The 1960s brought a social revolution to the United Kingdom that offered exciting new options and opportunities, especially for the younger generations. Austerity and drabness, including wartime rationing, continued until the end of the 1950s. The subsequent decade saw a momentous shift in society, employment, and working conditions. Its effects brought radical changes, including class and social structure, science, medicine, music, fashion, and overseas travel. It created a sense of adventure, although, for some, most of these occurrences meant little.

However, in more ways than he could ever have imagined, 1966 was a big year for Michael Sawyer. Today was his twenty-first birthday. He had reached the legal age of majority and could vote for the first time in the upcoming general election. Michael wasn’t aware he was now classified as an adult or that there was an impending general election in which he could vote. He wouldn’t have voted, even had he known about the privileges of reaching his age. Politics was a subject that held no interest for him. Nothing interested Michael in his life at this time. He was confused, had no sense of direction, and was lost. One might even have called him depressed. But all that was about to change.

Michael got off the district line underground at Paddington and walked from the station to the Royal Western Hotel on Craven Road. Pulling his overcoat tighter against the March winds, he soon arrived at the staff entrance. Once inside, Michael walked along the basement corridor and entered a room with several men of all ages, races, and colours. He said hello to a young Swiss beside him, stooping to lace his boots. Then Michael took a key from his trouser pocket and opened a tall locker. A man in his mid-thirties appeared in the doorway.

‘Quiet, everyone.’

There were no sounds of any kind, apart from those of garments being removed or put on. However, for the man who’d just called for quiet, it was his way of getting attention. He considered himself an important person. An opinion not shared by his work colleagues. Michael changed into his whites. For the previous two years he’d worked at the Royal Western, he’d disliked this pompous man more than anyone.

‘I want to remind you all that there’s an important function this evening. So, you lot, do your best. Breakfast service has finished.’ The man said, then disappeared into the corridor and hummed tunelessly until the sound faded into the general noise of a busy four-star hotel kitchen.

‘Cunt.’ Michael said, loud enough for all to hear.

‘He’s such a fucking twat, really, he is.’ Peter, the second commis on the roast corner, laughed as soon as he’d said it.

‘He’s more than that. He’s a bully,’ Michael said, putting on his chef’s hat.

There were more cutting criticisms, not one that hadn’t been said many times about Geoffrey, as the men left the changing room to work in the kitchen or go home after finishing the night and early breakfast shifts. Throughout the morning, Michael prepared pastries, fruit tarts, and meringues. He didn’t think about his birthday. It meant little to him.

Commercial kitchens are hot. There’s also tension that increases at certain times or unexpected occurrences. It’s ever-present in kitchens during the hours of service. Timing is essential in delivering dishes soon after they are ordered, increasing the possibility of rising tempers. Hotels and restaurants have kitchen brigades, often comprised of foreign nationals. A phrase spoken in haste by a cockney commis to an Italian chef on the sauce corner might be misunderstood and an argument breaks out. In kitchens sharp knives and other essential tools are all potential weapons. The plongeur is someone whose work washing pots and pans is as crucial a role as the chef de cuisine—the person in charge.

The language of top kitchens uses phrases taken from the French. Referred to as kitchen French, it sometimes combines that language with English. The kitchen staff regularly use these expressions, spoken in regard to food orders and preparations. Native English speakers without knowledge of French might not understand the literal translations, but those who work as chefs will know their meaning. When a young commis is asked if everything is mise en place, he’ll know that he has to be ready for the service.

During this particular day’s hectic lunch service, Geoffrey, the sous chef, kept niggling Michael. Making sarcastic remarks about his slowness when preparing dishes to be sent to the restaurant on the floor above. It wasn’t only Michael who Geoffrey taunted. He could be heard barking at other commis, especially the young apprentices, as he wandered around the kitchen, checking the food quality on every corner.

