“I’ll have the fish,” said the man.
The Waiter dropped his pencil.
A hush descended on the room: curious eyes turned towards the scene.
The Waiter stared, transfixed. “The - the Fish, sir?”
“Yes, please,” the man confirmed. He spoke casually, pleasantly, taking no notice of the attention he had attracted.
The Waiter gulped. “The Fish, sir. Yes, of course.” He fumbled with his pad, then bent to retrieve his pencil, but made no notes. Instead, he drew himself up swiftly.
“A starter, sir?”
“No thank you. Just the fish.”
“Yes, sir.” The Waiter turned away. Close observers saw how he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began a long, slow, march towards the kitchens.
His departure prompted a subdued buzz of conversation.
“The Fish!” “Did you hear…?” “He ordered the Fish!” “No, surely…” “Good Heavens!” “The Fish?” “The Fish!”
There was a discrete shifting of chairs, as those whose view was obscured sought to get a look at the man in question. He seemed perfectly ordinary to the casual observer: middle aged, soberly dressed - he did not look the sort of person who would order the Fish.
But there he sat, a living, breathing, Fish-ordering human being, in defiance of all logic and convention, sipping unconcernedly at a glass of water and - no! Was it true? Yes! - he’d picked up the menu once more, and was looking at the sweets!
A sort of collective shudder ran through the room at the sight - no, at even the very thought; that a man who had blatantly and publicly ordered the Fish might go on to eat a sweet as well, as if it were of no consequence at all.
The Waiter had been having a bad day as it was. They were over-worked and under-staffed. Only that morning a waitress had been dismissed (for demanding tips with violence). She’d had to be forcibly ejected from the premises, which created an ugly scene, and the Head Waiter had blamed him for it all.
The Cook had also been difficult that day, though the poor man could not really be blamed for it, since the Health Inspectors had been round. That would have been enough to make anyone difficult. Poking and prying with their long bony fingers, peering into every little cavity with their little torches, sniffing, smelling, writing mysterious notes in little black books and then going off to confer in hushed, malicious whispers - before coming back to repeat the process with greater vigour. Then, when they’d finished with the Cook, they did the same to the kitchen.
The fact that they had reluctantly rated both Cook and kitchen as ‘passable’, hardly helped: Cook had been a bag of nerves all afternoon, and the Waiter was quite worn out with it all.
And now this!
The last time that he’d a day anything like as bad as this, the Waiter had gone home and quietly strangled the cat. The cat had never been replaced, and the Waiter now recalled with alarm that when he got home this evening, the only living creature in the house would be his wife.
His wife, with her lovely, long, slender neck….
With an effort of will, the Waiter thrust the thought from his mind and stepped into the kitchen.
The Cook was there, with his Assistant and the Head Waiter. (Cook had insisted that he should not be left alone for an instant, in case the Health Inspectors returned.) They saw at once that something was very wrong.
“What’s up, man?” asked the Head Waiter. “What’s happened?”
“They’re back again, aren’t they!” The Cook’s voice had a note of panic “It’s them!”
“No.” The Waiter shook his head. “Worse.” He took a deep breath. “Someone has ordered… The Fish.”
The silence was broken only by a soft thud as the Cook fainted clean away. His Assistant, ashen faced, made clumsy attempts to revive him with an egg-whisk, but the lad’s hands were shaking so violently that he was more likely to do harm than good.
However, the Head Waiter was made of sterner stuff. He’d seen action during the war, and he knew how to act in a crisis. Taking the egg whisk away from the Assistant Cook, he sent the youngster to sit in the corner and wash vegetables, adding a few quite words of encouragement. Then he examined the Cook, loosened his clothing, and made him as comfortable as possible before turning back to the Waiter.
“Bad business, I’m afraid.” His voice was weary, but firm: a man who knew his duty and would see it through, no matter what. “You’re sure he said Fish? It couldn’t have been… ah, Swiss? As in Swiss roll?”
“No, sir,” said the Waiter with regret. “Definitely Fish.”
