Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

Suddenly, he jumps up from the embers. He’s got it now! The manager now knows how to win the powerful stoker’s favour and yet still keep his dignity. It’s a fact: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. The manager has heard that Rácz likes to eat, and eat a lot. He’s decided: tonight the manager is going to cook dinner for Rácz. He already imagines the stoker consuming with pleasure the piquant delicacy he’ll prepare, licking the plate and asking for seconds, and himself, the manager, then entering the dining room, bowing deeply, while Rácz applauds loudly and then shakes the manager’s hand passionately and warmly.

There is amazement in the kitchen. The manager hasn’t been seen there for a long time. Ever since the chef kicked him out.

“What do you want here?” The chef jumps at him, wielding a filleting knife.

The manager shakes his head. He pats the chef on his back trying to calm him down with a pleasant smile. He’s come to lighten the chef’s workload. He promises not to leave any mess behind him. Everything will be cleaned up and the dishes will be washed. He’ll cook for Rácz all by himself. “It’s vital,” he adds.

The cooks exchange glances of dismay. In the end, they agree. The daily menu is ready. And they were about to cook the special orders, and of course one for Rácz. Lately he’s been asking for special meals. He prefers simple dishes, the ones he was used to at home. Bean soup, bread with pork lard and raw onion, potatoes with butter and sour cream, and so on. He’s lost his appetite for the delicacies that the kitchen used to cook for him in an effort to win his favour.

Finally, they shrug. They’re as lazy as cats and welcome any opportunity to skive. The manager gets to work. He puts a white apron over his tracksuit. He quivers with impatience. The cooks go out for a smoke.

Soon the manager’s special dish wafts its seductive aromas all over the place. The apprentice chefs reluctantly fetch him spices, mustard, soy sauce, Cumberland and Worcestershire sauce. Choice larded morsels of meat braise under bouncing lids. The manager is chopping onions. He rids his eyes of tears by blinking frequently.

The chef enters the kitchen, a cigarette in his hand. “You think that’ll do you any good?” he asks, ironically screwing up his eyes.

The manager deliberately ignores the comment. He starts to sing ostentatiously. The chef spits angrily and leaves. He lacks the courage to kick the manager out. The cooks play cards in the changing room.

“Has he come?” the manager asks a pop-eyed waiter.

“Who?” asks the waiter, baffled.

“The stoker,” says the manager.

“No,” the waiter shakes his head, “the boss isn’t here yet.”

Finally, the manager is ready. He wipes his hands on his apron. Then he takes it off and throws it on the table. The waiters watch him with astonishment through the serving window. The apprentice chefs are jolting each other and playing catch on the slippery floor. The manager keeps an eye on them, while occasionally checking the bouncing pot-lids.

Soon the moment has come. The waiters whistle. Rácz is sitting in the dining room, banging the table impatiently with his fist. His stomach is rumbling. An old blue-rinsed American lady turns around in panic. When she finds out that the source of the strange stomach noises is the stoker himself, she gives him an ingratiating grin. She knows what an unheated hotel room is like.

“What are you staring at, you stupid cow?” Rácz mutters; he is calm, alert, and in a good mood. Silvia and Edita went shopping in the morning and haven’t come back yet. Rácz can eat any way he wants, he doesn’t have to suppress the noisy lip-smacking or banging the spoon against the crockery, as he has to do when his girlfriend and her friend are there. His business is also running like clockwork and that’s another reason to be content.

“Well, what have you got for me that’s good?” The stoker jovially asks the headwaiter approaching him with dignity from the left.

“We have a few specialities for you, boss,” says the headwaiter with servility. “They’ve been cooked by…”

“Just put it on the table and don’t blather, damn it!” Rácz bangs his fist on the table and his brow is furled capriciously and, seemingly, angrily. The headwaiter silently bows and motions to a waiter bringing the soup. While the waiter ladles the delicious soup for Rácz, the headwaiter nervously looks for the musician, who immediately enters, catching his breath, with a violin under his arm. Stojka, the fat gypsy from the cabaret band has to play every day at dinner for Rácz’s pleasure. Rácz often puts aside his cutlery and is moved to join in, singing the refrain of a popular tune before continuing his meal.

“The boss has finished the soup already,” the incoming waiter tells the manager who is nervously hiding behind the curtain dividing the dining room from the kitchen.

Rácz has slurped his soup and waits impatiently for the second course. The manager clumsily arranges a plate of veal medallions and accompanies the waiter to the curtain. One can hear Rácz singing to the accompaniment of the violin. Then comes the sound of the guests’ insincere, embarrassed applause. No one dares to eat while Rácz sings. Everybody pretends to listen to him. They wait for the song in an unfamiliar language to end before they resume dining.

“He’s started on the veal,” the waiter reports. “He’s tried the potatoes! He doesn’t like the sauce! It’s sour!” All this is reported in a panicky voice to the kitchen where all movement has stopped.

“He’s smashed the salad bowl with his fist,” the waiter following the action in the dining room cries in desperation.

“To hell with the salad,” the manager says to himself. “That doesn’t mean a thing. How about the meat?” he asks the waiter. “Does he like it?”

“He’s taking it out and putting it on the side of the plate,” the waiter tells the manager and leaves to get a drink. He’s been on his feet since morning.

The manager is pale. He gets even paler, when he hears the sound of smashing china. Stojka’s violin falls silent.

“Quick! Get him the next course!” shouts the headwaiter, running into the kitchen, his face and hair covered in sauce. Everyone starts to run around in panic, but nobody knows what to do.

“I’d really like to know what miracle you’ve cooked for the next course,” the chef tells the manager. He’s just come in from the changing room, a cigarette in his hand. Through the open door, the cooks could be seen drinking rum originally meant for the flambé.

“Give me goulash, Szegedi style!” shouts the headwaiter. “I expect it was too hot,” cries a trainee waiter, holding his cheek, which bears the mark of five fingers.

“Ice! Give me ice!” somebody shouts hysterically.

All work in the restaurant has stopped. All the kitchen staff are clinging to the curtain. They dare not let Rácz see them. They all realise that the situation is unsustainable and cannot go on much longer. Sooner or later a waiter or cook has to enter the abandoned dining room from which come guests’ muffled voices and Rácz’s terrible silence.

“You ought to go in,” the frightened headwaiter suggests to the chef.

“Send in an apprentice,” a cook suggests. The trainee waiter with the mark of the stoker’s hand on his cheek starts to cry.

“Don’t you have any apprentices?” the headwaiter addresses the cooks. “Who screwed up, anyway? You, the cooks!”

“Us?” The chef gets furious, and throws his cigarette butt away. Before he can suggest anything, there’s another proposal: send in the prettiest waitress topless. Maybe that will appease the stoker. There are two waitresses behind the curtain; at a vigorous nod from the headwaiter, they take off their blouses and bras. The staff assess them. They shake their heads; both waitresses are flat-chested. They’re as tall and thin as bean-poles. Offended, they put their clothes back on.