Louis, the head chef, an Anglo-French cockney and general know-it-all, appeared pleased that Geoffrey was unpopular. It distracted from the head chef’s frequent absences from the kitchen while visiting the hotel’s food distributors. In clandestine meetings, Louis arranged with specific drivers, who were in the know, to deliver parts of the hotel’s orders to be diverted to Louis’ home. He’d been doing this lucrative fiddle for some time and made considerable profits by selling meat and vegetables via a third party to other London hotels. He had arrangements with half a dozen hotel head chefs who were in on the scam. So, it suited Louis to ignore Geoffrey’s spiteful comments to the kitchen brigade across the service times on any day.

Relieved that the lunch service was ending, Michael looked forward to a walk outside during the two and a half-hour break before returning to the hotel for the evening shift.

‘Don’t be late back this evening.’ Geoffrey said as he walked through the pastry room, towards the larder.

‘I won’t. I wasn’t late this morning.’ Michael didn’t look at Geoffrey and continued making mille feuille pastry.

‘I’m on duty this evening. I’ll be sure to check what time you turn up.’ Geoffrey said and marched into the larder room to piss off another innocent young chef.

‘You should tell him to fuck off, Michael. I would,’ Remarked Tony, making full use of the glottal stop. Tony was a cockney and first commis in the pastry room. He and Michael had a back and forth ongoing exchange of banter.

‘You could. I couldn’t. I’d be sacked. Although that wouldn’t bother me much.’

‘You live with your mum and dad, so if you’re out of work, you don’t have to pay rent for a flat.’

‘I pay housekeeping. Anyway, Tony, don’t you and your wife live with her parents?’

‘Yeah, alright, go on, bugger off! I hope this evening’s function goes okay,’ Tony said, and winked.

Fifteen minutes later, wearing jeans, a polo neck jumper, and an overcoat, Michael crossed the road at Lancaster Gate underground station and entered Kensington Gardens. He walked through the Italian Gardens and watched young mothers with small children looking at the ornamental water fountains. During this familiar route, Michael’s mood was one of longing. He welcomed these feelings as he strolled, deep in thought, along one side of the Serpentine Lake. Stopping beside the Peter Pan statue, he lit a cigarette, and looked across the water, empty of activity now but, in warmer weather, filled with rowing boats and swimmers. It had been a grey afternoon like this one when they’d visited Kensington Gardens for the last time before she left the hotel and the country. Not a day passed when he hadn’t thought about their time together. The last time he saw her, less than a month ago, she’d told him their relationship wouldn’t work. It came out of the blue, leaving Michael speechless, accepting what she told him with no instinct to persuade her of his feelings. When they’d parted, he wished he’d done more to keep her in his life.

Stubbing his cigarette on the ground, Michael walked on until he’d rounded the lake and was back at the Victoria gate. He’d another hour before returning to the hotel, but a fine drizzle was falling, so he returned to work, went to the still room, and chatted with a widowed woman in her sixties who worked there. She smiled at Michael when she poured his tea from the large metal urn.

‘How are you, Michael? You’ve not been in here for a while.’

‘I’m alright, thanks, Edna. I’m bracing myself for the big do this evening.’

They were the only two people in the still room, and Michael drank the over-brewed tea and listened to Edna telling him things weren’t what they used to be. Michael heard his grandmother say the same whenever she crossed town from her home to have Sunday roast lunch with him and his parents.

‘I suppose that nasty sous chef is working tonight.’

‘He is, Edna, and he’ll be in top form. Shouting at everybody and upsetting them.’

The evening dinner service began at six o’clock. It was quiet in the restaurant, with few early diners. An hour later, it became busier as hotel guests and other customers filled the restaurant. The chaos came at eight o’clock, when the special dinner, a set menu, was being served.

Geoffrey was in full flight, ranting like an army sergeant towards any of the chefs who displeased him. He was the only person in the kitchen whose whites were clean of grease marks and stains. It was because he did no work and spent the whole service standing at the hotplate, inspecting every dish before being forwarded to the restaurant via the dumb waiter. There was an edgy atmosphere in the kitchen. The chefs of all ranks were unhappy, brought about by Geoffrey’s rudeness and spite. At the peak of service, Michael heard Geoffrey screaming abuse louder than usual. He went into the corridor leading to the main kitchen. Terry, a shy, slightly built, fifteen-year-old apprentice chef who’d worked only a few weeks at the hotel, stood at the service hot plate, looking at a filet de sole meunière lying on the floor.

