Chapter 8 Charlie
CHARLIE
“Morning, boss,” calls out George, the Fork’s sous-chef, from behind the jump.
Charlie offers a tight smile in response in anticipation of his second-in-command proffering today’s news.
“How many covers have we got in tonight?” he asks.
George’s momentary grimace delivers the bad news before his answer does.
“Just four at the moment,” he says, with as much enthusiasm as he can rally. “But it’s still early.”
Charlie’s neck muscles tighten as he looks around the forty-seat orangery that he lovingly transformed from what was essentially a dilapidated hay barn.
With its new glass roof, pitched high above the twelve tables, the midmorning sun sends rainbow prisms dancing across the crystal-cut glasses, but it does little to ease Charlie’s worry.
He tries to brush it off, but he can’t help but weigh up the cost of tonight’s waitstaff, a dishwasher, the two chefs in the kitchen.… The list of outgoings crowds his mind. To break even, they need to be at least 70 percent full—at every sitting, every day.
He’d expected it to take time; new restaurants always do.
You have to wait for the word to get around and the reviews to be backed up by people you trust—especially in a place like this.
But he’d been lulled into a false sense of security by the success of the Fork’s soft opening, which had everyone falling over themselves in their effort to be the one to “discover” the next big thing and pass on their rarefied find.
The unexpected fight to get a table—that had resulted in him having to turn people away in those first few weeks—had long since lost its momentum.
Probably, Charlie fears, because the trial period had thrown up more problems than he’d anticipated.
The staff weren’t as reliable or as well trained as they needed to be.
The ordering system struggled with the dodgy Wi-Fi.
His signature grouse dish had been off the menu more often than it had been on.
Londoners give you a tiny window in which to impress them, but as Charlie is discovering, countryfolk give you even less. And they don’t easily forgive the teething problems of ignorant servers or gamekeepers with a bad shot.
He’s going to have to make that call to the bank. He can’t maintain a champagne offering on a lemonade budget. Though as he picks up the phone to his “personal advisor, who will be with you every step of the way as your business grows,” he’d hazard a guess that this might just be one step too far.
“But I don’t understand what difference a few more grand makes?
” he says, trying to contain his frustration when he’s proven right.
“The house more than stands up to value and all I’m asking for is an additional ten thousand to tide me over.
” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll be able to pay it back in a few months.
” His voice belies the conviction of his words, and if he can’t convince himself, how can he expect anyone else to believe him?
“But Mr. Adams, you’ve already reached the maximum loan to value that we’re prepared to offer,” says the patronizing woman on the other end of the line.
“It’s a measly ten grand,” snaps Charlie, slamming the door of his office shut, so his staff have less chance of hearing, “which if you don’t facilitate will likely mean that my business will go under.…”
He can’t bring himself to tell her it will probably go bust anyway, the restaurant currently balancing atop a bottomless pit.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Adams, but how you run your business and the risks associated with it are none of our concern.”
“It will be, if I can’t afford to pay the mortgage.”
“Which is precisely why we’re not able to extend the facility any further,” she says. “And I’m at liberty to remind you that if you do not keep up your repayments—”
He slams the phone down before she has a chance to finish the sentence.
Despite all his experience, Charlie had been dealt a short, sharp lesson that owning a business wasn’t quite the rose-tinted experience he’d imagined.
He’d been na?ve to the amount of time and energy it took to get a restaurant up off the ground—and even more to keep it afloat.
Both of which he thankfully has in abundance, but the money?
Just when he thinks he’s getting on top of it, another unforeseen circumstance knocks him sideways, taking with it another thousand pounds and a large chunk of confidence that he can make a success of it.
If nothing else, the last three months have given him a new appreciation for all the restaurant owners he’s worked for in the past. When he’d stood up for how he thought the kitchen should be run, what food they should serve, arguing the benefits of Wagyu beef over Argentine—the disagreements he’d na?vely sought to win over the fundamental survival of the restaurant were never-ending.
But now he understands why someone like Frank had argued so passionately against unnecessary costs. Opting instead to keep the establishment open, and Charlie in a job, rather than import white asparagus from Germany, when the diner wasn’t expecting anything other than the normal green variety.
Despite how it had ended between them, Charlie still respected him as a restaurateur, and he wishes more than anything that he had him on his side now—as a mentor, as an advisor, but most of all as a friend, because he missed him more than he cared to admit.
“Can I have a quick word?” says George, opening the door and poking his head in.
Charlie nods, pushing the stack of bills and invoices out of his sight line, as if ignoring them will make them go away.
“I’m sure it’s just an oversight, but Mary hasn’t had her paycheck for last week yet.…”
Charlie grimaces, not wanting to admit that he’d ashamedly exploited the good will he’d known his ma?tre d’ would show to get him over a pressing cash-flow issue.
“Hasn’t she?” he says, feigning ignorance.
George shakes his head.
“Leave it with me,” says Charlie, forcing a smile. “I’ll get that sorted right now.”
Though inside he’s wondering which Peter he’s going to have to rob to pay Paul.