaping out: but they drew first blood. A cardinal sin. The most direct breach of all that’s sacred in the restaurant business. You never bring your own drinks to the table unless BYOB is clearly plastered on the walls.
In wait we bunker down, and the chefs begin to arm themselves. Ladling doles of herby passata onto each base. Tearing leaves of basil from their stems with haste. Row by row we layer the pizzas in their rack. A barrage of tickets are moved from the front of house to the pass, as each team member sits in wait for the call. There’s a spray of mozzarella before the funeral pyre of the oven, with only a glug of oil to brace it for the open flame.
And all the while the group sits, captive. A ceasefire of sorts begins. Their cheap lager slowly gurgles a slow death against the soft hiss of dough on stone. There’s silence. Brief, but palpable. Then the swoosh of an executioner’s peel. A halo of semolina soaring into the air as the pies are sliced by six.
And, at last, it’s the final offensive — a shot across the deck. A spray of plated goods ring out as the salvo finds its mark. Hands reach from waited laps to straddle the captive slices. And, like that, the iron curtain falls.
While the enemy feast, I lift the fallen. Service comes at last to a sobering flatline as the remains from both sides are swept into the recycling.
Some tacticians don’t wear uniforms. They wear an apron, and most importantly, keep a pizza slicer very close to hand.
All words by an anonymous Secret Service Agent, artwork by Pedro Guilherme Santin Kloss
The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.
Read next:
The Secret Service: Mum's the word
I’ve wanted to commission a Secret Service piece for ages — I actually wrote the brief back in January. At last, I’ve found the perfect person to bring the first episode in what I hope will be a long, fruitful and entertaining series to life.