He lets fly with a three-minute outburst, featuring the kind of language it would not be morally right to print. “She does know what ‘salad’ means, right?”
His linguistic Olympics do not paint the customer that has ordered the salad in a good light. You would think, in making the request, that they would not expect to be called “worse than Hitler” by my beleaguered employer.
Nevertheless, I quickly turn, sniggering, back to my station and resume chopping the vegetables.
The irate front-of-house manager stands, red-faced, in the doorway of the kitchen.
“It’s a lovely old woman from the village who’s ordered it and she can hear everything you’re saying!”
I suddenly feel bad. I picture the poor dear’s puppy dog eyes, filling with tears of disappointment.
This is cruel work, done by cruel people, I think. I turn red and make eye contact with the KP, whose smirk has similarly disappeared.
We both look to the head chef expecting, at the very least, a lowering of voice or feigned remorse.
“Tell her to f*** off then,” he bellows, and returns to the stove.
Last week's kitchen confession: my shameful deep-frying addiction