Chop Chop by Simon Wroe Page A

somewhere in his carousing he has picked up certain facts and details of philosophical interest—his sexual theory based on Kissinger’s foreign policy, for instance (
that
should have been a warning)—which he is fond of presenting and employing. The nouns of assemblage is one such area. He clutches like a jackdaw at these shiny items. Yet that does not quite do him justice. I have come to believe there are elements of deep wisdom secreted about Ramilov’s person, wisdom of a sort I do not fully understand. This is balanced, though not canceled out, by some extremely poor calls of judgment, of which we shall see more later. The list our wise fool has prepared is below.
    A Band of Men
    An Ogle of Waitresses
    A Wince of Lobsters
    A Tirade of Chefs
    It is a Skein of Geese in flight, a Gaggle of Geese on water.
    A Buzz of Barflies
    A Blarney of Bartenders
    A Skulk of Foxes
    A Peep of Poultry
    A Business of Flies
    An Unholiness of Ortolans
    A Slaver of Gluttons
    A Snarl of Tigers
    A Fighting of Beggars
    A Colony of Ants
    A Horror of Apes
    I wrote to Ramilov to tell him that I do not think all of these are correct. He wrote back to say they were, and to remind me of my promise.

8. THE QUIET DARK-EYED GIRL
    T he quiet dark-eyed girl was sullen and moody and not my type at all. The quiet dark-eyed girl was possessive of her containers and tough and once watched me fall on the solid top and burn my elbow without lifting a finger to help me. The quiet dark-eyed girl was unamused by the banter of the chefs. She was especially unamused by Ramilov’s habit of leaning in front of the pass with his penis in the plate cupboard beneath and asking one or other of the waitresses to fetch him a plate. The quiet dark-eyed girl did not drink in O’Reillys after work with the rest of us. Nor did she brag like Dave or fuck up like Dibden or bully like Bob. The quiet dark-eyed girl prepared a special vegetarian meal for Shahram. The quiet dark-eyed girl was called Harmony. And Harmony was beautiful.
    Everything she said or did was decisive, forceful, pushing the action on. She moved like a tree in a gentle breeze, her legs rooted, her long torso swaying this way and that to the demands of service. At five thirty every afternoon she would take her only cigarette break of the day, sitting on the bench in the yard, for exactly three minutes. Never did she stoop to chitchat. Her demeanor was cool, willowy, composed. She raised her chin to exhale. Brave was the chef who inquired of her private life; it was somehow, implicitly, off-limits. To consider it was dangerous. Deliverymen did not wolf whistle at her, Ramilov did not flash her or pretend to hump her with a carrot or reach slyly between her legs. Even Dave tried to put some other words between his obscenities when she was around. Hecurbed his bigotry in her presence too, though her olive skin and strong features hinted at Jewish or Arabic blood that would ordinarily have set him off at a rant. She existed in her own private universe within the kitchen, untouched by the dirt around her, untroubled by its school yard sadism.
    The kitchen, being predisposed to types—the cocksure joker, the northern goon, the scorned but aloof pastry section, the foreign and uncomprehending kitchen porters—did not know what to make of this bold, immovable female and warily omitted her from classification. Maybe it is the case that any woman in a professional kitchen, juxtaposed against the hardness and testosterone and bitchery of men, will appear a goddess. But no, I think she appeared a goddess because she was one. A goddess who scowled at me and told me I couldn’t use the medium balloon whisk because she needed it in two hours’ time. A goddess who refused to share her one-liter plastics and deep sixes and lids, kitchen items that seemed to exist only in theory, items a commis could spend his whole life searching for. Only Dave was better at hoarding kitchen equipment. All