Sal and his wife owned and ran a trendy inner-city cafe. All shiny surfaces and modern-as-heck furniture, it was the new kid on the block. Already popular with the local literary and film intelligentsia, the pavement tables were always full as meetings went down and serious young insects pecked out screenplays and novels on their laptops. The coffee was good, the menu bistro-lite and from the toilets to the front door mat the joint was clean. For a job-hunter like me it all looked pretty cool.
Groovy Sal had a shiny shaved head and wore pin-striped flared slacks, sandals and a Fossil watch. He greeted me fervently, clutching and squeezing my hand, forearm and shoulder in rapid succession. His equally groovy, mop-topped and mini-skirted wife, Liz, gave me a mega-toothy smile and quickly hit me with some breathy questions about my career and ideals. It appeared I was on point and I changed into my whites to begin my try-out as the chef.
“Alright, the Man is in the house!” cheered Sal as I came into the kitchen. “I’ll show you the ropes.” The open-plan kitchen, brand new and fully-kitted out, featured, and very fortunate this - an on-the-ball apprentice. I greeted him, shook hands and when I looked around — Sal and Liz had vanished.
Hold on, didn’t Sal say he was going to . . . the apprentice softly smiled at my bewilderment. Then with his concise direction we did a slow-to-medium lunch service. Aside from these instructions he was a laconic young chap, offering me no clues as to Sal and Liz’s disposition, or indeed, whereabouts. We cleaned up in silence and I thanked him sincerely. I vainly waited for twenty minutes after that, but Sal or Liz did not return. I left and went to another job tryout.
That night Sal rang. Sorry we had to rush out. Could I come in tomorrow and work again? They wanted to see me in action. My other interview that evening had been at a place that truly stunk, so I agreed. The next day the apprentice was rostered off and Sal, still in his funky clobber, joined me in the kitchen. After explaining that he was no chef or cook, but LOVED food, he proceeded to show me every tiny weeny detail of everything — done just the way he liked it done.
As he explained, he needed my full attention it seemed, his eyes desperately holding mine. Every time I turned away to start an order, he plucked at my arm like a kid needing attention. The dribble of orders began backing up.
“I have to cook,” I gently but firmly told Sal. He relinquished his hold on me, but kept on talking. Remembering what I’d been shown yesterday, I got food out of the reach-ins and put it on to cook – all while nodding along to Sal’s non-stop commentary. While I cooked and plated up, he fussed over the length of dill sprigs, julienned some mint for desserts not yet ordered and drank a big glass of wine.
It was annoying doing service while trying to keep up with Sal’s minutiae. It was like a flying buzzing around in my face. But when he began arguing with himself about the number of olives on a pizza, I began to feel uneasy.
“Eight olives because that’s lucky in Chinese,” Sal remembered. Then, “No, six because you use less. And it’s an even number and you cut a pizza in an even number of slices. Wait a minute. Why not cut the pizza into odd number of slices. That’d save money wouldn't it? Liz darling – listen to this!”
His wife now joined us in the kitchen and began working on the olive formula with Sal. There was a big glass of wine in her hand too.
Service stumbled on and the excitedly engrossed couple competed with each other to show me how each meal was meant to look, moving garnishes, meat and sides around plates in streaky smears. A volt of Varanasi vultures would have touched those plates less. It was one o’clock now, deep in the lunch service, and instead of helping me, the odd couple racked their brains for even more esoteric refinements to inflict on the meals. Outside in the real world the poor waiters and customers wondered where the hell the food was.
A table walked out, another complained about the wait, but Sal and Liz were fine with that. “Training new staff,” Liz airily told a harried waiter. The lunch rush died down and I cleaned up while Sal and Liz repaired to a back table to prepare for the next stage of my interview.
I joined them and a newly opened bottle on the table. Declining a glass of wine, I waited to hear if I had got the job and what my pay, terms and conditions might be.
“Great work,” said Sal, getting that out of the way. “Do you like movies? I mean good movies.”
“Ah yeah — sure,” I replied, surprised at the turn the interview had taken.
Sal then explained how he was heading into a career as a producer of motion-pictures. The bistro was just for cash-flow. His ability to recognise hit screenplays, and perhaps even write a few, was mentioned, and Liz threw in the occasional dizzy insight into what was obviously their personal manifesto on film making.
Nodding like a wind-up teddy bear, I sat there just listening . . . and checked out their eyes. Pills, powders — who knew what, but it wasn’t just the pinot noir giving them that glittering glaze. These guys were out to lunch all day long! I liked the place, the menu wasn’t bad and the apprentice was a gun, but I could see a lot of drama ahead if I signed up with Sal and Liz. So I thanked them for their time and quickly exited the set.