Just posted in the Sweetycat Press publication, Short Story Town, lowlifes and fine cuisine are deliciously mixed together in Nick Gerrard’s literary genre boundary-pushing, “Rockabilly and Custard.” (Read below or click for link to Storytown)
ROCKABILLY AND CUSTARD
ROCKABILLY AND CUSTARD
“He’s sacked cus he fucking smells!”
“Smells? What do mean sacked cus he smells? Who smells?”
“Get your gear and get the fuck out of here.”
Whoosh!
The tub of crème Brule custard flew across the kitchen, all watched it, as if in slow motion, turning, turning…
Splosh!
Knives came from Levi jean pockets and in unison
Flick!
“Sommage!”
“One mussel starter one pate, one Diane, one chasseur.”
“Table 5 Via!”
“Where the fuck are the salads for 4?”
“Chef we’ve run out of fresh tomatoes?”
“Run out of fucking tomatoes, for fucks sake! You fuck-head, go climb up those pig bins and fetch us some out, you dig?”
My hangover was really kicking in now. You dig! I poured some masala and knocked it down, retched and waited for things to become visible through the tears.
“You, go and get me a beer from the bar, pronto.”
“Chef, I’m busy.”
“And you’ll be even busier if you don’t go and get me a fucking beer now.”
“She’s in chef.”
“Shit where?”
I took off my cap ran my fingers threw my now floppy greasy, once magnificent, quiff, and peered through the hatch into the little bistro annex.
“Classy Chassis.”
“You think? Not pissed off at all?”
“Na, she looks fine man, real fine.”
“Yeah, thanks for telling me.”
“You, knob-head, go take a whiskey and dry to the lady on table eight.”
“What about the money chef?”
“Tell um to put it on my tab.”
“Shiite!”
“Yeah, and while we’re at it bring one for me too.”
I watched the leggy brunette take off her leather to reveal a pink cardigan and a grey full skirt under which were seamed stockings. She bobbed her curly locks as the maitre’d pushed her chair in. She took out a gold leaf and pouted her blue lips to light it. She received the whiskey, smiled and shot it back in one.
Alena is her name and boy does A-L-e-n-a spell trouble. No doubt about it, this was bound to end badly. I should never have started, but an offer this good seldom comes around.
She lit up the hotel Marais basement bar like a cluster bomb.
That den of sad fuckers. That bar of late-night wasters waiting for the morning trains to beds.
The poncy waiters in a corner, the managers at the bar, the rockabillies and KPs around a pool table, next to the jukebox. Sharing over-flowing tables with pimps, pushers and working girls.
Snorting, sniffing, necking, and stabbing. The night’s stresses and stains wiped away with powder and puffs; shootin’-and-a-tootin’.
We are all wired, all in need of an unwind. All in need of an adrenaline cool down. So, we soaked it in brine and bought it back up with rolled notes.
I had seen her before, obviously, how could you miss her? But somehow this time, I managed to get my mashed up head together long enough, or maybe because it was mashed, to make a move.
“Can I bum one of those?”
She smiles.
“Sure.”
“Original.”
“Sorry?”
“Asking for a cigarette. Usually I have only to put one to my lips and I get an avalanche of lighters in my face.”
“I’ve lost my lighter. And my fags and wallet too to be honest.”
“Can I get you a drink too then?”
“Sure, half a lager and a brandy.”
“Sounds good. Two halves of Stella and two Martens.”
“Cheers.”
A waiter went to the jukebox and put some kind of dance music on…
The place hushed, a huge tattooed Sous chef stood, walked over, slapped the guy, kicked the jukey, re-selected, and…Gene Vincent…Baby Blue.
“Nice.
-You’re the chef at Les Negress verte.”
“You know me?”
-I know your food.
“And?”
“You know it’s good, do you have to ask?”
“I need to hear it said sometimes.”
“Well. It’s very good, though…”
“Though’s not good, no one says though an…”
“Chill darling. You’re wired, love another Marten?”
I necked it.
“So, though?”
“I was just going to say that your bouillabaisse is lacking a certain something, that’s all.”
“You think?”
“There’s a sweet little fish found in the North, that I always feel is the key, and a stock that’s been bubbling for years.”
“Oh the sweetfish of the North, not an easy catch, and an old stockpot is difficult to find these days too.”
“Pity, but I recognize and appreciate your inclusion of saffron and truffle.”
“You have a very delicate palate madam.”
“Why thank you, kind sir.”
