How do I cope with the crushing disappointment of a restaurant totally changing the recipe of my favourite dish?
You arrive at the restaurant at precisely 6pm. Your friends - you call them your friends, but you pay them by the hour and they’re wearing leather jackets and carrying two guns apiece - have accompanied you, and they’re now sitting in the chairs either side of you.
You’re going to sort this out.
After a few minutes, a perky waitress comes over to take your order.
“What can I get you guys?” she asks, taking out her notepad.
You turn to your first friend - you think her name is Janet, but you wouldn’t bet money on it - and nod, almost imperceptibly. She returns the gesture, and her hands close around the gun that you know is concealed inside her jacket pocket. The waitress’ face pales, and she sets down her notepad.
“I’ll take a meeting with your chef,” you say, smiling benevolently, and the waitress nods.
“He’s in the back,” she says.
You clap your hands together. “Excellent,” you say. “Take me to your leader.”
Wordlessly, she leads you into the back room, where a huge man is sitting and peeling potatoes. You turn to the waitress and smile at her again.
“I’ll take it from here, Bernice,” you say, and she leaves.
You drag another chair over to the chef, setting it alongside the chair that he’s already placed opposite his own, and sit down on it. You pull your jacket back, exposing the concealed weapon, and he blanches.
“Look, I don’t have any money,” he begins, but you raise a hand to shush him.
“I’m not here about money, Larry.” You lean forward, resting your weight on your elbows. “I’m here about the tagliatelle.”
“My name - my name isn’t Larry - ”
“Larry, Larry, Larry,” you say, grinning and crossing your legs up on the third chair. “Laurel crowned.” You meet the chef’s eyes, feigning a look of deep interest, and you watch as the chef’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. His eyes dart away, focusing behind you on some vague spot behind your shoulder. Your grin becomes shark-like, menacing. “Or from Laurentum, of course, but you don’t strike me as the Italian sort, Larry. You aren’t Italian, are you?”
The chef swallows hard again. He still can’t meet your eye. “No, I’m - I’m not Italian.”
You nod, slow and considering. “I didn’t think so, Larry. I didn’t think you were Italian.” You rub your hands together; in the silence of the back room, even the sound of your skin on your own palms is loud, grating. “You know why I didn’t think you were Italian, Larry?”
Pale, the chef shakes his head.
Your smile spreads, but it’s wan now; no longer menacing, but more sinister still for it.
“You see, Larry,” you begin, and you hear a strangled sob escape from the chef’s throat. It only makes you press on. “You see, that dish you made for me back there? The one I ordered every week for six years? That dish was a family favourite of mine, Larry. A taste of home.” You uncross your legs, lift your left over your right, cross them again. The chair scrapes along the floor. “You see, Larry, my grandmother - she was Italian. Ida, her name was. Labour, or work. And she worked, Larry. That woman worked every day of her goddamn life, cradle to grave, dragging four sons of bitches into this world with no goddamn help from her husband. Ampelio, that was my grandfather’s name. Vine. It suited him, Larry, because he was a goddamn drunk. Not like you, Larry. You’re a family man, I can tell. A glass of wine at dinner kind of guy. Am I right, Larry?
“Well, Larry. Grandmother Ida - Nonna Ida, I called her - she didn’t work Sunday evenings. Those, she got off. Monday to Wednesday, Larry, she worked at the factory. She made soap. You know, those fancy bars that you get in hotels. You like those fancy bars, Larry? Well, those were Ida’s pay grade. From Monday to Wednesday, at least. Thursday to Saturday, it was baked goods. 4am starts, Larry, can you imagine? Up at 4, back at 11 at night, all that time with flour on her hands. And Sunday morning, she worked at the church.
“You go to church, Larry? You a god-fearing man? I thought so, Larry. I could see it in you. There’s something about the fear of god in a man. I can always see it, Larry. It’s different to plain fear, isn’t it? Plain old fear, that’s what you’ve got in your eye right now, Larry - why’s that, when we’re having such a nice conversation about Nonna Ida? - but the fear of god, that’s something different.
“But where are my manners? Jumping from topic to topic like this. I’m sorry, Larry. Back to Ida. Well, as I said, she didn’t work Sunday evenings. As you can imagine, Larry, Sunday evenings were precious. Her time. Time for her to do what she wanted. And what do you think she did in that time, Larry? Do you think she went shopping? Watched TV? Made love to her goddamn son of a bitch husband?
“No, Larry. What Ida did on Sunday evenings was cook. And you know what she cooked, Larry?”
The chef, frozen throughout your tirade, shakes his head.
You steeple your fingers under your chin, fixing the chef with a cold glare. “It was that dish, Larry,” you continue. “The dish I used to order here, that one that made me feel so at home. The one that reminded me of Nonna Ida even after she’d passed. That’s why I liked that dish so much, Larry. It wasn’t just the perfect blend of tomatoes and pasta. It was the memories. Your dish brought me real happiness, Larry, and for that, I’m truly thankful. Really, Larry. I tipped your waiters every damn time. I’m a nice person, Larry. I really am.”
He inhales sharply. “Look, I can - I can change the recipe back, it’s not - ”
“You’d do that?” you interject, plastering a wide grin on your face. “For me, Larry? You’d do that?”
“I mean - you’re gonna kill me if I don’t, right?”
You frown. “Kill you, Larry? What would be the sense in that?” you ask, genuinely confused. “I’m not a killer, Larry. Why do you think that?”
He gestures at you. “Well, you know. The black turtleneck, mostly. Also the gun. In fact, mostly the gun.”
“It’s 2015, Larry. Of course I carry a gun.” You straighten in your chair. “But I’m not going to kill you.”
“Then why should I change the recipe back?” he counters, folding his arms across his chest in a display of newfound bravery. “I like the new recipe. It’s more cost effective and time efficient.”
You sigh. “Larry, Larry, Larry. Sweet Larry.” You reach into your waistband, and the chef tenses as your fingers brush your gun, but you bypass the weapon and take out your mobile phone. Unlocking it with a deft swipe of your finger, you hold the screen out to show the chef, and his face pales instantly.
You smirk. “Yes, Larry. It’s a one star review on Trip Advisor. All I have to do is click ‘submit’. But I haven’t yet, Larry. I haven’t clicked it yet. And you know why that is?”
His voice is barely a whisper now. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to change the recipe back, aren’t you Larry? You’re going to go back to making it just the way Nonna Ida used to make it, and I’m not going to send that review, and we’re both going to walk out of this as happy as if the past week had never happened.” You beam maniacally. “Isn’t that so, Larry?”
A single tear falls from his eye, and he blinks, looks away. “You’re barbaric.”
Your finger moves towards the submit button.
He cries out, reaches for the phone in despair, and you snort with laughter. His shoulders slump in resignation.
“I’ll change it back,” he mutters.
You put your phone away, and stand. You extend your hand for him to shake, and, bitter, he takes it. You shake on it, and you’re about to leave the room when you remember something.
“Oh, if you could make it with just a hint less salt this time round, that would be phenomenal,” you add, and shrug apologetically. “Nonna Ida had terrible cholesterol, and these things do tend to run in families.”
He nods dully, and you flash him a winning smile. You push open the door and walk out, leaving the chef in the room behind you.
You signal to your friends, who stand up from the table and join you as you go to exit the restaurant. The waitress stands by the door, and, shaking, holds it open for you.
You thank her, and hand her a £5 note. “My compliments to the chef,” you say.
