Extract — Henry First

Chapter 1

Down in the Kitchen

Henry First was dying in the kitchen. Today’s competition was conspiring to kill him: it felt like his chest was about to implode.

He watched Xun’s knife slicing carrots – whut-whut-whut on the board – and as those orange strips marched away from the vegetable chef’s blade Henry was convinced that he was doomed. It was his only thought – his brow showed the lines – and, for the moment, contemplating death seemed to be the only way of surviving the competition.

‘Two minutes, everyone,’ Henry said, and his sous chef, Zhou, nodded. ‘And get Xun to sort out these vegetables.’ Henry picked one up. ‘I need them thinner. I could nail someone to a cross with this carrot.’

‘Yes, Chef.’ Zhou peered over the fryer, his face still rough from that morning’s hasty shave now basked in the oily steam, and he began shouting at the entremetier in Mandarin.

Henry caught sight of the juicer. He had been trying hard to ignore it all morning. His restaurant was failing but his wife had insisted on buying a juicing machine the size of Wyoming.

On top of this, his early start meant he’d skipped his run and now he could feel his muscles growing loose and unloved. He really should go for a jog when he got home that evening, or run twice the distance the following morning. Perhaps the pain in his chest meant that he wasn’t strong enough to withstand the perseverance that success entailed. If only he’d already finished with this competition, and then he could thank everyone sincerely and get on with his life . . .

The juicer squatted on the shelf, taunting him. ‘Chin, unplug that thing and put it back in its box.’

‘Mrs Dolores –’

‘In the box,’ Henry said, unable to talk about his wife. ‘I need you cutting meat.’

‘Yes, Chef.’

Henry watched the man return the chrome monstrosity to its cardboard box and haul it to the delivery door which opened onto the alleyway. As Chin was about to return to his station, where he operated the meat slicer, Henry motioned to his sous chef. ‘Zhou, get them together for a meeting dun shi.’

Zhou waved his arms about as though fanning flames or bringing an aircraft in to land, and most of the staff moved towards Henry.

‘Where are the waiters?’ Henry said. ‘Do I have to think for everyone . . .’

Henry had arrived in the restaurant kitchen at 4 a.m., and already it felt as though he’d been there for years. The roast cook had been joking at the grill, but now he saw Henry watching him.

‘Jiang, leave the sauce and get over here,’ Henry said. ‘Zhou, are we having this meeting or aren’t we?’

Shoes then legs then torsos as the waiters ran down the stairs. Zhou herded everyone to the area in front of the cold store.

‘As you know, we’re on full staff today for a reason,’ Henry told his employees. ‘In one hour the judges arrive. They’re our number one priority. Everything else waits – our success depends upon it. Ng and the others will keep them happy front-of-house.

It’s our job to make sure this kitchen produces something extraordinary. Ng, if the judges decide to tour the facilities, let Zhou and me know pronto. Understand?’

Nods all round and ‘Yes, Chef,’ in unison.

‘Chef, it’s only one course?’ Ng asked.

‘Yes, lampreys with lemon. I’m preparing the fish with Kong. For everyone else it’s business as usual. Questions? No? Let’s get this show on the road. Dong shou.’ Zhou began shouting like a drill sergeant and soon everyone was back at their station. Kong, meanwhile, collected the fish from the cold store. Henry pressed his thumb into the flesh: ugly little mothers, but as fresh as can be. He sliced lemons for the sauce, his knife working faster than thought. Around him everyone settled and the earlier disarray was transformed into a professional kitchen with its noise and aromas and heat – elegant to watch. Smiling because he loved the harmonious machine that he was part of, he began working on the lampreys.

The printer made a short high-pitch noise before spitting out a piece of paper with an order from the dining room upstairs and soon these little white paper rectangles formed a neat queue on the steel shelf above the serving area.

‘Two times lamb cutlets, one time sole lasserre,’ Shui read out loud. ‘One time winter salad table seventeen.’ Someone acknowledged the order and repeated it.

Whut-whut-whut. Xun’s knife sliced through acres of vegetables. It looked like he was cutting through a wad of money. Behind him Chin cut through the bone of a dead mammal with the meat slicer.

‘Keep them fine, Xun,’ Henry shouted, ‘or you’re back on the boat.’

‘One tomato soup with garnish, partridge and olive starter, chestnut soup and stuffed marrow. All table thirteen. Where’s salad for seventeen?’ Another blip.

