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Kitchen Inconsequential Part 2:
POTWASH

by george vincent

My girlfriend lived behind the metro line. I was around hers most nights. On the other side of the line, up the street on the right, past all the Indian takeaways, was the ANCIENT LEOPARD. From the outside you were captured by its black, marbled facade. On the front window to the right of the door was a stencilled image of a white leopard looking fiercely, about to pounce, at a full moon. Through the window you could see into the open kitchen, the glow from the back of the food fired oven, the various prep sections, the plancha grill and the flour-coated pizza bench, and a myriad of brightly coloured fake flowers dangling down between the slender necked wine glasses above the bar.

On one of our first ‘dates’, me and my gal went there for food when it had just opened. This was when we were still humble bouncy castle attendants. I think I had a chilli beef pizza which was bang average, and she had the halloumi kebab, which I preferred. The Cypriot cheese was cooked in an oily, paprika and brown sugar marinade, hot out the oven, sizzling in a cast iron skillet, served with a doughy flatbread which was covered in rocket and limey red cabbage coleslaw. The side sauces came in little silver ramekins: a sweet, almost fizzy chilli sauce, and a garlic aioli, very garlicky. All of it was adorned in colourful cute edible flowers and micro herbs which stuck in your teeth and didn’t taste of much. It was a bring your own booze deal so we had a bottle of red wine, which I drank most of. By the end of the meal I was purple-lipped and silly.

The staff were all hippy chicks or skater dudes. Middle-class wannabes. Kool kidz. The waitresses were young and had long flowing hippy hairdos and said ‘safe’ when we placed our order. Hand-rolled ciggies behind their ears, hooped earrings, sparkly eyes. Big tits swinging freely underneath tight black t-shirts, untethered by the oppressiveness of bras. They looked just like my girl, in fact.

The chefs wore snap-back caps and surveyed the patrons with a smug, mocking glare, speaking loudly in their own painstakingly affected hip-jargon which only they had the apparent authority to understand. There were 2 dudes working, one operating the oven with a long pizza peel which he wielded deftly, the other stabbing and cutting up the kebab meat and dressing the boards, sprinkling the dainty little flowers out of the air. They moved quickly and they were intimidating. You dared not look in their direction whilst eating for fear of becoming the subject of their easy ridicule.

When we paid we were greeted by an older hippy woman at the till. She was no act. She was full-on, hippy-dippy, searching for planet caravan on the dark side of the moon, CERTIFIED HIPPY. Black hair, deep brown eyes, tanned skin, silver jeweled hands. Clearly the owner of the establishment. She smiled and inquired in a voice which sounded like gravel in a blender, ‘So, how was the food then guys?’

Drunk me quipped suavely, ‘Oh aye, the hallooni was lush.’

She cackled a smoky laugh and winked a bohemian grin.

‘Glad you enjoyed it, you’ll have to come again.’

So I did. To work.

Lee, who got me the trial shift, told me to dress in black, black top black jeans. It was a Friday night. I said ba-bye to my girl and told her to have a joint rolled for when I got back. I walked over the pigeon-shit splattered metro bridge, dodging the chavs loitering on the steps and pestering me for spare ciggies, past all the Indian takeaway drivers in their BMW’s en route to deliver curry and cocaine indiscriminately, and through the front door of the ANCIENT LEOPARD, once again, only this time, into the fire.

It was packed. Customers crowded the bar with a loud, open-mouthed, goblin appetite for drink. Food was being elevated frantically past my head by the flustered young dames on wooden platter boards and transported to tables in the front and back. Music blared from speakers which came at you from all directions at once, 50s/60s sounds, LUCILEEEEEE, UNDER MY THUMB, 96 TEARS, mixed with 90s hippity-hop, CAN I KICK IT? YES YOU CAN! The chefs all sang along, knew all the raps by heart, like white boys do. There were three of them. They danced around each other, laughing like hyenas, handling knives, tongs, squeeze bottles, skillets, probes and paddles, all in some crazy unison which seemed effortless in spite of the overwhelming atmosphere of Dionoysian frenzy.

I stood by the door like a chump. I didn’t know where I was supposed to be and I felt too shy to barge through the geezers at the bar. One of the chefs clocked me and smirked. He was ratty looking, greasy straight hair messed up on his small, pointy head and a gold chain hanging loosely around a skinny neck.

‘AREEEEET LIKEEEE?’

‘Areet. I’m here to wash dishes.’

‘AHHH, you’re the new POTWASH like?’

The other two glanced up to check me out. The fella making the pizzas had a dopey face and just smiled tightly-lipped then looked back down at the pizza bench. The twat on the ovens however took a good long look at me. He was 6ft odd, baby faced, ginger and had these horrible, sneering beady shit-brown eyes. He stood there and eyeballed me like it was his business and there was nothing I was going to do about it. I immediately hated him.

‘Areet, kid, what’s your name.’

‘George.’

‘George? Like Clooney?’

‘Erm, aye.’

‘CLOONEY! HA!’ Ratface chuckled abrasively.

‘Pot Wash is in the back, Clooney. Don’t be shy.’

Seething with shame and feeling like I now had something to prove, I pushed my way through. There were more tables in the back section, all filled. It was dimly lit, smoky, and the din of chatter and sudden, violent laughter drowned out the music. The walls were covered in an impressive psychedelic mural of black and white caricatures engaged in various scenes of debauchery; moonshine-drinking, glue-sniffing, spray painting, freewheeling fornication. I still wasn’t sure where to go until I watched one of the waitresses push through a door with a stack of boards and cutlery on her arm and followed her in.

