relaxing slightly. He poured the wine.
'Excuse me,' said a diner, coming up to the table. She bent down as she spoke to Gabe so her décolletage was level with his eyes. 'I just wanted to say that we've had a fantastic meal this evening. Thank you very much.'
Gabe lifted his gaze from the wrinkled valley between her breasts to the starched-and-ironed region of her eyes and brow. He asked what she had eaten, if the meal had marked an occasion and hoped that she and her husband would come again.
'Splendido,' said Fairweather, when the woman had blushingly retired.
'Bravissimo. We must get you front of house as often as possible on charm offensives. They love all that, don't they, mingling with the chef.'
'Oh,' said Gabe, 'we've the television to thank for that. But I'll be needed in the kitchen, so if you don't mind'
'Wouldn't be too clever,' said Rolly, 'to pour funds into a restaurant with a chef who's going to find himself on some type of corporate manslaughter charge. You sure nothing's going to stick to you?'
Gabriel gave a short laugh and rocked back in his chair. 'Forget about the porter. I already have. It was a sad accident but Yuri brought it on himself.
He was drinking. It's not going to interfere with my life, though. I give you my word on that.'
'Good enough for me,' said Fairweather. 'Rolly? Good enough?'
Rawlins did his special tooth rinse. It was a wonder, given how much saliva he appeared to produce, that it didn't spray out when he spoke. 'How's business here, Gabriel? How's your bottom line?'
'Started out bumpy.' Gabe shrugged. Rolly looked like a bit of a clown. When he wasn't talking business he was usually talking rubbish, but in business, as he'd already proved, he was anything but a fool. With Rolly it would always be about the bottom line. 'Look, we're averaging seventy per cent capacity over the week now. The midweeks were killing the place before but you can see for yourselves ... Let's crunch some numbers when we get together. I've got more projections to talk through but I need to get back in my kitchen, I like to keep things tight.'
'Off you go,' cried Fairweather. The alcohol had reddened his cheeks further, but they seemed to glow with health, as if he had taken a bracing walk rather than an immodest amount of wine. 'Mustn't keep him, must we, but do just tell me this: would you object very much to a theme week when we open up? MPs do like a theme. I think I can guarantee a full house.'
Gabriel put his forearms on the table. He set himself solidly in place.
'Traditional French cuisine precisely executed classics with a clean, modern interpretation. Believe me, in London these days, that could be called a theme. If you want Pacific Rim with a Mexican molé on the side you can just pop round the corner. To get a decent steak béarnaise you've got to go to the ends of the earth.'
'Oh, I know,' said Fairweather, 'that's exactly what we discussed. That's why we're going to be full to the seams every night. There's no precision in anything nowadays. It's the same in politics, you know, a lot of flannel
flim-flam, my father used to call it a lot of that about.'
'Look,' said Rolly, 'if you've got some secret lust for Michelin stars, I'm telling you now, forget it. Yeah, if you get them, there's payback. If you don't ... It's a mug's game. It's one good way to go broke.'
'Not interested,' said Gabe. 'Never have been.' He looked across the restaurant at the treble-arched window. The open curtains, artfully swagged skeins of silver, framed the dark night beyond. People passed by indistinctly.
Lights smudged colour into the street, but illuminated scarcely anything at all.
'Because if you are ...' said Rolly.
Gabriel tuned in to the ticklish patter of the fountain, the clink of cutlery all around. Rolly needed handling, but it wasn't too hard to do. 'Who wants to end up like Loiseau?'
'Who?' said Fairweather. 'Oh, I do know. The chef who shot himself? He was worried about
'Excuse me,' said a diner, coming up to the table. She bent down as she spoke to Gabe so her décolletage was level with his eyes. 'I just wanted to say that we've had a fantastic meal this evening. Thank you very much.'
Gabe lifted his gaze from the wrinkled valley between her breasts to the starched-and-ironed region of her eyes and brow. He asked what she had eaten, if the meal had marked an occasion and hoped that she and her husband would come again.
'Splendido,' said Fairweather, when the woman had blushingly retired.
'Bravissimo. We must get you front of house as often as possible on charm offensives. They love all that, don't they, mingling with the chef.'
'Oh,' said Gabe, 'we've the television to thank for that. But I'll be needed in the kitchen, so if you don't mind'
'Wouldn't be too clever,' said Rolly, 'to pour funds into a restaurant with a chef who's going to find himself on some type of corporate manslaughter charge. You sure nothing's going to stick to you?'
Gabriel gave a short laugh and rocked back in his chair. 'Forget about the porter. I already have. It was a sad accident but Yuri brought it on himself.
He was drinking. It's not going to interfere with my life, though. I give you my word on that.'
'Good enough for me,' said Fairweather. 'Rolly? Good enough?'
Rawlins did his special tooth rinse. It was a wonder, given how much saliva he appeared to produce, that it didn't spray out when he spoke. 'How's business here, Gabriel? How's your bottom line?'
'Started out bumpy.' Gabe shrugged. Rolly looked like a bit of a clown. When he wasn't talking business he was usually talking rubbish, but in business, as he'd already proved, he was anything but a fool. With Rolly it would always be about the bottom line. 'Look, we're averaging seventy per cent capacity over the week now. The midweeks were killing the place before but you can see for yourselves ... Let's crunch some numbers when we get together. I've got more projections to talk through but I need to get back in my kitchen, I like to keep things tight.'
'Off you go,' cried Fairweather. The alcohol had reddened his cheeks further, but they seemed to glow with health, as if he had taken a bracing walk rather than an immodest amount of wine. 'Mustn't keep him, must we, but do just tell me this: would you object very much to a theme week when we open up? MPs do like a theme. I think I can guarantee a full house.'
Gabriel put his forearms on the table. He set himself solidly in place.
'Traditional French cuisine precisely executed classics with a clean, modern interpretation. Believe me, in London these days, that could be called a theme. If you want Pacific Rim with a Mexican molé on the side you can just pop round the corner. To get a decent steak béarnaise you've got to go to the ends of the earth.'
'Oh, I know,' said Fairweather, 'that's exactly what we discussed. That's why we're going to be full to the seams every night. There's no precision in anything nowadays. It's the same in politics, you know, a lot of flannel
flim-flam, my father used to call it a lot of that about.'
'Look,' said Rolly, 'if you've got some secret lust for Michelin stars, I'm telling you now, forget it. Yeah, if you get them, there's payback. If you don't ... It's a mug's game. It's one good way to go broke.'
'Not interested,' said Gabe. 'Never have been.' He looked across the restaurant at the treble-arched window. The open curtains, artfully swagged skeins of silver, framed the dark night beyond. People passed by indistinctly.
Lights smudged colour into the street, but illuminated scarcely anything at all.
'Because if you are ...' said Rolly.
Gabriel tuned in to the ticklish patter of the fountain, the clink of cutlery all around. Rolly needed handling, but it wasn't too hard to do. 'Who wants to end up like Loiseau?'
'Who?' said Fairweather. 'Oh, I do know. The chef who shot himself? He was worried about
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