The Head Waiter nodded. “That’s it then. I suppose there’s no chance of keeping it quiet?”
“The whole restaurant heard.”
“Well, then. We’ll just have to see this through.” The Head Waiter thought for a moment. “You’d better get back out there. Try and keep things calm. Be generous with the wine, that sort of thing. Have a word with the Bar-Tender. I’ll look after things in here. And tell - tell the Customer that his Fish… is coming.”
“Yes sir.” The Waiter turned to go. “Oh - sir…”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have a cat do you?”
“No. Not any more. Better get on with it. And don’t worry. We will get through this. Somehow.”
“Yes sir.” The Waiter left, trying not to think of his wife’s neck. That very delicate neck.
The Cook recovered to find the Head Waiter bending over him with a look of concern. Surprisingly, the Cook found that his mind was very clear and he felt remarkably calm.
“It’s true, then?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so.” The Head Waiter helped him up to a sitting position
“I always knew it would happen. Eventually.”
“I know,” said the Head Waiter, trying to exude comfort and strength.
“It’s just that the timing is so.. so lousy!”
“It’s terrible,” agreed the Head Waiter.
“But I will go through with it. I promise you that.”
“I never doubted it.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then the Head Waiter offered his colleague a glass of cooking sherry. But the Cook waved it aside.
“No,” he said firmly. “Thank you. But what I have to do, is best done with a clear head. You understand?”
“Of course.” The Head Waiter paused. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“I have to do this myself.”
The Head Waiter nodded. “Right then. I’d better get out and see who… see how things are going.”
The Cook heaved himself to his feet. He held on to the sink for a moment: then with a firm tread and a resolute jaw, set out for the storeroom where the Fish tank was kept.
It was cool in there. Cool and dim. The tank’s surface was dark, unruffled. Within it’s depths lurked a darker shadow, that moved silently to and fro. The Cook trailed his fingers in the water, and felt something surge by, rubbing at his fingertips. Gently, affectionately… trustingly.
He choked back a sob. There were a few soft splashes as salt water dripped from his nose into the water.
“Somehow, I never thought it would come to this.” He said aloud. “I always knew that it could… you were always on the menu… but I didn’t expect it. Not really. In the early days, perhaps. But people came to except it. It was understood. I got used to it. I didn’t even renew the order for Tartare Sauce.
There was a gentle, soothing splash in the tank, a surge of ripples.
“I know, I know. These have been good years. Good years…” For a moment, the Cook almost lost control: but he mastered himself. “I’ll make it quick. I promise you that much. Thank goodness you’re not a lobster.”
He took a deep breath, drew upon all his reserves of professional pride, and began the task.
Word had spread. Every table was full, the bar was crowded, and people hung about outside, agog with curiosity. A reporter from the local press was quietly interviewing eye-witnesses. A Constable had made his presence known, and promised that a car would be in the area, in case of trouble.
The Waiter was kept busy taking orders and confiscating cameras. There was a worrying itch in his palms, and he’d broken several wine glasses: the slender stems snapped so easily between his fingers.
The Head Waiter slipped out of the kitchen, gave the Waiter a meaningful glance, and went back inside. The Waiter followed him out.
“It’s ready, then.” The Waiter made it a statement, not a question.
“He’s just sprinkling the parsley now.”
“How’s he taking it?”
“Holding up like a professional. But I’m sending him home afterwards. We’ll cancel the bookings and close early.”
“Good.” The Waiter considered the fact that his wife wouldn’t be expecting him, and his fingers clenched involuntarily. “How shall we do this?”
“I’ll create a diversion.” The Head Waiter paused, considering tactics. “I’ll give the reporter a whacking great bill. When he starts arguing, you come out with the…”
“Fish.”
“Quite so. And once you’ve started, don’t stop for anything. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Cook appeared. A drained shell of a man, held upright only by an iron will and dedication to duty.
“It’s done,” he said in a dull voice.
“Good man,” said the Head Waiter. “You can slip off now if you want. I’ll cover for you.”