The back kitchen was blissfully quiet compared to the noise of the restaurant. Jazz music drifted from a speaker placed on top of a freezer next to a battered microwave. To the left there was a dude with long black hair covered by a black bandana and an old gadge chopping tomatoes and skewering chicken. They smiled and said hello and didn’t have any sense of obnoxious swagger about them. They were a different breed to the lads out front. I liked them better.

Lee was at the sink, spray hose in hand. I was there to relieve him of his shift and begin my trial. He had fallen well behind; on the three tiered dish trolley there were stacks of wooden boards sodden with bread bits, pizza crusts, frayed napkins and creamy coleslaw, ramekins piled like mini-leaning-towers-of-pisas, cutlery and pizza cutters strewn in a deadly array. He took off his apron and left me there, the burdened captain of a sinking ship.

I had three big sinks, a box full of dry tea towels, a spray hose and a dishwasher to work with. There was a load of dried wooden boards piled precariously on the far side of the sink which the waitresses would occasionally come through and collect, so the first port of call was to get through all the dirty ones and have them stacked ready for collection. I worked like I was being whipped. I sprayed the muck off the boards and then held them against my chest with one hand whilst scrubbing them vigorously dry with the other. Instantly my black t-shirt was soaked. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Wax on, wax off. Pretty soon I had a considerable stack and I thought I was making some headway. Then a pretty little waitress with big blue eyes came swinging through the back door asking for more clean pizza cutters. I had none.

‘Oh, Jo’s not happy. They can’t serve without them.’ She said.

‘Right. I’ll get on that.’

I clanked a load of cutters, cutlery and ramekins onto one of the dishwasher trays and shoved it in the machine. I pressed the big green button because that usually meant, GO!, and waited for the cycle to finish. I was standing there by the machine with my tea towel at the ready when Ratface, otherwise known as Jo, stropped through the door like a baby that’s just dropped its dummy out the pram.

‘Where’s the cutters?’

‘They’re in the machine.’

‘Right.’

Huffing and puffing and pacing back and forth.

‘Can you hurry up? We need them for this check.’

‘They’re in the machine.’

An older waitress, motherly type, had just come through the door with a fresh barrage of gastronomic shrapnel.

‘Why are you having a go at him? He’s just started.’

‘BECAUSE WE NEED THE CUTTERS!’

‘And they’re coming! Get a grip of yourself man.’

He puffed out an impotent breath of petulant air and fucked off after that. All the while I was just smiling quietly.

‘You alright son?’ She asked.

‘Weyayeman.’ I wasn’t going to be seen looking like I cared.

The dishwasher beeped and I chucked the crockery in a gallon tub and sent it out front. I began to get a little system going. The trick was to have the dishwasher constantly on cycle, and as it was doing its thing, that was the time to tackle the boards. They couldn’t go in the dishwasher because they would break from the heat and steam. It was an easy rhythm once you got it going. Spray, dry, tray out, tray in, dry, send. The ebb and flow of service continued for several hot, hazy hours until I got the message from the tiny waitress that the front kitchen was cleaning down and was about to send all their stuff through. How bad could it be?

Bad.

Ratface, Dopey and Beady-eyes came through with massive gastro tins filled with their dirtied utensils, hot metal tins full of leftover lamb koftas, everything and the kitchen sink, quite frankly madame! They dropped it all onto my trolley, ignoring me, bantering to themselves, drinking stubby bottles of San Miguel. What cunts. The black rage stormed within, but I wasn’t going to do anything about it. I just kept washing.

It got to 11 o’clock. My pile was going down somewhat but there was still a load to put through. The old gadge who had been chopping tomatoes jumped on and gave me a hand. His name was Gaz. He was one of the owners. He didn’t speak much but he moved fast. Then the old SERIOUS hippy lady appeared through the doorway, quite literally in a cloud of smoke, puffing on a rollie with no filter.

‘Woah! Looks good here! Lee’s usually still up to his eyes at this time.’

I welled with haggard pride.

‘Wait, you’ve not got a beer? How old are you?’

I looked at the clock. ‘I’ll be 18 in 45 minutes.’

‘FUCK THE LAW! Give iz a minute.’

She came back with an ice cold San Mig and I chugged it with glee.

She asked me what my availability was like through the week and I told her I was going to sixth form but I’d work whenever. There was no direct confirmation that I had the job. That would’ve been far too ‘corporate’. I gave her my number and she said she’d message me about my next shift. And pay? Cash in hand. Weekly. Strictly off the books. Fuck the taxman.

There were only a few gastros left to wash.

‘Gaz, you’ll do the rest of these won’t you?’ The hippy said, smoking another tab.

He looked at her sheepishly and then continued washing.

‘Aye aye.’

‘See, that’s a good husband. Get yourself away, what’s your name again?’

‘George.’

‘George, just like Clooney! I’m Zaza.’

With that I untied my apron, chucked it in with the dirty tea towels and walked back to my girlfriends’. She put me in the shower immediately as I was stinking ripe of garlic and grease. I told her all about the characters and the nature of the work. We smoked a joint out of the attic window. The night sky was coal black and peppered with icy little stars. They looked close enough to touch.