Ha!
Bernard thinks he can just open a restaurant/coffee shop! It's not that easy, trust me! I had to actually get my own chef's hat. Okay, maybe steal is a better word. Besides, I'm sure the restaurant next door won't miss it all that much.
Anyways, after he knifed one of the things and stormed out screaming for his bearded bitch, Bert decided to sail in with ingredients. He dropped the paper bags on the counter and Elise, being a nosy parker, dove right in a started pulling everything out, with the usual, "What's this?" and "What's that?"
I have to admit, I was amazed.
"Where did you - how did you know what to get?" I asked Bert, slightly awed, as he stowed some things in the fridge.
"My cousin's a chef at a restaurant in Westminster and he helped me a bit," Bert shrugged. "It's nothin' special." He shrugged like it was nothing.
Later, after we had argued over the menu and had a little to drink, Bert and Elise were getting ready for opening around half-four, I was in the kitchen (with my pilfered hat), trying to start making everything and fighting with my apron. Bert suddenly appeared at kitchen door, looking a little bewildered.
"What? What is it?" I asked, slightly annoyed. I was still a little mad that Elise was making me wear an uniform even though no one would ever see me. Hopefully.
"There's a - a bloke here to see you," he replied, gesturing to someone I couldn't see over his shoulder.
"Who's it then?" I asked impatiently. Then some bloke wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a mac, carrying a briefcase swung around into the kitchen and said, "I'm the Health Inspector."
"I'm quaking in my boots," I replied. "What do you want?" Bert disappeared as the Health Inspector skulked over to the counter and slammed his briefcase down before poping it open.
"Did you, or did you not, Miss Whyte, apply for a transition of business from novel merchant to food serving establishment?"
"Yeh, but -"
"And you did recieve a licence to serve food in your establishment?"
"Yeh, but -"
"Do not interrupt me, Miss Whyte," he replied, pointing a finger in my face. He had a clip board and pen ready. He looked around, scowling at the mess I had already made in my attempts to make a cake and marinate meat at the same time.
He was about to ask me something, when one of those creatures ran out from under the kitchen table, slammed into the back door, skittered around and headed into the shop, which was followed by a squeal from Elise.
"What was that, Miss Whyte?"
"Our dog?"
"I'm quite certain dogs don't have beaks, Miss Whyte." He scribbled something down on his paper. "Where is your culinary approval certificate, or if you have it, a degree in culinary arts?" he asked, looking around.
This can't be good.
"It's right up there," I replied, pointing at a spot on the wall.
"I don't see it," he answered, craning his neck and squinting his eyes, scanning the walls, which were splattered with blood, cake batter and melted chocolate. And maybe there were a couple strawberries that I had thrown at one of those things. Maybe.
"It's waaaaayyyyy up there, you see?" I asked, reaching behind him to grab a pan as quietly as I could from the sink. "I graduated from the Culinary School of Excellence with a degree in Excellent -"
"I've never heard of that college; where is it-" THONK. I had smacked him on the back of the head with the pan, just as he was about to turn around.
Bert and Elise came running.
"Oh my GOD, Elle! You killed the Health Inspector!" Elise accused me.
I so did not.
"This looks stupid," I said.
"Wot?" Elle looked at me, eyebrow raised. "What looks stupid?"
"This," I said, this time very slowly, "looks... stupid."
Elle and I looked at the crammed jumble of chairs and tables in our shop. My lovely sage green table in the middle and the ten tables and chairs that didn't match surrounding it.
"Well, it doesn't matter. It will have to do." Elle put her hands on her hips and nodded in approval. "Good. Now, what shall we cook?"
I rolled my eyes at her. "You're the damn cook. You decide." I shrugged. "Anyway, our waitress is nowhere to be seen."
"Bert is out running errands," Elle snapped. "You just never mind him."
Suddenly, the door of the shop/restaurant flew open and Bernard strolled in, a fag hanging limply from his limps. He stared around, his eyebrows pointed at an angry angle.
"Wot's all dis den?!" His head swiveled from side to side, taking in every mismatched table set. "Wot's goin' on?!"
Elle stood up straighter, pushing her chest out a little. "We're starting a restaurant."
"Wot for?!" Bernard tossed his cigarette outside, hitting some bloke on a bicycle passing by.
My eyes narrowed. "To compete with you prats and your damned coffee shop and delicious chocolate biscuits!"
Elle glared at me. "Wait. How the hell do you know about their delicious chocolate biscuits?"
I looked at the ceiling. "Uhhh..."
Bernard spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed a dagger from inside of his coat sleeve and threw it at a creature hiding in a book shelf. It screamed. Bernard just rolled his eyes.
"Damn things."
"Oh, yeah. Thanks for that, by the way!" Elle exclaimed. "They've moved over here now because of your damn delicious chocolate biscuits and several flavors of French vanilla coffee!"
I looked at her. "Wait. How-"
Elle put her hand in my face. "Shh." She glared at Bernard. "And just to prove how great our restaurant will be, we are inviting you and Manny to be our first customers..." Her face twitched with excitement. "Tonight!"
"Well, if you two tossers are making a restaurant, it must be real simple!" Bernard yelled. "So prepare yourself for even more compet... competish... " Bernard stammered. "Competetancy! 'Cause we're going to open a restaurant too! Yeah, wot do you think of that, Miss Fancy Pants?!"
He stormed out, screaming for Manny, before we could even say a word.
I just looked at Elle. "Got a receipt for those tables?"
"Why?!" she shouted back at me, stomping into the kitchen.