The Cook gave him a tired look. “Leave? No. I don’t think so. I’ll... come out in a little while. I think I want to see… who. You know.”
The Head Waiter gave him an understanding nod. “Fair enough, old chap.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” asked the Waiter sympathetically. “I mean - you’re looking a bit pale around the... ah...”
There was a short embarrassed silence, as they avoided each others eyes. Then the Head Waiter looked at his watch.
“Right. Better get on with it then. Give me a minute or two.”
So saying, he pushed through the doors and vanished into the crowd. The Waiter prepared to pick up the plate. He felt calm enough, but found it strangely difficult to unclench his hands from the cutlery rack.
The Head Waiter’s plan worked. The Waiter was three quarters of the way across the room with the steaming plate before anyone notice. Yet by the time he had reached the table, a deathly hush had fallen. Even the reporter had stopped waving his expense claim in the Head Waiter’s face.
“Your Fish, sir,” the Waiter announced. The Customer folded his paper, looked up with a smile, and nodded his thanks. Oblivious to the attention focused on him, he sniffed appreciatively, and reached for his knife and fork.
He picked up his knife and fork.
Moved the plate a little closer.
Selected a portion of Fish.
Delicately speared it with his fork.
Cut into it with his knife.
Raised it to his mouth…
and began to chew.
A low gasp flowed through the room. He’d done it! He’d actually done it!
There were a few soft thuds as persons of a more sensitive nature, overcome by the drama of the moment, fainted clean away. A St. John’s Ambulance team was in attendance, and moved swiftly to assist.
The Customer ate slowly, appreciatively, savouring each bite. The Waiter and the Head Waiter hovered unobtrusively close by, alert to every nuance of the situation. A slow mutter of conversation began again, only to die abruptly when the Cook stepped into the room.
He held himself stiffly upright as he walked through the packed tables, looking neither right nor left but marching straight towards his goal, the one table where a man sat eating the Fish. All eyes were on him, and not a person there failed to marvel at the sheer, raw guts of the man, to come out and confront in person a blatantly Fish-eating Customer.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?” Amazingly, his voice was almost normal: only those who knew him well could detect the strain in it.
“Yes, absolutely,” the Customer replied. “Are you the Cook?”
“I am, sir. And is the… is the… is it all right?” He could not quite manage to say the word.
“The fish? Oh yes. Delicious.”
That final twist of the knife was almost too much: the Cook swayed slightly as the Customer turned back to his meal. Quick as a flash, the Head Waiter was at his side, and escorting him to the bar where he was seated and given a small bottle of gin. The Waiter stood nearby, absentmindedly destroying a floral arrangement.
And then at last, mercifully, it was over. The Customer laid aside his knife and fork, and as the Waiter stepped up to him, consulted his watch.
“No time for a sweet, I’m afraid. Or coffee. I think that should cover the bill - keep the change.”
“Thank you sir. Most generous. Coat, sir?”
“Oh - yes, thank you.”
As the Waiter assisted the Customer into his coat, the Head Waiter stepped forward.
“I do hope that you’ve enjoyed your meal, sir.”
“Oh, yes, very much. Lovely piece of fish.” He failed to notice the shudder that ran through the room, or that, over by the bar, the Cook had began to weep silently. “I don’t have fish very often, actually, but that was a rare treat!”
The Cook emptied the gin bottle.
“Still,” continued the Customer, pausing at the door. “I think that next time I come I’ll try the chicken. Bye, now!”
The Customer left the restaurant. He noted with mild curiosity that a police car was racing up the street towards the restaurant, lights and sirens at full blast. But he was all unaware that in the moment of his departure, pandemonium had broken out behind him. The Waiter was throttling the Head Waiter, and the Cook was attempting ritual suicide with a broken gin bottle. The reporter frantically scribbled in his pad, the St John’s Ambulance team were overwhelmed with calls for assistance, and others shouted, screamed or in other ways added to the panic.
But many sat in stunned silence, struck dumb and senseless by the thought, the very concept even, that a man who had before their eyes both ordered and eaten the Fish - might then calmly propose to do the same to the Chicken.
