The Secret Service: Mum's the word
Life inside a Bristol kitchen
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.
The idea is to offer a glimpse into the wonderful and weird world of Bristol hospitality — with entries always anonymous, and any defining features of restaurants, kitchens, bars or shops 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. I’m also looking for a Bristol artist to illustrate the feature going forward, for a small fee.
You know you’ve fucked up when someone’s mum gets involved.
It took me instantly back to childhood — watching my primary school archenemy (whom we shall call Little C for the purposes of witness confidentiality) being marched down my street by his mum (Mrs C).
My God, that woman moved fast — a spit ball of maternal rage, raven-clad, some chimera of the Woman in Black and Robert Smith from The Cure. I was terrified.
There was no explaining that Little C had indeed attacked me first, nimbly climbing on my shoulders and sending a seismic shock of blows to the back of my head. I’d done the only reasonable thing in the situation. With Little C still attached, I had run backwards into a wall.
When people eat in the restaurant, they generally have a good time. For some, that good time is already happening long before they cross the threshold. This applies even more so when summer has pushed the diners to the terrace — the heat of the kitchen hanging at the entrance like a bouncer, chefs in sweat-soaked clothes, sucked to the skin.
This was one of those exact nights: a packed restaurant, people everywhere, orders stacking up.
The party in question were already effervescent, rearranging outside furniture, frothing with the joyality of the warm night, arms descending on a central slab of IPA cans like a game of Hungry Hippos. They placed their orders in noisy succession, one noting that they were a gluten-intolerant vegan.
When the ticket comes through, it hits like a subpoena. The kitchen goes into meltdown: pack up, hose it down, burn everything, hose it again. This is the big potato of checks — kitchens take this seriously.
We do our diligence; the table is served. But the harmony that resumes is short-lived.
A member of the party soon comes back to report they’re not happy: the gluten-free vegan dish doesn’t taste right.
What happens next is turbo. The levers of cock-up are thrown to max. You stagger to the doorway, note the sky one last time, the clouds speeding past, the evening buzzing with electric thrust.
At the table, you spot what you already knew was coming: the dish sitting abandoned, pushed to the middle of the table. The vegan has eaten the beef. Your mind whirrs, covering ground — when and how did this breakdown happen, and what to do next?
Before I can begin my profuse apologies and ascertain how to even begin to pick the situation up off the floor, she stands up — the mum of the group — and swoops in to handle the situation with vociferous measure. While I can’t remember the exact conversation, it went something like this:
Me: I’m so sorry — there’s been an awful mix-up with your food.
Mum: Don’t worry about it, love. I fancied hers, so I swapped it.
Me: The vegan for beef? It’s not gluten free.
Mum: No, she’s just being picky — so I didn’t tell her.
Me: (increasingly baffled) Can I make you another one?
Mum: No, she doesn’t like either — she’s going to have fish and chips instead.
This is not a comment in any shape or form about allergies or dietary requirements.
If anything, it’s about the knife-edge kitchens feel they walk on sometimes when dealing with these serious matters.
For a further perspective on that, head over and read Dan O Regan’s thoughtful piece ‘This Might Kill You (But Sure, Don’t Tell Us)’ in Notes on a Napkin.
As for me, all I know is this: whatever happens in life, you don’t mess with mamma.
All words by an anonymous Secret Service Agent.
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