Chapter 5 #3
My eyes flick to Finn but he’s engrossed in the menu.
I study him for a moment. He’s dressed very differently to his jeans and button down from last night.
He’s not in a suit like the other men, but he is in slacks, a shirt and tie.
I can’t help but wonder why. Who are these men?
Their formal attire doesn’t suit the laid back surrounds of this beachside grill.
When I return to take their drinks order, they’re demanding and particular. I try not to stumble as I tell them I’ll check to see if we have their favourite vintage in stock, but I can’t help but wonder why they’re eating here, rather than in the posh restaurant up at the hotel.
Bumping into Alison, she asks me how it’s going.
“Fine. I’m just sorting drinks for the Nguyen party? Could you do the bill for table nine for me please?” I ask, palming the rowdy table off on her so that I don’t have to speak to them again.
“Of course. No problem. And as for Mr Nguyen…”
She pauses.
“Yeah?” I prompt after a beat when she doesn’t continue.
“Just wrap the bottle in a towel to avoid drips and serve him the ’75. He doesn’t know the difference and that’s what we always give him when he comes in.”
“Oh. Okay.” I don’t know what else to say. Isn’t it bad to deceive a customer like that? But if he’s a regular and that’s what they always do…
Alison must sense my hesitation. “Look, Mr Nguyen is very particular. He always sits at the same table, orders the same wine, complains about the same things. Just keep smiling, and remember that the customer is always right, especially when the customer is Mr Nguyen. If you get into any trouble, let me know.”
“Okay. No worries. They’ve all been fine so far. Except table nine.”
“Ah, I see. Well, you leave those arseholes with me.”
“Thanks Alison. I better get table one their drinks.”
She nods and I hurry over to the bar to sort the wine that Mr Nguyen asked for.
We don’t have the vintage he requested and after only a moment’s hesitation, I decide to follow Alison’s advice.
It’s better than facing a conflict and an unhappy customer.
If he notices, I can plead ignorance and apologise.
I just pray I don’t lose my job on the very first day.
I pour the wine and they all taste it, declaring it excellent.
Finn says nothing but a knowing smirk passes his lips.
I freeze, terrified that he’s going to out me, out the wine, as an imposter.
But he simply returns his glass to the table, picks up his menu and asks the others if they are ready to order.
Their list of requirements is so long and convoluted that by the time I’ve taken their food order, five of the six of them have basically invented whole new dishes that weren’t on the menu. Finn ordered a burger with no changes and Mr Nguyen glared at him the whole time.
I ring the order through on the till and take it to the kitchen to apologise to the chef.
Who orders a table for nine pm for a meal anyway?
Maybe that’s the done thing in Europe, but here in England I like to eat around seven.
So not only is the chef going to be pissed that their order is coming in late, he’ll be livid when he realises he has five brand new dishes to concoct.
When I tell him, he opens his mouth like he’s going to scream at me, and in my panic I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “It’s for Mr Nguyen’s party.”
That stops Chef in his tracks. He growls under his breath, glares at me and bites out “fine” before turning away from me.
I virtually run from the kitchen to escape his wrath, but not before pans start clattering behind me, making me wince.
I’m relieved to get back to the restaurant and hear only mild grumbling from table one. I hope that’s because they’re foreign and unfamiliar with our ways but something tells me that they’re just arseholes. Who completely picks apart a menu to make a new dish? Rich, entitled pricks, that’s who.
Eventually, the food is served and I breathe a sigh of relief. I glance over to Mr Nguyen’s table to see if they’re happy with it and find that they’re all staring at their plates in disgust.
“Hi, is everything okay?” I ask tentatively but with a bright smile on my face.
“No, it is not.” His voice is cold and commanding, cutting through the air with an almost tangible force. My smile falls, and my stomach drops like a stone.
“I’m sorry, Sir. What seems to be the problem?”
“Not seems to be the problem. There is a problem.”
“Of course. What is it? How can I help?”
They begin complaining – about everything.
Except the wine. The temperature, the texture, the presentation.
The sourness of his tone is almost as overpowering as the scent clinging to him.
His presence is a thick, cloying cloud of musk – rich and heavy with a faint undercurrent of something bitter swirling around him in a cloud that’s almost too much to breathe in.
His anger, though, makes it worse. The scent becomes acidic, sharp and acrid, like bitter citrus mixed with the weight of wet leather.
It almost feels like it’s suffocating the air around me, pressing down on my chest and making it harder to stand in his proximity.
By the end of the night when they’re finally leaving – without giving me a tip – I feel just about ready to cry. My skin feels taut, my heart heavy from the tension, and his presence still lingers like an invisible weight, even after he’s gone.
“You did good kid. Mr Nguyen’s an absolute arsehole. You held your own against him. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” I give Alison a tight smile.
If she knows what a nightmare he is, why give me his table on the first night. Some sort of initiation? A test to see if I can hack it? The tension is still coiled in my chest, a tight knot that won’t loosen.
I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that I need this job. I didn’t cry. No one got hurt. It was just one shitty table. Well, two if you count the guy who grabbed me. Not going to lie, my wrist is still a little sore, but that could just be from carrying heavy plates all night long.
“I’m going to head off now, if that’s alright?”
“Of course! Sorry that table made your shift run over. I’ll speak to Pete about putting a little extra in your paycheque to make up for it.”
“No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, the evening shift. Well done tonight, Lani. See you.”
I say goodbye, grab my bag from the office and nearly weep with relief that it’s less than a hundred metres from here back to my grandmother’s house.
I’m going to have the world’s fastest shower and plan to be fast asleep before my head even hits the pillow, but even as I leave the restaurant, I can’t stop thinking about the way Finn stepped in – calm, controlled, like it never even occurred to him not to.
It shouldn’t matter.
It was one night.
One mistake I’m not planning on repeating.