The Waiter dropped his pencil.
A hush descended on the room: curious eyes turned towards the scene.
The Waiter stared, transfixed. “The - the Fish, sir?”
“Yes, please,” the man confirmed. He spoke casually, pleasantly, taking no notice of the attention he had attracted.
The Waiter gulped. “The Fish, sir. Yes, of course.” He fumbled with his pad, then bent to retrieve his pencil, but made no notes. Instead, he drew himself up swiftly.
“A starter, sir?”
“No thank you. Just the fish.”
“Yes, sir.” The Waiter turned away. Close observers saw how he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began a long, slow, march towards the kitchens.
His departure prompted a subdued buzz of conversation.
“The Fish!” “Did you hear…?” “He ordered the Fish!” “No, surely…” “Good Heavens!” “The Fish?” “The Fish!”
There was a discrete shifting of chairs, as those whose view was obscured sought to get a look at the man in question. He seemed perfectly ordinary to the casual observer: middle aged, soberly dressed - he did not look the sort of person who would order the Fish.
But there he sat, a living, breathing, Fish-ordering human being, in defiance of all logic and convention, sipping unconcernedly at a glass of water and - no! Was it true? Yes! - he’d picked up the menu once more, and was looking at the sweets!
A sort of collective shudder ran through the room at the sight - no, at even the very thought; that a man who had blatantly and publicly ordered the Fish might go on to eat a sweet as well, as if it were of no consequence at all.
The Waiter had been having a bad day as it was. They were over-worked and under-staffed. Only that morning a waitress had been dismissed (for demanding tips with violence). She’d had to be forcibly ejected from the premises, which created an ugly scene, and the Head Waiter had blamed him for it all.
The Cook had also been difficult that day, though the poor man could not really be blamed for it, since the Health Inspectors had been round. That would have been enough to make anyone difficult. Poking and prying with their long bony fingers, peering into every little cavity with their little torches, sniffing, smelling, writing mysterious notes in little black books and then going off to confer in hushed, malicious whispers - before coming back to repeat the process with greater vigour. Then, when they’d finished with the Cook, they did the same to the kitchen.
The fact that they had reluctantly rated both Cook and kitchen as ‘passable’, hardly helped: Cook had been a bag of nerves all afternoon, and the Waiter was quite worn out with it all.
And now this!
The last time that he’d a day anything like as bad as this, the Waiter had gone home and quietly strangled the cat. The cat had never been replaced, and the Waiter now recalled with alarm that when he got home this evening, the only living creature in the house would be his wife.
His wife, with her lovely, long, slender neck….
With an effort of will, the Waiter thrust the thought from his mind and stepped into the kitchen.
The Cook was there, with his Assistant and the Head Waiter. (Cook had insisted that he should not be left alone for an instant, in case the Health Inspectors returned.) They saw at once that something was very wrong.
“What’s up, man?” asked the Head Waiter. “What’s happened?”
“They’re back again, aren’t they!” The Cook’s voice had a note of panic “It’s them!”
“No.” The Waiter shook his head. “Worse.” He took a deep breath. “Someone has ordered… The Fish.”
The silence was broken only by a soft thud as the Cook fainted clean away. His Assistant, ashen faced, made clumsy attempts to revive him with an egg-whisk, but the lad’s hands were shaking so violently that he was more likely to do harm than good.
However, the Head Waiter was made of sterner stuff. He’d seen action during the war, and he knew how to act in a crisis. Taking the egg whisk away from the Assistant Cook, he sent the youngster to sit in the corner and wash vegetables, adding a few quite words of encouragement. Then he examined the Cook, loosened his clothing, and made him as comfortable as possible before turning back to the Waiter.
“Bad business, I’m afraid.” His voice was weary, but firm: a man who knew his duty and would see it through, no matter what. “You’re sure he said Fish? It couldn’t have been… ah, Swiss? As in Swiss roll?”
“No, sir,” said the Waiter with regret. “Definitely Fish.”