‘You prick! Now look what you’ve done!’

‘Sorry, chef, it slid off the salver.

‘I’ve a good mind to make you fucking well eat it!’

The other chefs watched Geoffrey, his face red, froth on his lips.

‘That’s enough, Geoffrey. We’ve all done something similar.’ A middle-aged chef de partie called from across the kitchen range.

‘He has to learn if he wants to be a chef, Harry.’ Geoffrey said, his tone more respectful when speaking to a senior chef.

‘You’re not helping ‘im by shouting at ze boy.’ The roast chef said in his strong Marseille dialect.

‘I’m waiting for two orders of roast pork I ordered from your corner, Jacques. Concentrate on that, thank you.’

Michael was upset by the sous chef’s more unpleasant than usual display of bad temper. The kitchen brigade continued working. Pleased that he’d shut them up, Geoffrey turned to Terry, who looked mortified.

‘Clean up your mess and get another sole meunière on the go.’

‘Yes, chef. I’m very sorry.’ Terry bent down and scraped the fish onto the salver.

‘I’m cancelling your day off tomorrow. That’ll teach you a lesson.’

Having once been the main subject of Geoffrey’s bullying, Michael walked a few steps to the service hot plate, where Geoffrey stood.

‘You know what you are, chef?’ Michael said, his voice calm, although he was shaking inside.

The sous chef turned to face Michael. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Get back to the pastry room.’

‘You’re a bully, Geoffrey, and a coward. You always pick on those who can’t answer back.’

‘If you don’t apologise and get straight back to work, I’ll have you sacked.’ Geoffrey turned away to face the kitchen, took off his spectacles, and cleaned the lenses on his apron.

Michael remained where he was, unsure of what to do next. He was determined not to back down and walk away. It was the first time he’d confronted Geoffrey over his bullying, and he felt he couldn’t concede. Seconds later, after Geoffrey had put his spectacles back on, he turned to see Michael still standing behind him. He shoved him backwards towards the pastry room. It had never happened before to Michael or the other chefs. It was against workplace rules, though physical contact sometimes happened—a minor scuffle between two apprentices. Michael abhorred violence, but acted instinctively and out of character. Without thinking, he pushed Geoffrey so forcefully with both hands that he fell backwards onto a chambermaid from France who’d come for her evening meal. She was holding a glass jug, which flew into the air, its contents of cold water landing on Geoffrey’s head and the glass shattering across the floor. The kitchen was filled with laughter. The chambermaid looked at Geoffrey as he picked up his chef’s hat from the floor, no longer starched and stiff, and brushed off glass crystals with his apron.

‘Ooh là là, Monsieur. You are a little wet, n’est-ce pas?’ The chambermaid said, placing her hand over her mouth to stop laughing.

Geoffrey, apoplectic, water dripping from his hair, marched from the kitchen towards his changing room. There was laughter from the chefs as Michael gave the sous chef a two-finger salute. The sound of cheering brought the head chef out of his office, demanding to know what was happening. The kitchen clerk, seated in a window booth near the service hotplate, stumbled into the kitchen.

‘I saw everything, chef,’ George said, leaning against a convenient wall to keep himself upright.

Everyone liked and tolerated George, who was a non-recovering alcoholic. His age was indeterminate and could be anywhere between the mid-fifties and early seventies. Despite his relationship with alcohol, his mind wasn’t clouded so much that he couldn’t sound coherent. It was rumoured George was an educated gentleman who’d fallen on difficult times. This sudden outburst from him was unusual, although not uncommon.

‘Right, George, tell me what’s been going on, si vous plaît.’ Louis said.

‘Sorry to tell tales out of school, chef, but I’m afraid Geoffrey’s let himself down again.’

George was no fan of Geoffrey’s and saw the opportunity to put the boot in. He replied to the head chef, painting a picture of Geoffrey as the villain who got what he deserved. However, George couldn’t omit Michael from the incident, and Louis called Michael into his office and told him to close the door. Michael was sure he’d be dismissed.