The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [21]
At his last restaurant in Jönköping, where Johnny had worked for about a year, the dining room had swelled out into a veritable sea while the chefs worked with the claustrophobic feeling of being in the cabin of a submarine.
The work required a choreography of quick but well-thought out movements and an intuitive ability to sense where one’s coworkers were and where they were likely to move in the next moment.
“Behind you,” came from Feo, who was between the fish stove and the window, and with a smile he slipped past Donald, who in turn was making a sudden excursion with the meat thermometer.
Pirjo was sent out to fetch more filets. Donald watched her brushing the meat, while he prepared two Cornish game hens.
The temperature rose. Feo, who was preparing a sauce for the salmon, was bright red in the face. Pirjo returned to the desserts. Donald poked the poultry breasts with his index finger and then lifted them onto the plates that had been prepared for them. He drizzled the morel sauce over them, corrected the potato-and-duck liver terrine, and rang the bell. Tessie appeared and took the plates away.
Dozens of pots and pans were cooking at once. Steam rose lazily from the fish broth, pans sizzled, an open flame suddenly appeared on the stove and the plates that Pirjo supplied clattered.
Feo looked up and gave Johnny a quick glance as if to say: now you understand why we are grateful that you came.
Johnny, as yet untrained in the particular routines and the others’ patterns of movement, tried to keep the pace and see to the priorities.
A sudden break in the flow of orders created a few minutes of breathing room. Everyone straightened their backs. Feo drank a little water and Donald slipped off to the hand sink.
“You smoke too much,” Feo called out.
Donald did not reply, but the cloud of smoke from the sink area showed the lack of impact of his coworker’s views. Johnny was surprised that a kitchen chef would take a smoke break. He had never experienced this before, but he did not comment on it.
It was completely quiet in the kitchen. Pirjo was resting against the counter, examining her cuticles with a dreamy expression. Feo was standing at the sink provided for their personal use, looking at his face in the mirror while he thoroughly dried his hands with a paper towel.
Eva lingered in the doorway. She had not said anything in a while. She knows us, Johnny thought, and it struck him that she reminded him a little of his sister. A somewhat reserved manner, often with a cool smile on her lips, a smile that could come across as superior but that in his sister’s case expressed a desire for mutual understanding. Johnny was often irritated by Bitte’s tentative personality, her somewhat lazy appearance and her tendency to submit to others.
If Eva was the same, it would be hard for her. You had to be able to take what you needed in this business. If you didn’t stand up for your rights, you would be taken advantage of.
“How much are they paying you?” Johnny asked.
Eva looked around the kitchen. Feo was studying her in the mirror. Donald, who had returned from his smoke break, let out a snort.
“Not very much, but it’s supposed to increase later,” Eva said.
“That’s what they always say,” Donald muttered.
“It’s a job,” Eva said and tried to catch his gaze.
“A job,” Feo repeated.
Johnny knew that his question had broken a silent agreement not to publicly discuss their remuneration, especially not with someone who was newly hired. At that point one was expected to hold one’s tongue and only slowly develop a clearer picture of all the constructions and agreements in the business. One had to make the mark before one gained the right to ask such questions, and that could take half a year, perhaps longer.
“At least we share the tips equally,” Eva said.
Johnny hoped she would not ask how much that yielded, and he thought she understood the look he gave her, because she swallowed her next comment and laughed