“Cheers.”
“Are you here alone?”
“Well, kind of, but I’m my own woman.”
“I’m sure you are, but.”
“Well, I came in with Stoney but as usual, he seems to have disappeared.”
I looked at her. She had said his name with no interest, no fear.
I tried to show nonchalance.
“Yeah Stoney, the erm, businessman.”
“You mean gangster.”
“Well, I…”
“It’s OK, that’s what he is, you don’t have to be scared.”
“I’m not, just curious that’s all.”
“Curious I like, and don’t worry I was left alone hours ago I don’t expect him to be back, happens a lot. Fancy a line?”
“Delighted.”
Just one I told myself. Just one, be nice then get the hell out of there, but she was gorgeous.
“You fucked who?”
My mate Tony was always one to fly of the handle at the slightest.
“You know, the femme fatale, from the bar, Baby Blue.”
“Baby fucking blue? Are you living in an Eddie Cochran movie or what? Do you know who she is?:
“Sure. And it’s Gene Vincent actually.”
“And you’re not worried?”
“Should I be?”
“You bet your fucking sweet arse you should be.”
“I know she is involved with some dodgy geezer and that but…”
“Some dodgy geezer? Are you for fucking real? She is married to…”
“Married? Shit, well there you go.”
“There you fucking go? Listen my friend I don’t think you have grasped the seriousness of what I am saying to you.”
“F-Fuck man, I’ve fucked married women before.”
“Yeah, and that always turned out well didn’t it? And besides, you’ve never fucked a wife of a fucking total psycho before.”
“So bit of a badass then?”
“Bit of a badass? Are you kidding me? Billy Hill?”
“Psycho Billy.”
“You’re a fucking dick, you know that. Billy fucking Hill, the Billy fucking hill!”
“It doesn’t matter how often you say it, I’ve never heard of the cunt.”
“This guy is an enforcer, he tortures for the big boys, he does it and loves it, they say. And you fucked his missis, Jesus H Christ. You’d better scram the hell out of here, daddy O.”
“You worry too much. She’s been hanging around with some other grody clyde by the way.”
“Who?”
“Stoney.”
“Fuck man, I don’t think I even should be talking to you anymore.”
“Don’t you see man? If she is supposed to be with this Hill cat, and she is doing the rounds with this other oddball, then…maybe.”
“Oh I see, maybe you can play them off against each other is that it? You gotta be kidding me, you are real-gone kid, is she worth it?”
“My man, she’s a screamer!”
“A screamer's a hot car, man, not a chick.”
“Whatever.”
I carried on seeing her. We met in little Italian milk bars in the day, and the press club at night round the corner of the casino district, full of gay croupiers and grey-faced whiskey journalists. But our place, our favorite place was the Hope bar, near the meat markets, opened at 3 am closed at noon. We squeezed in-between porter drinking barrow boys and brandy drinking meat men, with blood on their hands and chops in bags swapped for fivers at the bar. We snorted in the men’s cubicles and fucked in the ladies, and took it all in, the whole scene, the fifties tunes, the fifties suits of dodgy geezers with vans and greyhounds on leads. We would go back to my gaff for more snorts and sniffs and muff diving for multiples and blowjobs with chilli.
“Well, what we have here is a Mexican standoff, gentlemen.”
“A couple of errand boys stood in the middle of quiffed chefs with their knives drawn and their caps off.”
“I told you this fucking punk is sacked cuz he smells.”
“So, what if he smells, he lives in a shit hole gets little sleep and works his bollocks off.”
“But he fucking smells, and it ain't good for business.”
“He’s a fucking KP, no one sees him. Who complained?”
“Some of the staff.”
“The fucking waiting staff you mean.”
“If he goes, we all go.”
“You don’t wanna start this shit, I’m telling you. When my boss hears about this knife shit man.”
“Tell your boss he ain't going nowhere.”
“And I’m telling you he’s fucking sacked.”
“In that case, you tell your fucking boss, we are on strike, from tomorrow no one works until he gets his fucking job back.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“They could do no more, just two of them. With 8 chefs armed with knives and 10 kps armed with pots and custard.”
They walked calmly through the group, and sniffed and looked the gathered up and down whilst flicking custard off their pin-stripes and winklepickers.
“Well be in touch.”
The End
I enjoy food related stories, and while the boundaries of this one were pushed a little further than I like, I did enjoy it. The restaurant scene with flying food and chefs with knives pulled was particularly exciting.