Read Online Recipe for Disaster by Miriam Morrison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miriam Morrison
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hand into her pocket for her phone she
found she still had the chef's wallet. She groaned. Jake was
the only one left, wiping surfaces with a furious energy.
'Look, I'm going home for a while, could you give this
back?'
'Whatever,' he said with studied indifference. She tossed
it over to him and it landed in his tool box.
He forgot about the wallet almost instantly. It was his
evening off, which he spent with two bottles of appalling
red wine no one else in the supermarket had wanted. The
only CDs he hadn't sold were Coldplay and Leonard
Cohen, but they suited his mood perfectly.
After listening to three and half hours of angst-ridden
musings on the bleakness of life, perversely he decided that
things weren't that bad. He had lost a woman – well, so had
plenty of others before him. More importantly, he still had
cooking. To lose that would be the real tragedy.
Meanwhile, back at work, the chef was having a small
temper tantrum at being one waitress down. Taking into
account the fact that she was the worst waitress they'd ever
had, it was probably no bad thing, but she seemed to have
gone off with his wallet.
'I'm sure she put it in your office, Chef,' said Harry,
always helpful.
'Well, it's not there now.'
Harry knew where the wallet was because he had seen it
and covered it up with a tea towel, but was taking his time,
waiting for the right moment.
It was a busy night. When the chef's knife snapped under
the pressure, Harry offered him one of his. 'Mind you, I
think Jake's left his.'
'Silly bastard. He knows he shouldn't do that. I'll have
one of his; it serves him right for not taking them home.'
Harry bent down and schooled his face into a careful
controlled look of surprise and confusion. He was practically
salivating at the thought of revenge. The chef
glanced over impatiently, then stopped.
'Fuck – what's he doing with my wallet?' he exploded.
'Well, I'm sure there's some sort of explanation,' Harry
said, pretending to sound placating.
'You bet there is – he's a bloody thief!' The chef was a
man of simple emotions and massive grudges. He always
gave in to them.
When Jake walked into work on Monday he was sacked
on the spot. What could he do, sue? Yeah, like he had
plenty of spare cash for a court case. To make things worse,
he then found himself the object of press attention, all of it
unwelcome. 'College Star's Theft from Top Eatery' was the
worst headline, from hacks seizing a double opportunity to
sully both Jake's college and the restaurant. By the time he
finally managed to get hold of Jill to try to clear his name,
two weeks had passed and the chef had moved on, with his
wallet, to a new job somewhere in the Med. This gave the
press another field day when they blamed Jake for his
departure. Things got so bad, he had to invest in a pair of
dark glasses. During his enforced and poverty-stricken time
off, Jake had ample time to sit around and fantasise. These
dreams were:
That the Mediterranean was full of sharks.
That the chef got drunk one night and fell overboard,
where his fat white bottom would provide a
tasty snack.
That Jill fell into a decline and became a nun,
because she had lost the one true love of her life.
That all journalists would spend the afterlife being
spit-roasted in some sort of hell dimension.
While he was waiting for these things to happen and
applying for hundreds of jobs, he spent his days stacking
shelves for Mr Patel, who didn't really need anyone to do
this and could only afford to pay Jake in the various goods
that had reached their sell-by date. But no one else wanted
to give him a job. Despite references from his lecturers at
college saying he was superbly talented and totally honest,
the Capital had given him a bad reputation. Which stuck,
like grease round a fryer. In the frantic world he wanted to
work in, no one had time to listen to the full story.
Almost the worst thing about this experience was the
boredom. Because he didn't have any money, he couldn't
even
found she still had the chef's wallet. She groaned. Jake was
the only one left, wiping surfaces with a furious energy.
'Look, I'm going home for a while, could you give this
back?'
'Whatever,' he said with studied indifference. She tossed
it over to him and it landed in his tool box.
He forgot about the wallet almost instantly. It was his
evening off, which he spent with two bottles of appalling
red wine no one else in the supermarket had wanted. The
only CDs he hadn't sold were Coldplay and Leonard
Cohen, but they suited his mood perfectly.
After listening to three and half hours of angst-ridden
musings on the bleakness of life, perversely he decided that
things weren't that bad. He had lost a woman – well, so had
plenty of others before him. More importantly, he still had
cooking. To lose that would be the real tragedy.
Meanwhile, back at work, the chef was having a small
temper tantrum at being one waitress down. Taking into
account the fact that she was the worst waitress they'd ever
had, it was probably no bad thing, but she seemed to have
gone off with his wallet.
'I'm sure she put it in your office, Chef,' said Harry,
always helpful.
'Well, it's not there now.'
Harry knew where the wallet was because he had seen it
and covered it up with a tea towel, but was taking his time,
waiting for the right moment.
It was a busy night. When the chef's knife snapped under
the pressure, Harry offered him one of his. 'Mind you, I
think Jake's left his.'
'Silly bastard. He knows he shouldn't do that. I'll have
one of his; it serves him right for not taking them home.'
Harry bent down and schooled his face into a careful
controlled look of surprise and confusion. He was practically
salivating at the thought of revenge. The chef
glanced over impatiently, then stopped.
'Fuck – what's he doing with my wallet?' he exploded.
'Well, I'm sure there's some sort of explanation,' Harry
said, pretending to sound placating.
'You bet there is – he's a bloody thief!' The chef was a
man of simple emotions and massive grudges. He always
gave in to them.
When Jake walked into work on Monday he was sacked
on the spot. What could he do, sue? Yeah, like he had
plenty of spare cash for a court case. To make things worse,
he then found himself the object of press attention, all of it
unwelcome. 'College Star's Theft from Top Eatery' was the
worst headline, from hacks seizing a double opportunity to
sully both Jake's college and the restaurant. By the time he
finally managed to get hold of Jill to try to clear his name,
two weeks had passed and the chef had moved on, with his
wallet, to a new job somewhere in the Med. This gave the
press another field day when they blamed Jake for his
departure. Things got so bad, he had to invest in a pair of
dark glasses. During his enforced and poverty-stricken time
off, Jake had ample time to sit around and fantasise. These
dreams were:
That the Mediterranean was full of sharks.
That the chef got drunk one night and fell overboard,
where his fat white bottom would provide a
tasty snack.
That Jill fell into a decline and became a nun,
because she had lost the one true love of her life.
That all journalists would spend the afterlife being
spit-roasted in some sort of hell dimension.
While he was waiting for these things to happen and
applying for hundreds of jobs, he spent his days stacking
shelves for Mr Patel, who didn't really need anyone to do
this and could only afford to pay Jake in the various goods
that had reached their sell-by date. But no one else wanted
to give him a job. Despite references from his lecturers at
college saying he was superbly talented and totally honest,
the Capital had given him a bad reputation. Which stuck,
like grease round a fryer. In the frantic world he wanted to
work in, no one had time to listen to the full story.
Almost the worst thing about this experience was the
boredom. Because he didn't have any money, he couldn't
even
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