"They're going to have a coffee shop and a restaurant! Our business will go under!"
"Pah!"
It always worries me when Elle starts using exclamations that aren't real words.
“One table?!” I exclaimed. “One table?!”
Elise narrowed her eyes. “Yes, one table,” she replied, gritting her teeth.
She had arrived back, just about the same time the table was being delivered, finding me in my painting shorts, just finishing putting a coat of primer on the walls of the shop.
The delivery men probably sensed the massacre that was most likely to commence and had hurriedly set the table down in the middle of the shop.
Elise and I stood about 2 yards away from the table, tense, starring each other down.
“And what, tell me, are we going to do with one table?!”
“We’ll let exclusive groups of people - ,” began Elise.
“Where are they going to sit? You didn’t get any CHAIRS!” I shouted, throwing a painting roll in Elise’s direction. She ducked.
“At least I got it for a good price! Chairs or not!”
I saw her skinned knees. If she got it at a decent price the normal way, then I was the Queen’s auntie.
“Besides, people can sit on the floor –”
“Oh yes! If they want to stare at each other under the bleeding table!”
I threw down the paint roller that I was holding in disgust and stomped to the kitchen to get my things.
I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the shop. I took the Underground to get to Portobello Road, to get to the antique market. Weaving through the crowds of Hawaiian shorts-wearing tourists, making poor attempts to haggle with vendors, I made my way to the quietest end of the street.
I pushed open the door of one the shops advertising that they had the best antique furniture in London.
“’lo,” said a bloke, looking up from the sales counter. He was bent over a large book and seemed startled that I had walked in.
Or he had noticed my shorts. Which I soon realized I still had on.
That explains the looks the elderly were giving me.
“Do you have any sort of tables? Perhaps ones that match?” I asked, lifting up the cover of a decrepit-looking book with the tip of my index finger.
“Ah, yeah…this way,” he replied. I followed him into a larger room, where several pieces of furniture where piled on top of each other. He pulled one out of a pile to show me.
“Nineteenth century; good condition; originally used in a gentlemen’s club for cards and so on and so forth,” he explained, watching me as I inspected it. I ran my left hand over the surface.
A couple strokes with Bert’s electric sander and I could have it painted and ready to open the shop in about four days.
“How many others are there?” I asked. The bloke had been fidgeting with his Peter Parker glasses nervously while I was looking at the table. The he looked a little puzzled.
“How many do you need?” he asked, surprised.
“How many you got?” I repeated.
“A-about 10…”
“Right, I’ll have six of ‘em.” He still looked surprised. “How much will it be?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.
“Well, it’s about 100 quid for one,” he began slowly. I looked up in surprise. “But, since you’re buying over half of them, I could make you a deal.” He was smiling. I stared back at him blankly.
“I’m Dante,” he said suddenly, thrusting his hand out towards me. I took it cautiously.
“Elle,” I replied. I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of deal, exactly, are we talking about?”
“Easy, I’ll give you all six tables for half the price,” he explained. I looked at him.
“What’s the catch?”
“A simple exchange of phone numbers and a small promise of coffee,” he replied, smiling.
This time I really looked at him. He was fairly fit, dark hair, well-kept beard/moustache combo (unlike that catastrophe that’s attached to Manny’s face) and he seemed alright.
“Alrig – wait, you’re not gay by any chance are you?”
I dated a chef, she says. So I should be the chef, she says.
Pfft. I've probably shagged a hundred police officers- doesn't mean I should be able to go around hitting skinheads with my baton. And at least those hundred police officers weren't gayer than the day is long either.
Speaking of shagging, I thought as I walked to a nearby furniture store. It's been ages since I've heard from Leo, my gorgeous tennis champion. He should be back in London sometime soon... I would think...
At least Elle is letting me be the maitre d’. I always knew Bert would end up being a waitress someday.
I walked into the posh furniture store, looking about for some Paris-type fancy-pancy tables that you see outside on patios. I figured if we spaced them correctly, we could fit five inside and two outside... although that would mean that we would have to make sure nobody over 200 lbs could come in because than the spacing would be all wrong and that would not be good.
"Hellooooooo, madame," this snooty-nosed salesman said, practically running over to me as I came in. "And what can I do for yooooooooou today?"
I stared at him. "Well, first of all, you can stop talking like that."
He seemed oddly put-off. "Excuse me?"
"And second, you can show me your fancy patio tables and chairs. And cast iron with a little design on the table top. And French-looking."
He raised his eyebrows at me and walks a few steps ahead. "Well, we have this table and chair set. It's made from the finest quality cast iron. Is it to your liking?"
It was.
"'Tis," I said. "How much is it?"
"The whole set retails for seven hundred, sixty pounds." He smiled.
I stared at him. "Wot?"
"Seven hundred, sixty-"
"I heard you!" I snapped. "That's a lot of money for one table and chair set..."
The salesman lowered his voice and stood closer to me. "Tell you what. I can let you have it for..." He tapped his mouth in thought. "...say, six hundred pounds. That's my final offer."
But still, that was not a good enough offer for me.
Elle and I once took a trip to Madrid and she said I was terrible at haggling. Well, let's just say I got Mr. Fancy Salesman down to one hundred and fifty pounds for that table... I also happen to have skinned knees and a small stain on the front of my shirt- but all in a day's work.
And so what if our bistro only has one table. It will be a really, like, exclusive place!! People will be fighting to get in and sit at our really fancy table! Brilliant!!
Elle, however, was not so impressed with my business plan.
