High Season (6 page)

Alice is disappointed that I'm not at home with the family today. Part of the deal with getting Christmas Day off was that I agreed to work every other day over the summer break—including New Year's Day. Really, she's seen it all before in regards to chefs and peak seasons and anyway, the photo of the kids fighting is just to remind me what it's like for her, having to deal with the boys by herself all summer. She needs to know that someone else can feel her pain.

Our eldest son is a full two years from going through puberty, but he's practising. It's a compelling performance. And it's a show that's been going on for about six months. As a team, we've recently surrendered to the idea that our children now have a speaking part in the small drama that constitutes our shared lives. Suddenly our kids are people too. None of the lines our boys are trialling are original nor are they anything we haven't heard before—it's just that we'd been suffering the delusion that only other parents had nightmare children.

Alice also understands completely that in order to meet the weekly demands of a modest mortgage, school fees and the running costs of two very second-hand cars, one of us has to work sixty to eighty hours a week somewhere, or we have to split the money-earning responsibilities and work around each other, juggling the kids as we go. We've tried both methods of family management and arrived at the conclusion that being young and irresponsible is grossly underrated.

Alice was twenty years old when we met. I was twenty-eight and sitting in a modest room above a suburban church. She walked in with a friend and within the first hour I knew I was studying my future bride. She was the opposite of me in nearly every way but I recognised her every look and mood. I knew why she glanced away or pulled at her hair or wriggled in her seat or coughed. I knew that the reason she glared intently at the boy sitting next to me was to deflect my love-struck grin.

From that first night it seemed clear to me that she possessed a particular kind of vulnerability that I was born to care for. There was—and is—something fierce and innocent about Alice. Normally I would have been more modest in my aspirations but there was this split second when she did return my stare and . . . that was all the time I needed. I was reborn, remade, recast and she quickly became the reason I breathed, woke up, caught the bus and went to work. In the story of my life, Alice has all the winning lines. As soon as I'd pictured us together, I became convinced that nothing bad could happen. And in the strangest of ways, I was right.

Not that she would have anything to do with me for the longest time. To suggest I was obsessive in those early days is an understatement. I was a badgering, hounding lunatic. And it wasn't until I convinced her to come out with me to a few decent restaurants that she glimpsed some faint potential. At an assortment of cafes, restaurants and wok-shops, I found the confidence to talk and act in a way that didn't mark me out as just a lunatic. I was a lunatic who could cook. And as the number of restaurants that we sampled grew, she began to allow me into other parts of her life. Sometimes she would let me pick her up from college. One red-letter day she took the risk of introducing me to some of her student friends, who I worked so hard at trying to charm that she desisted from any further such introductions for a long time. And yet I remained irrepressible: eager to lock things down, tie things up and throw away the key.

‘I'm not ready to settle down,' she'd say. ‘We're so young!'

It was a logic that was obvious to everyone but me. I was, apparently, tone deaf to the finer points of romance. But my life hadn't really unfolded in such a way that I could imagine how two people might go out on a few dates and have a little fun while they got to know each other. I seemed destined to always be the obsessive-compulsive smack-before-breakfast kind of guy who thought getting to know someone was the risk you took if you happened to wake up later than expected. (‘Sorry . . . what was your name again?') And that wasn't the sort of thing Alice was up for.

Basically, I didn't know what fun looked like if it didn't come in the form of white powder—or beige or pink or brown or tar-coloured or . . . any colour of the rainbow.

Of course Alice has never forgiven me for winning out in the end. Our saving grace is that we did manage to spend five years together before the first of our two boys arrived. In retrospect we could have enjoyed a couple more. But what are you going to do?

As the third picture comes through on my phone I can sense that an actual call is not far off. She'll start by asking something like, ‘Did you get the pictures?' And then follow up with some breaking news about not having any idea what to do with the kids day after day . . . without any money! And some time later, when the rest of the world's asleep, we'll wonder aloud how it all came to this and convince ourselves once more that, just like every other year, this high season will end too.