There was spluttering at the grill and flames leapt up at Huo.

‘Bring more lemons,’ Henry said to Kong as the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt hair.

‘Re huo shao shen,’ Zhou said and the others laughed. If you stir up the fire you burn your fingers.

‘As long as it’s you and not the customer’s food, Huo,’ Henry called, then wiped his knife on his apron before taking a quick tour of the kitchen, from station to station – quizzing, tasting, shouting.

‘Two shrimps mariette, table eight. One asparagus nordaise, one winter salad and one crab starter, all table two.’

‘Lim, we need those salads today. Keep it together, people.’

‘Yes, Chef.’

Kong had fetched the lemons.

Ng ran down the stairs two at a time calling out, ‘Table seventeen!’

‘One gazpacho, one lamb cutlets, one stuffed marrow and two hollandaise soups, table five.’

‘Table seventeen!’

‘We need winter salad,’ Zhou shouted. ‘Anyone?’

Good man, Henry thought.

Earlier that morning he’d told Dolores that out of adversity came greatness. She’d told him not to get his hopes up yet, but today was his day – yes, he could feel it. A positive attitude conquers anything.

Whut-whut-whut.

‘Table thirteen’s clear,’ Shui said and Lim grabbed the four plates and was up the stairs. He was replaced by two more waiters.

‘Winter salad,’ Ng shouted.

‘You tell them, Ng.’

‘Yes, Chef.’

Kong stirred the sauce and Xun worked the knife and Huo and his brothers used flame and the machine yelled as Chin cut through bone and flesh.

‘This is all you do, Kong – you keep that spoon moving. I don’t care if the restaurant burns down around you. I need this sauce as smooth as your mother’s milk. I don’t want to come back and find it’s curdled and rancid. Treat it like a lover, not a whore.’

‘Yes, Chef.’

The orders were coming quickly – the blips now a continuous bleep – and as he watched Zhou directing this orchestra an underground train screamed past in a nearby tunnel and Henry heard its carriages jumping and hopping along the pitted tracks. Kong worked the spoon, Xun the knife, Huo the flame, Chin the blade.

Ng, the head-waiter, ran down the stairs. ‘Chef, a message from Mrs Dolores. The judges going to be here soon, Chef.’

Damn. ‘When?’

‘Next ten minutes, Chef. She’s not so sure.’

‘Kong, focus on the sauce.’ The kitchen was noisier still, each station an industry of chopping and slicing and preparing; spoon, knife, flame, blade. ‘Get Dolores down here,’ Henry said as Ng went back up with eight steaming plates.

Kun beat the steak. Kong dared not look up from the sauce. Xun had gone AWOL. Huo had burnt his sleeve. Zhou was losing the plot. Still no Dolores.

‘Mu,’ Henry called over a waiter, ‘get Ng back here pronto.’

‘Yes, Chef.’

The man scampered up the stairs with three soups and a stuffed marrow starter.

‘Chef, I need to talk to you,’ said Zhou. Something about the washing-up area, about the reasons for Tai’s behaviour yesterday: an imprisoned brother and an unwanted operation. Zhou’s mouth chewing the difficult English words while around them the kitchen deciding between inefficiency and failure.

‘Do you think now is the best time to have this conversation?’ Henry said, but Zhou didn’t stop talking. His glasses looked like two smudged discs hovering in front of his eyes; a cobweb of fingerprints covered their surface. Constant readjusting and lifting those plastic frames. The verbal onslaught continued. Not today!

‘Kong, how is that sauce coming along?’ Henry shouted.

Kong nodded. ‘Fine, Chef.’ Huo grilled. Whut-whut-whut. Xun was at his station. Zhou opened his mouth once more –

The air turned pink.

Afternoon light underground? Henry speculated. Or am I having a stroke?

There was another burst of warm light as the blade took a second bite of Chin’s left hand. The engine yelped like a kicked dog and the slicer spun to a halt.

A fine spray of blood and bone settled on their white tunics.

Everyone stopped work. Meat was left burning on the grill.

An afternoon that had been quick and that lacked thought or spontaneity began to wobble. Everything around him lost balance. Henry lost control of his life. He looked at Chin then closed his eyes. Now he really was dying. He’d meant to speak to Dolores about the machine. And yet . . . He felt sick.