The Head Waiter nodded. “That’s it then. I suppose there’s no chance of keeping it quiet?”
“The whole restaurant heard.”
“Well, then. We’ll just have to see this through.” The Head Waiter thought for a moment. “You’d better get back out there. Try and keep things calm. Be generous with the wine, that sort of thing. Have a word with the Bar-Tender. I’ll look after things in here. And tell - tell the Customer that his Fish… is coming.”
“Yes sir.” The Waiter turned to go. “Oh - sir…”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have a cat do you?”
“No. Not any more. Better get on with it. And don’t worry. We will get through this. Somehow.”
“Yes sir.” The Waiter left, trying not to think of his wife’s neck. That very delicate neck.
The Cook recovered to find the Head Waiter bending over him with a look of concern. Surprisingly, the Cook found that his mind was very clear and he felt remarkably calm.
“It’s true, then?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so.” The Head Waiter helped him up to a sitting position
“I always knew it would happen. Eventually.”
“I know,” said the Head Waiter, trying to exude comfort and strength.
“It’s just that the timing is so.. so lousy!”
“It’s terrible,” agreed the Head Waiter.
“But I will go through with it. I promise you that.”
“I never doubted it.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then the Head Waiter offered his colleague a glass of cooking sherry. But the Cook waved it aside.
“No,” he said firmly. “Thank you. But what I have to do, is best done with a clear head. You understand?”
“Of course.” The Head Waiter paused. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“I have to do this myself.”
The Head Waiter nodded. “Right then. I’d better get out and see who… see how things are going.”
The Cook heaved himself to his feet. He held on to the sink for a moment: then with a firm tread and a resolute jaw, set out for the storeroom where the Fish tank was kept.
It was cool in there. Cool and dim. The tank’s surface was dark, unruffled. Within it’s depths lurked a darker shadow, that moved silently to and fro. The Cook trailed his fingers in the water, and felt something surge by, rubbing at his fingertips. Gently, affectionately… trustingly.
He choked back a sob. There were a few soft splashes as salt water dripped from his nose into the water.
“Somehow, I never thought it would come to this.” He said aloud. “I always knew that it could… you were always on the menu… but I didn’t expect it. Not really. In the early days, perhaps. But people came to except it. It was understood. I got used to it. I didn’t even renew the order for Tartare Sauce.
There was a gentle, soothing splash in the tank, a surge of ripples.
“I know, I know. These have been good years. Good years…” For a moment, the Cook almost lost control: but he mastered himself. “I’ll make it quick. I promise you that much. Thank goodness you’re not a lobster.”
He took a deep breath, drew upon all his reserves of professional pride, and began the task.
Word had spread. Every table was full, the bar was crowded, and people hung about outside, agog with curiosity. A reporter from the local press was quietly interviewing eye-witnesses. A Constable had made his presence known, and promised that a car would be in the area, in case of trouble.
The Waiter was kept busy taking orders and confiscating cameras. There was a worrying itch in his palms, and he’d broken several wine glasses: the slender stems snapped so easily between his fingers.
The Head Waiter slipped out of the kitchen, gave the Waiter a meaningful glance, and went back inside. The Waiter followed him out.
“It’s ready, then.” The Waiter made it a statement, not a question.
“He’s just sprinkling the parsley now.”
“How’s he taking it?”
“Holding up like a professional. But I’m sending him home afterwards. We’ll cancel the bookings and close early.”
“Good.” The Waiter considered the fact that his wife wouldn’t be expecting him, and his fingers clenched involuntarily. “How shall we do this?”
“I’ll create a diversion.” The Head Waiter paused, considering tactics. “I’ll give the reporter a whacking great bill. When he starts arguing, you come out with the…”
“Fish.”
“Quite so. And once you’ve started, don’t stop for anything. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Cook appeared. A drained shell of a man, held upright only by an iron will and dedication to duty.
“It’s done,” he said in a dull voice.
“Good man,” said the Head Waiter. “You can slip off now if you want. I’ll cover for you.”
The Cook gave him a tired look. “Leave? No. I don’t think so. I’ll... come out in a little while. I think I want to see… who. You know.”