But this morning, like every other morning of high season, my most immediate concern was parking.

Off to the left, at Rae's, there's parking for about five of the guests' cars after Vinnie has lodged his Porsche sideways across the driveway. And while to roar down Marine Parade and screech up the paved drive at Rae's—which is the last strip of privately held real estate before the beach—is not everyone's idea of being a made man, for some it's a particularly sweet fantasy.

As luck would have it this morning, my secret parking spot was not taken. It's a spot famous among the staff at Rae's, right outside Deke's house, which, if he's not entertaining, he doesn't mind you using. It's a real treat. And it's morally uplifting to be able to park there this morning. And it's not that I hate tourists—tourists are my bread and butter; I'm nothing without their desire to wine and dine at Rae's—it's just that because everyone else in the neighbourhood is on holidays there is often a certain tension between the stressed-out, overly tired, heap-of-shit-car-driving chefs and the rest of the punters. Quite simply, they don't get it. And that's okay! I'm sure I'd be a fish out of water in their world.

And just like every other morning I've walked into the kitchen at Rae's, this morning it smelt of sour cooking oil, cigarette smoke and bacon and eggs. Vinnie has been and gone—even though the Porsche was still in the driveway—having cooked breakfast for the guests who ordered it. Vinnie chooses to cook the breakfasts himself for two reasons: first, he hates paying a breakfast chef to do something that he considers unworthy of paid labour; and second, it's an ideal cure for a hangover. Same as every other morning Vinnie cooks breakfast, this morning the kitchen is a fucking mess.

I've had the privilege of doing a number of services in the kitchen with Vinnie Rae as head chef. And while publicly he taught me everything I know—when what I do is good—he's not what most people would call an organised or well-prepared chef. And that's because he doesn't have to be; when you own the joint, you can do what you like and I get that. It's just that sometimes it would be nice to walk in and not have to start cleaning up burnt toast and cooked egg whites and dirty pans. And the reason I have to start cleaning up rather than a kitchen hand or an apprentice is because he won't pay for them to start early.

Vinnie is big on wage control. He doesn't give a fuck about food costs, really—he's happy for the punters who pay the bills to have the best—but wages, forget about it. Every hour that a staff member works is akin to having them reach into his front pocket and pull out his money. It's an affront to him that people expect to get paid. After everything he's done for them! Not that anyone ever figures out what it is Vinnie actually has done for them, but that's beside the point; while you're scratching your head, he'll be in the surf dropping in on overweight tourists on rented McTavish mini-mals.

Scotty was in the house early this morning and that was comforting. Even if he was in a mild panic and rambling on about the carnage of last night which, as far as New Year's Eves go, was apparently a show-stopper. All of which I missed because I fled home straight after service. Scotty told the usual stories about celebrities and broken glass out by the pool. Broken bottles and broken vows and broken dreams and massive bills—that about covers the early morning gossip among the staff at Rae's before service begins. Out by the pool . . . I swear that space is a late-night fantasyland of fame and glory and money and models and champagne and—well, you can just picture the redemptive yoga practice come brunch time.

There's a barbeque next to the pool area that sometimes inspires guests to borrow a chef from the kitchen and—with the smallest amount of help—throw together a rustic seafood lunch or some late-night Wagyu beef burgers. And maybe it's because everyone cooks at some stage of their life that some guests feel compelled to share a few of their greatest hits and memories in regards to all things cooking. Some of the tips are pure gold, really . . . It's not all bad, though. Over the past couple of years I've ended up cooking for Baz and CM a few times, dozens of models and various celebrities from around the globe. The people who can sit back, relax and enjoy the service seem to have the best time, whereas the guys who insist on showing the chef a thing or two invariably end up splattered with pork fat and chowing down on burnt beef. Go figure.

But then, just to shake things up this morning, Vinnie suddenly appeared at the bar, which is open at chest level through to the kitchen, dripping wet and smoking a fag.

‘Chef! What's happening? You on top of it?' he shouted, blowing smoke into the kitchen as he set about making a juice in the bar blender.

