Prologue #4
They all go to the edge of the pool and for some reason I begin to laugh as Jay grabs the net and starts trying to fish them out.
Louis has his head in his hands, Bella is shrieking something about unfairness and I think I hear the words ‘cow’, ‘mad’, ‘deranged’.
I laugh again. I look at the inflatable crocodile.
At least you’re smiling with me, Carlos.
You look like a Carlos. I hear a splash as they all finally enter the water to rescue their beloved devices, Louis still in his boxers, Mike wading in and doing an awfully embarrassing shallow dive.
Alright there, David Hasselhoff. My laughter gets louder, tears streaming from my eyes.
Happy holidays, everyone. I’m glad we’re all out here enjoying the sunshine.
Though I think there may have been easier ways to get them in the pool.
APRIL
BEN
Notting Hill, London
I fucking love potatoes. They can literally do no wrong with me; in every form they are simply delicious, hearty comfort food.
Give me a potato and I’ll transform it for you.
I will literally take something dull and beige, inject life into it and turn it into a golden, top-tier dish.
I can bake it and serve it with a mound of oozy cheese and butter.
I’ll dauphinoise that shit, grate her into a hash brown, triple cook that bitch into the best steak-cut chip you will ever put in your mouth, and if that sounds vaguely sexual then that’s fitting because it’s how I’m sitting here now, my restaurant empty, the last customer gone, eating my bowl of post-service mashed potatoes with butter.
Proper French butter, tonnes of the stuff grated in so it’ll melt beautifully: freshly cracked pepper, cream, sea salt.
Potatoes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Get in my mouth.
‘I don’t know anyone who just eats mashed potatoes on their own,’ Phoebe says, looking at me strangely.
Phoebe who often likes to end a shift by finishing off people’s half-drunk bottles of wine.
This is why I keep my youngest sister on staff in my restaurant: she’s student cheap.
Sometimes she even lets me pay her in cheese.
She dances on her own in the middle of the restaurant to Olivia Dean, wine glass in hand, broom in the other.
She’s the sister who sings along to every lyric, who is two glasses away from the point where the dancing will start to miss the beat.
‘I love mash,’ I tell her, knowing I must look slightly feral, perched on a stool at the bar, my spoon caressing the sides of the bowl. A bit splashes onto a menu on the counter –across the Lorenzo’s logo – and I wipe it off with the tea towel still hanging off my shoulder.
Phoebe curls her lip up at me. ‘Yeah, I can tell. You’re making those strange sex sounds you make when you eat.’
I pull a face. ‘I don’t make sex sounds when I eat.’
‘Yeah, you do. You need a proper girlfriend,’ she says.
This is not a lie and I hate how much she mocks me for it. Work hard, play hard. I don’t play. I don’t even mingle. I just sit here in my restaurant: the most unforgiving, time-consuming mistress a twentysomething man can have.
‘I don’t need a girlfriend when I have mash.’ It sounds sad to say this out loud.
‘Well, if that’s where you get your kicks, brother. If I ever find you dipping your wick in a bowl of mash though, I’m quitting and suing you for emotional damage.’
Phoebe is also the sister who is disgusting if hilarious; the one who makes me laugh the loudest. She looks over, glad she managed to squeeze a laugh out of me after a ridiculously busy shift at the restaurant that included over a hundred covers; running out of the sea bass; a woman who was ‘scared’ of olives (‘They look like eyeballs!’); an influencer who came with a ring light, vlogging tools and asked me to comp their ￡180 bill; and table nine who decided they were going to be those people who split the bill based on what everyone ate.
If you ever needed to know the value of GCSE maths, try problem-solving a group restaurant bill amidst statements such as, ‘But I only had half a glass of wine, David, and I ate just the three olives.’
‘Make sure the toilets get a second scrub as well, yeah?’ I say to Phoebe and she flares her nostrils at me.
‘Please don’t tell me someone yacked in there?’ she asks.
‘One drunk vommer but I caught table six having a shag in the end cubicle too,’ I tell her.
I exhale slowly to have to say that out loud.
It was a young couple who asked their server which fruits were in their fruits de mer risotto and drank a whole bottle of Tempranillo before their mains arrived.
We should have clocked the napkin over his lap hiding his obvious boner.
‘Why do I miss all the fun?’ Phoebe says, wide-eyed. ‘Did you catch them?’
‘Yes. They claimed that he was in there to “help her with her IBS”.’
