Don’t You Forget About Me(53)

I glance up at the room. I can practically feel those people who know me willing me to succeed, and everyone else watching me in detached curiosity.

‘A couple of years ago I was working at this charming café with chandeliers, gold wisteria wallpaper and pink Smeg fridges that served Kir Royales, chopped chicken salads and giant lumps of gateau that meant you might as well as not have had the salad. It did a roaring trade in afternoon tea.

‘That Christmas, a dozen or so women come in from a nearby office. Everyone is lovely, except for this one character with a sharp bob, very hard eyeliner and the look of an evil weather girl.

‘She summons me over and says: “I’m a vegan who can’t have wheat or sugar, so what can you do for me?”’ Bearing in mind here she’s looking at a menu full of sponge, cream, jam and sandwiches. She’s not warned us in advance. And she’s actually asking me to come up with suggestions. We both agree we have no idea what she might eat. “I’ll ask the chef,” I say.

‘I head to the kitchen with a flutter in my heart rate and lead in my boots. The café is in full whirling festive meltdown mode with 3,847 walk-ins on top of the large group bookings and you know when you appear with a dipshit customer query, they’re going to be only too pleased to take the stress out on you. I repeat her request and they laugh and say “She can pick the cucumber out of the cuke and tuna mayo baguette” and I say meekly: Definitely, nothing else? Cos I don’t think she will like this.

‘And the head chef screams: “EVEN IF I HAD THE TIME TO COOK WHATEVER THE FUCK SHE’S ASKING US TO MAKE I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SHE’S ASKING US TO MAKE SO THIS FAILS AT BOTH THE LITERAL AND CONCEPTUAL LEVEL, YOU GET ME?”’

I pause reading and I think, through the pounding of blood in my ears, am I dreaming it, or did that get a laugh? I plough on, with a notch more confidence:

‘… I mean, fair enough and nicely put, but not much help to me. I head back out and explain in my most conciliatory tone that without prior warning, there’s not much we can do for her, we’re so so so sorry. Evil Weathergirl starts spitting blood about how this is unacceptable. “You work in catering and you can’t think up a recipe? So I have to go hungry on my work’s Christmas do?!” Like I’m Jamie Oliver and she’s Oliver Twist. And then, she points to italics on the end of the menu saying: If you don’t see what you like here, please tell us & we’ll try our best to accommodate your wishes!

‘At that moment, I could stick corn cob forks in whichever innocent-minded simpleton thought it was a good idea to shove that on a menu because it sounded nice, without realising it’s a green light to every crank and moaner, and comes with heavy caveats in these times of clean eating neurotic intolerants.

‘I said, “It’s a busy time and your options are very restricted”, doing the grit-smile because I KNOW this lady’s not for turning.

‘“Oh so this is MY FAULT,” she says, and now the whole room’s listening.

‘I wait for her to calm down while knowing she’s not going to calm down.

‘“What am I supposed to eat?” she says.

‘“If you haven’t given us any warning there’s a limit to what we can do.”

‘“There isn’t a ‘limit’, you can’t do anything at all! For a vegan! In this day and age! I want to speak to your manager please.”

‘There was no manager because she was off sick. I told her this.’

I look up at the room. As luck would have it, my eyes fall on Rav, who is grinning from ear to ear. He gives me the thumbs up.

‘At this point the rest of the table is kicking off at me because they can’t order until it’s resolved and I can’t whip up spelt risotto made with coconut milk, seasoned with orphan’s tears, out of mid-air.

‘In sheer panic, I ask: “What about a cucumber salad?”

‘She accepts, with much huffing and tutting and hissing, that she will have a cucumber salad.

‘I go back to the kitchen. They are absolutely FURIOUS I allowed someone to order off menu, when they explicitly refused the request. More shouting and bare refusals. But I’ve told her she can have it. At some point between a rock and a hard place, you have to choose.

‘So I end up making it myself, with chefs around me deliberately jostling me because they’re so angry I’m even in there. I serve it, and she looks like I shat in my hand and shook hers.’

A laugh. That was a bona fide laugh.

‘She doesn’t touch the salad. The whole table doesn’t tip, and leave giving me dirty looks. I got laid off two weeks later because “We don’t need so many people after the rush is over” and it’s in no way because this woman emailed to complain about “your waitress’s attitude” afterwards and her company regularly spent money at this café and had a tab there. No way. I had to sell some of my Christmas presents to make my rent.

‘Anyway, a few weeks later I walk past this woman in town and she’s demolishing a mint choc chip Cornetto.’ I give a small bow. ‘The End.’

The room erupts into applause. I step off the stage and neck my prosecco in one, feeling like a badass. I side-eye the judges’ table and even Mr Keith is patting his hands together, albeit in a desultory fashion.

‘Was that the right sort of thing to read?’ I say, shakily, to a beaming Gareth.