The Head Waiter gave him an understanding nod. “Fair enough, old chap.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” asked the Waiter sympathetically. “I mean - you’re looking a bit pale around the... ah...”
There was a short embarrassed silence, as they avoided each others eyes. Then the Head Waiter looked at his watch.
“Right. Better get on with it then. Give me a minute or two.”
So saying, he pushed through the doors and vanished into the crowd. The Waiter prepared to pick up the plate. He felt calm enough, but found it strangely difficult to unclench his hands from the cutlery rack.
The Head Waiter’s plan worked. The Waiter was three quarters of the way across the room with the steaming plate before anyone notice. Yet by the time he had reached the table, a deathly hush had fallen. Even the reporter had stopped waving his expense claim in the Head Waiter’s face.
“Your Fish, sir,” the Waiter announced. The Customer folded his paper, looked up with a smile, and nodded his thanks. Oblivious to the attention focused on him, he sniffed appreciatively, and reached for his knife and fork.
He picked up his knife and fork.
Moved the plate a little closer.
Selected a portion of Fish.
Delicately speared it with his fork.
Cut into it with his knife.
Raised it to his mouth…
and began to chew.
A low gasp flowed through the room. He’d done it! He’d actually done it!
There were a few soft thuds as persons of a more sensitive nature, overcome by the drama of the moment, fainted clean away. A St. John’s Ambulance team was in attendance, and moved swiftly to assist.
The Customer ate slowly, appreciatively, savouring each bite. The Waiter and the Head Waiter hovered unobtrusively close by, alert to every nuance of the situation. A slow mutter of conversation began again, only to die abruptly when the Cook stepped into the room.
He held himself stiffly upright as he walked through the packed tables, looking neither right nor left but marching straight towards his goal, the one table where a man sat eating the Fish. All eyes were on him, and not a person there failed to marvel at the sheer, raw guts of the man, to come out and confront in person a blatantly Fish-eating Customer.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?” Amazingly, his voice was almost normal: only those who knew him well could detect the strain in it.
“Yes, absolutely,” the Customer replied. “Are you the Cook?”
“I am, sir. And is the… is the… is it all right?” He could not quite manage to say the word.
“The fish? Oh yes. Delicious.”
That final twist of the knife was almost too much: the Cook swayed slightly as the Customer turned back to his meal. Quick as a flash, the Head Waiter was at his side, and escorting him to the bar where he was seated and given a small bottle of gin. The Waiter stood nearby, absentmindedly destroying a floral arrangement.
And then at last, mercifully, it was over. The Customer laid aside his knife and fork, and as the Waiter stepped up to him, consulted his watch.
“No time for a sweet, I’m afraid. Or coffee. I think that should cover the bill - keep the change.”
“Thank you sir. Most generous. Coat, sir?”
“Oh - yes, thank you.”
As the Waiter assisted the Customer into his coat, the Head Waiter stepped forward.
“I do hope that you’ve enjoyed your meal, sir.”
“Oh, yes, very much. Lovely piece of fish.” He failed to notice the shudder that ran through the room, or that, over by the bar, the Cook had began to weep silently. “I don’t have fish very often, actually, but that was a rare treat!”
The Cook emptied the gin bottle.
“Still,” continued the Customer, pausing at the door. “I think that next time I come I’ll try the chicken. Bye, now!”
The Customer left the restaurant. He noted with mild curiosity that a police car was racing up the street towards the restaurant, lights and sirens at full blast. But he was all unaware that in the moment of his departure, pandemonium had broken out behind him. The Waiter was throttling the Head Waiter, and the Cook was attempting ritual suicide with a broken gin bottle. The reporter frantically scribbled in his pad, the St John’s Ambulance team were overwhelmed with calls for assistance, and others shouted, screamed or in other ways added to the panic.
But many sat in stunned silence, struck dumb and senseless by the thought, the very concept even, that a man who had before their eyes both ordered and eaten the Fish - might then calmly propose to do the same to the Chicken.