She cackles in reply. I remember working in a two-Michelin-star restaurant in San Sebastián handling truffles and perfecting my pintxo, thinking I could bring that vibe to this corner of Notting Hill.
I wanted to fuse robust European flavours with a homely, ethereal atmosphere.
I expected stressful scenes from The Bear, being sweaty and keeping unsociable hours.
I expected to feed people, to witness their joy in my cooking, to make a place where people could come to chill, celebrate and relax.
I expected to feel a sense of completion and achievement.
But the reality is that I am chasing errant and unfeasibly loud shaggers out of my toilets with a mop, wondering how to tell a young man I think he’s jizzed down his jeans.
I’m watching people drink so much that they don’t even eat the food, they just use it as a catalyst to socialise – to line their stomachs so they have something to throw up later.
I’m starting to wonder why I bother to get up at five in the morning so I can fight other buyers for the best tomatoes.
‘You know, I think it’s because of the sex shelf in there,’ Phoebe says casually. She turns to look at me when I don’t reply. ‘It’s handy, you know? For the leverage?’
‘When I was designing that bathroom, all you sisters told me to put that shelf in for your handbags. Norah was adamant. You’re telling me it’s a sex shelf?’
‘I’m simply making a casual observation.’
I rub my temples, wiping at my eyes in fatigue because I now have to think about taking that shelf out.
‘You look knackered, Benny,’ Phoebe says. ‘Have a drink. Try and decompress. You want to dance? I’ll dance with you?’
I shake my head at my sister. ‘I don’t think my legs could take it… I’ll just stay here—’
‘With your potatoes…’ she jokes. ‘Do you have any of your sourdough out back?’
I nod.
Phoebe runs and I’m strangely flattered that my bread has triggered such a reaction.
However, as the metal kitchen doors swing back and forth, I catch the reflection of my sourdough-starter complexion.
Why do I look so puffy? The adrenaline of service is melting away; the restaurant is dull and lifeless and my body is trying desperately to wind down.
It’s at times like this, sitting by the bar in the light of dying candles, when I can take stock.
But this reminds me that I need to do a literal stock take.
Sea bass. I need to also make stock. I need to do the five thousand other things that involve the running and managing of a restaurant.
I run a hand through my brown, wavy hair.
Yeah, I need to wash my hair too. Restaurant grease.
That’s attractive. This may be why I’m sat here on my own declaring my love to a bowl of mashed potatoes.
Phoebe emerges with handfuls of bread, closely followed by our older sister, Flo.
‘Boss boy, I am done. Shelter just picked up the last of the meals we prepared,’ Flo says. She is the fellow-chef sister, the one who persuaded me to open this place on the proviso that she would help out around raising her own family.
‘You were magnificent today. Risotto was on point. You’re still my best kitch bitch,’ I say. Flo laughs loudly, her face lighting up.
‘And what am I? Chopped liver?’ Phoebe says.
‘If the shoe fits, babe,’ Flo says, blowing her a kiss. She places her hands on my shoulders. ‘Ben, you look shattered. Have you thought about taking Tuesday off? Norah and I can hold the fort. It’s sure to be a quiet one.’
I shake my head. I haven’t really had a day off since this place opened its doors. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Flo pouts, unimpressed, wrapping a scarf around her head. ‘I worry about your health, that’s all.’
‘Which is why you’re my favourite sister,’ I say as I unlock the latch and let her out into the night.
‘I HEARD THAT!’ Phoebe shouts from across the room.
‘Be careful, please text me when you get home. Love to the boys,’ I say.
She leans over and gives me a hug. ‘Don’t make me worry, kiddo.’
‘Why are we worried? Tell me!’ a voice suddenly says from the street.
It’s Norah, the eldest of our clan, bundling Flo back into the restaurant.
It’s her day off and she’s strangely out of breath.
I hope she doesn’t want to be fed, all I have is mashed potatoes and bread.
I’m loathe to fire up the hob. I eye her curiously.
Such is the way with sisters. We are four and I am severely outnumbered.
Growing up was like being caught in a whirlpool of strong female energy.
I became part of the cycle, quite literally.
If you need me to buy you tampons then I am your man.
Norah, like Flo, is a mother with kids so it is strange for her to turn up here, at this hour, in such a frenzied state of energy.
I need to react with a lower vibration to counter it.
She better not be pregnant because it’s one thing to be outnumbered by sisters but I now have four nieces and nephews and Christmas is expensive. And loud.