Monica Ali - In the Kitchen

in The Kitchen

by

Monica Ali

Gabriel, a chef from the North of England, dreams of his own restaurant, but is resigned to proving himself in a busy London hotel. Meanwhile, a death in the hotel basement exposes the precarious existence of the undocumented immigrants who take on the unglamorous work that makes everything run smoothly, and Gabe finds himself entangled with a young Belarusan woman forced into prostitution.

Monica Ali is the author of two previous books, Brick Lane and Alentejo Blue.

She lives in London.

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IN THE KITCHEN

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Also by Monica Ali Brick Lane Alentejo Blue

IN THE

KITCHEN

MONICA ALI

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781409081913

Version 1.0

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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, names of places and descriptions of events are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to

actual persons or places is entirely coincidental.

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

6163 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA A Random House Group Company www.rbooks.co.uk First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Doubleday an imprint of Transworld Publishers Copyright Monica Ali 2009

Monica Ali has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 9781409081913

Version 1.0

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CHAPTER ONE

WHEN HE LOOKED BACK, HE FELT THAT THE DEATH OF THE UKRAINIAN was the point at which things began to fall apart. He could not say that it was the cause, could not say, even, that it was a cause, because the events which followed seemed to be both inevitable and entirely random, and although he could piece together a narrative sequence and take a kind of comfort in that, he had changed sufficiently by then to realize that it was only a story he could tell, and that stories were not, on the whole, to be trusted. Nevertheless, he fixed the beginning at the day of the Ukrainian's death, when it was the following day on which, if a life can be said to have a turning point, his own began to spin.

On that morning in late October, Gleeson, the restaurant manager, sat down with Gabriel for their regular meeting. He had mislaid, so it seemed, his oily professional charm.

'You do realize it's on your patch,' said Gleeson. 'You realize that, yes?'

It was the first time that Gabe had seen him slip out of character. And the night porter certainly was on Gabe's 'patch'. What, in that case, was worrying Gleeson? In this business, until you could see all the angles, it was better to keep your mouth shut. Gabe tapped the neck of the crystal vase that sat on the table between them. 'Plastic flowers,' he said, 'are for Happy Eaters and funeral parlours.'

Gleeson scratched his scalp and fleetingly examined his fingernails. 'Yes or no, Chef ? Yes or no?' His eyes were pale blue and disreputably alert. His hair, by contrast, he wore with a sharp side parting and a fervid rectitude, as if all his phoney honour depended on it.

Gabe looked across the empty restaurant, over the pink-tinged table linen and leather-backed chairs, the silver that here and there glinted in the shreds of autumn sun, the chandelier, ugly as a bejewelled dowager, the polished oak bar that, without a single elbow propped upon it, was too dark and infected with loneliness to look at for very long. In the circumstances, he decided, it was unwise to concede anything at all. 'The food and beverage meeting, three months ago at least. You agreed, no more plastic flowers.'

'They're silk,' said Gleeson smartly. 'Silk, please. I have never had plastic in my restaurant.'

'Now I think about it,' said Gabe, 'there were some other things ...'

'Chef.' Gleeson laced his fingers together. 'You are a straight talker. I am a straight talker. Let's not beat about the bush.' He tilted his head and sieved the words through a smile. It was how he greeted diners, gliding in with hands clasped and head cocked. 'A dead body on the premises. This is hardly the time to be discussing pepper pots.' His tone was both ingratiating and contemptuous, the one reserved for the pretheatre crowd, tourists and anyone

easily identified by the way they kept looking around who had been saving up.

'For God's sake, Stanley. They took him away.'

'Really?' said Gleeson. 'Really? They took him away? Well. That settles everything. How stupid of me to waste your time.' He got up. 'I'm telling you, Chef ... listen ...' He stared at Gabe and then shook his head. 'Shit.' He adjusted his cufflinks and stalked off, muttering, quivering like a cat's tail.

Gabe went back to his office and pulled out the banqueting file. He shuffled the papers, and found the sheet he wanted. Sirovsky Product Launch. Under the 'Menu' heading, Oona had written 'Canaps: spring rolls, smoked salmon, quiche squares, guacamole, vol-au-vents (prawn), mini choc mousses.' Her handwriting was maddeningly childish. To look at it made you think of her sucking the end of her pencil. He put a thick black line through the list. He checked the per-head budget, staff resource and comments sections. 'Let's put out all the flags on this one.' Mr Maddox was taking a special interest. Put out all the flags. What did that mean? Caviar and truffle oil? Stuff the profit and loss?

Gabe sighed. Whatever it meant, it wasn't quiche squares and prawn vol-au-vents.

The office was a white stud-walled cubicle in the corner of the kitchen, with a surfeit of air-conditioning ducts and a window over the battlefield. Apart from Gabe's desk and chair, the filing cabinet and a stand for the printer, there was room for one other plastic seat, squeezed in between desk and door.

Sometimes, if he was busy completing order forms or logging timesheets, Gabe let his phone ring until it beeped and played the message. You have reached the office of Gabriel Lightfoot, executive chef of the Imperial Hotel, London.

Please leave your name and number after the tone and he will call you back as soon as possible. To listen to it you'd think the office was something else, that he was someone else, altogether.

Looking up, he saw Suleiman working steadily at his mise-en-place, chopping shallots and, with a clean sweep of the broad knife blade, loading them into a plastic box. Victor came round from the larder section carrying a baguette. He stood behind Suleiman, clamped the bread between his thighs and, holding on to Suleiman's shoulders, aimed the baguette at his buttocks. In every kitchen there had to be one. There had to be a clown. Suleiman put down his knife. He grabbed the baguette and tried to stuff it down Victor's throat.