Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

I watch the two of them snuggle down in the back of a taxi and I feel almost moist-eyed with pleasure. Almost, I hasten to add. The last time I cried was when England got beaten by West Germany in Mexico. Oh, that one’s good deeds could always be so pleasurably accomplished. I exclude from that statement the last part of the exercise. Exercise! By the cringe. When I finally escape from the Terrible Trio, my willy wonker feels like a tassel that has been in a hassle with an electric fan.

In the next few days I steer clear of the birds and concentrate on my duties. As a waiter I learn how to order up courses that people don’t want and put them on one side for consumption later. You would think that in a large hotel there would be plenty of spare grub about but often the stall’s food is diabolical and the chefs watch for nicking like hawks. If anybody is going to have a bit of spare, it is going to be them.

My most instructive period is that which I spend with Dennis the barman, or head barman as he prefers to be called. He is a grade one tealeaf and I am certain I only get wise to a fraction of his little dodges. For example: he leaves the spirit measure to soak in a bowl of water. Very hygienic, but every time he picks one up to dish out a drink he makes sure he scoops up some of the water in the bowl so that the booze is diluted and he is getting extra mileage out of every bottle. The number of shots per bottle is an established figure so every tot over the top is money in the barman’s pocket. It is also fairly easy to take the odd bottle from the stock room without signing for it. Provided the books usually balance, nobody is going to get too fussed about the occasional discrepancy. And, if you are catering for a party, why not buy a few bottles of booze from the local cash and carry and sell them as well as the hotel’s stuff? You make a much bigger profit that way. Again, if you have got a bar going at a private party, and you have to do the accounts afterwards, you have to be dozy not to be able to top up a few bottles with what people have left lying about. This way you don’t have to account for so much money and the surplus goes into your own pocket.

The softest touch of all is short-changing people. After a while you can tell at a glance the people who count their change. Any business man buying a large round of drinks for his superiors or potential clients is only going to look at the change in order to select a tip twice the size of the one he normally gives. Some poor jerk taking out a girl he wants to impress is also unlikely to start making a fuss. Whether you add a bit to the cost of a round, or indulge in a spot of short-changing, the chances are that you will rarely be challenged. Dennis’s speciality, I observed, was to serve a round of drinks and keep some of the change back under the bill which he held out on the tray for the customer to see. Like as not the customer would push some more change over for a tip and if he did notice a discrepancy, the missing change would appear from under the bill where it had ‘accidentally’ got lodged. Jumbo-sized grovelling from Dennis and a temporary drop in his fringe benefits.

Quite how much Dennis made out of his fiddles I don’t know but he was rumoured to own a house in the South of Spain, and keep an expensive flat in London. Working with him made me realise that you can never put a stop to all the fiddles but, at least, you can get a bloody good idea of what to look out for if you ever have the misfortune to try and control some of the fly boys who hang out in the hotel business. The trouble is that if you sack one, you stand a good chance of getting someone even worse next time. And it could take you months to get to know all his fiddles! That is what Sid decides anyway, and I reckon he is probably right.

Incidentally, one last word while I am on the subject of fiddles. If you order a gin and tonic or a whisky and dry ginger and it arrives with half the mixer slopped into it, send it back and tell the barman you would rather mix your own drink. Chances are that he has given you a half measure of spirit and topped up with tonic.

Although Sid has fallen for Miss Ruperts’ upper crust charms and is prepared to tolerate Mrs Caitley because of her, he has definitely got the needle with Superpoof, the head waiter, and it is fortunate that the spaghetti bolognese incident brings matters to a head–literally as it turns out.

As already reported, Mrs Caitley takes umbrage whenever Bentley tries to step into her sphere of influence and he is taking his life in his hands when he decides that it will be easier to serve the spaghetti bolognese if it is premixed in the kitchen. Mrs Caitley says no. Ladle the spaghetti out on to the plate, then add the meat sauce from a gravy boat. I would not be fussed either way, but when Superpoof waits until Mrs C. has been called to Miss Ruperts’ office and invades the kitchen it is like asking for his stamp collection.

I sense something unpleasant is going to happen when he comes staggering out of the kitchen with a great tureen of gunge in his hands. His face is pink and it is obvious that the kitchen staff have said a few nasty things to him.

I tighten my grip on my parmesan as he slaps the bowl down on a serving table and waves at one of the chefs du rang to get on with it. The dining room is pretty crowded by Cromby standards and in view of what is about to happen this is bad luck for everybody. As the chef du rang is about to start serving, the swing doors to the kitchen burst open. It might be a water buffalo but–even more terrifying–it is Mrs Caitley. The expression on her face makes me shrink back against the wall. Always a close contender with Miss Ruperts for the world’s ugliest woman title she is now threatening to break clear of the field. One glance at her mush and I feel like I am standing at the mouth of a cave with a tiger cub under my arm just as Mummy gets back from the butchers. Her eye falls on Bentley like a factory chimney collapsing and she eats up the distance between them in half a dozen giant paces.

‘Return to your province, Mrs Caitley,’ squeals Superpoof, retreating from the table.

‘Odious toad,’ hisses Mrs C. ‘To set foot in my kingdom is to declare war. How dare you interfere with my arrangements!’

These words are delivered in what I believe is called a stentorian bellow and every bod in the dining room freezes with his fork half way to his cakehole.

‘I am responsible for how the food is served,’ sniffs Bentley. ‘Return at once or I will have my staff eject you.’ If I am supposed to be one of his staff he can count me out. I would not back Joe Frazier against Mrs C. Current form proves me right as she feints to jab and then throws a left hook which explodes on the point of Bentley’s jaw.

‘Seize her,’ he howls, staggering backwards. There is a half-hearted shuffle from those more courageous than myself, but before any action can be taken Mrs C. has snatched up the tureen of pre-mixed spaghetti bolognese.

‘If this is what you want, you can have it,’ she howls. Whoosh! Everybody within twenty feet gets a helping and if they want seconds then Bentley is the man to come to. He is covered in the stuff and his eyes blink out like he is trapped in a cage of spaghetti.

You have to laugh but before I can get into my stride the swing doors to the kitchen burst open and reinforcements arrive. As I have said before Caitley’s Corps tend to be on the rough side and this lot do not look as if they are on their way to the Badminton Horse Trials. Crunch! Biff! Wallop! Before further words can be spoken they wade into the waiters and the guests have to fend for themselves. The bright ones scarper while others cower at their tables and two effeminate coves, trapped in a corner, slide under the table cloth at floor level.