‘Yes, Vinnie,' I replied, a little surprised that he'd hung around after breakfast. ‘We should be okay. Big night last night but I'll get the boys to hit the ground running. How was the surf?'

But Vinnie didn't want to talk about the surf. Other than as something for others to envy. ‘You know me, mate, if it's big I'm out. It's all about the
mise en place
today, Jimmy, all right? Get fucking prepped up—and don't let that little Choc prick keep disappearing out the back gate.'

‘What's he doing out there?' I asked.

‘Oh, c'mon, he's a fucking pothead. He came walking back from the coolroom last night right when there were guests coming out of the toilets and he fucking reeked of dope. It's not a good look, mate.'

‘I'll talk to him, Vinnie.'

‘And make sure you get the boys to pick those crabs, all right? Get them on the menu for lunch.'

‘Yes, Chef.'

‘Have you done the lunch menu yet?' Vinnie asked, like he wasn't actually taking the piss.

‘No, Chef. Scotty's not ready yet,' I lied, also taking the piss.

‘Yeah, yeah. Scotty, why aren't you fucking ready, mate? It's fucking New Year's Day,' Vinnie yelled to Scotty, who was out in the restaurant area setting up tables.

Scotty started mumbling something from out on the floor but Vinnie just turned away, laughing. ‘Silly cunt. Can't hear a word he's saying. And fucking clean this place up, all right, Jimmy?'

I shot him a look, like,
go easy
.

‘Yeah!' Vinnie fired right back. ‘I know it's busy, mate, but that's no excuse. You had the kitchen hand do fifty hours last week. He's taking home more than me.'

‘Well, that means he's getting twice what I get and I did ninety hours,' I said, starting to get pissed off.

‘Don't be a smart-arse, Jimmy, it doesn't suit you. And the boxes down in the garage, mate—what the fuck's going on down there?'

By now the blender in the bar was going full-blast as Vinnie leant into the kitchen blowing smoke everywhere and shooting down early morning flies with an aerosol can of Mortein.

‘Jesus, Vinnie. Go easy on that stuff,' I warned as I loaded his dirty breakfast pans into the sink.

‘You've got to do it early, Chef, give it a good spray before you start prepping, all right?'

‘Yes, Chef.' I was starting to warm up.

‘And get that little Soda cunt to flatten the boxes out, all right?'

‘Yes, Chef,' I repeated, a little louder.

‘And Jimmy,' Vinnie added as he floated past slurping on his juice, ‘don't be a smart-arse, all right?'

‘Yes, Chef!' I bellowed. And that's all he'd wanted to do. Get me fired up before the rest of the staff walked into the joint so they'd see me running rather than just warming up.

And as the 911 roared to life out in the driveway, its canvas roof folding back into its position behind the rear seats, I strolled out to the restaurant and kung-fu'd the air and side-kicked the flies. It was enough to make Scotty look up for a beat from his screaming vacuum cleaner and flick me a middle finger. And if it were any other day I would have gone on with it . . . but it's not, and I didn't. Instead I slapped my face a couple of times, sucked it up, and marched out to the coolroom, the familiarity of its smell already somewhere deep inside me.

8

A random stocktake at the Bondi Hotel brought my cosy world undone. Frankly, I had disappointed myself—and, more significantly, the general manager—during my time punching in numbers on the cash register in the drive-through. We shared a first name and he seemed to genuinely like me but when he sat me down one morning and said he had to let me go because the inventory was so many dollars out, the numbers shocked me. I protested, of course, but who else could he blame? I had the keys to the cash register and the coolroom; I refilled the cigarette shelves and replaced the bottles of wine. It's just that, until the three-monthly stocktake rolled around, I was in a space which might fairly be described as heaven on earth. Bondi in spring is a glorious thing: I always had cash in my pockets and a spare cigarette for the bums down the laneway where the drive-through operated at the back of the hotel; I was a trusted and even well-liked employee . . . and yet I was living a double life.