LITMIR.BIZ

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at the

      supermarket, which became as numerous as raindrops from a summer shower. I construed our relationship such as it had been, was at an end. I hadn’t measured up.

      Chapter 18

      In Limbo

      Dad’s menu skills had been a bone of contention from the beginning. It wasn’t the fact that it was his menu, more the size factor of War and Peace.

      “But if they read it, will they have time to eat it?” Gramps asked.

      I pleaded with Dad. “More to the point! Will Chef Peter have time to prepare it?

      Your a la carte menu is nearly as long as a telephone directory. It needs to be more workable.”

      Dad argued. “Don’t be silly. It’s a great draw card.”

      “It would be if only the kitchen could work it.”

      “Aye, vital to a kitchen is speed,” Chef Peter said, “but your a la carte menu puts paid to that.”

      Dad instructed the kitchen. “Cucumber sandwiches will be served complimentary with high tea, as will hot finger food and canapés at cocktail hour. Inexpensive cigars will be

      offered with liqueurs, port wines and Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry in the evening. Guests are to be taken care of as if they’re staying at an up-market, five star hotel, which they aren’t. Nor are they paying for it. We have a massive zero stars rating, but we shall continue to build our trade this way.”

      I pleaded almost on bended knee. “I agree wholeheartedly. But you’re not listening to me. We need a new menu.”

      Dad shook his head.

      We finally had a few guests. Most who stayed longer tended to stray from our table d’hôte dinner menu at fifteen shillings to the more expensive a la carte.

      When Chef Peter was off duty Gran cooked. I helped or hindered, depending on her point of view.

      “I’m going to light up the oven,” Gran would say, when she meant switch it on, “your job,” her gaze directed towards me, “is to cook the fish.”

      Granted Chef Peter’s instruction had been explicit. “Aye, lightly fry mind, both sides.

      Place fish in oven, and don’t forget to dust with flour.”

      Gran was unimpressed with my effort. “Not much point flouring it—after it’s cooked!”

      “But that was what I was told.”

      What with the kitchen and the restaurant I couldn’t be in two places at the same time. Dad had no choice but to employ a part-time waiter.

      “Can you afford him,” I asked innocently.

      “I can if you pull your socks up and stop pestering me for remuneration. At least have the decency to leave well alone until I get up to date with the accounts payable.”

      Next morning Beau was sound asleep. It was cold water, again.

      Gramps and I took turns kneeling at the boilers open door, as if in the posture of prayer, which come to think about it may have been more helpful at times.

      “If we’re lucky,” Gramps explained, “we’ll blow ash aside to expose a little orange

      ember glowing somewhere in this inky blackness.”

      “Do you think?” I asked hopefully.

      “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

      I was thoughtful. “Gramps, do you think there’s an afterlife?”

      “God, I hope not! In the event of there being a God, He must be a cruel bastard.”

      We laughed.

      “Success in fire building might be seen as a measure of masculinity but it isn’t quick, is it?”

      We both knelt puffing into the belly of the beast until we felt light headed.

      “No, and it takes even longer to re-heat the water.” Gramps leaned onto his haunches and seriously considered lighting a cigarette.

      In our arena of doom Dad fielded complaints. “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir, another God Almighty cock-up I’m afraid. Our boiler went out in the early hours. No hot water until after breakfast.”

      A new gas-fired hot water system became Dad’s priority but being short on capital he decided to negotiate a larger bank overdraft.

      Barclays Bank were less than helpful. “They offered to lend me an umbrella while the sun shone but warned they’d want it back as soon as it started to rain,” Dad said.

      Another bank was more obliging. Dad struck a deal and we celebrated. Within a few days there was no more coal-fired boiler to stoke. What now to do with Beau?

      Chapter 19

      Kentucky What?

      Gramps became a welcome distraction when he said. “I’ve been asking around and from what I’ve learned the local restaurants don’t sling a good steak.”

      “Even I can char meat on the outside.” I piped in enthusiastically.

      “That might be the high point of your career,” Gramps lit up a cigarette.

      Dad was in the habit of telling dissatisfied customers, “When my son is on kitchen duty his concentration matches a chimpanzee chewing on a fly swatter.”

      If they said, “Oh well, we don’t really mean to complain, not if he’s busy.” Dad replied, “I sympathise, sir. But you’re only dining here. I have to live with him.”

      I rebelled. “That’s unfair. If someone asks for their steak bleu, of course I undercook it. What’s wrong with that?”

      Gramps was thoughtful. “What about the diner who ordered his steak bleu, complained and then called you to his table with a smile and said, ‘this steak’s so raw people in India could worship it.’”

      “I saw the humour in his comment. But I said defensively. ‘I understand, sir, what you want is a steak that you can eat, not one that will want to eat your side-salad.’”

      Gramps and I shared a light. “When you’re at the grill it’s almost a case of round them up, herd them in, and cut off a slab.”

      Chef Peter interrupted us. “Aye, with the volume of food being cooked in our wee kitchen we need an upgrade of equipment, so we do.”

      He received blank stares. Chef continued. “Aye, especially as everything tends to end up on one wee cooker’s grill. What we need is a new turbo-charged gas-fired grill. What we have now is summat fine for camping or a family of four, but not good enough for a first class restaurant. At this rate I’ll be cooking at the same pace as a tranquilised soddin’ sloth.”

      For fear of upsetting Chef Peter, Dad sent away for leaflets and soon, sniffing a sale, salesmen came peddling their wares.

      One was flogging something called a microwave oven that weighed about half a ton.

      Dad was hesitant. “What do you think, Peter?”

      Chef stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully. ‘Aye, technology I know is new, but what does it do?”

      Young salesman Fred explained. “It’s really, really, excellent.”

      “Aye, but what does it do?”

      “It cooks food really, really fast.”

      “Aye, so it might. What about steak? It’s steak we be cooking, lad.”

      Fred the salesman looked worried. “When it cooks meat, sir, it doesn’t brown.”

      Chef Peter frowned. ‘Not exactly meat over flame then

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