LAISSE TOMBER LES FILLES by FRANCES GALL. Story by Robert Lastdrager.

Melbourne. December 1985.

Dishwasher blues

“Dishwasher wanted – immediate start,” begged the yellowing notice in the window of the theatre restaurant. That was all the encouragement I needed. I’d arrived in the city three days ago. I was flat broke, and I needed to eat. Entering the bustling kitchen, I had a quick word with the manager and was hired. Wrapping a greasy plastic apron around my waist I took stock of the teetering piles of dirty pots, pans and dishes before me. Plunging my hands into the industrial tub of gray lukewarm water I momentarily closed my eyes to prepare myself for the long haul of scrubbing ahead.

“LICK IT!” A deep voice scowled in my ear, jolting me awake as waitresses and kitchen staff alike froze like fawns in the snow. I turned to the head chef who was holding a chocolate covered ladle uncomfortably close to my face. His immense white uniformed physique eclipsed the light as he bellowed the order again. “LICK IT!”

A cruel smile stole across his bloated scarlet face.

“I don’t eat chocolate,” I stated firmly, returning my gaze to the suds before heaving the door of the industrial dishwasher open with a loud “BAM” and releasing a cloud of steam into the kitchen.

“Now this is a man, everyone! Our new man has balls, which is more than I can say for the rest of my miserable brigade!” bellowed Chef Andre in a thick French accent. Still holding the ladle upright, he slowly turned his glare upon the rest of the staff invoking fear and anxiety as to who would be his next victim.

At that moment a young apprentice entered the kitchen from the cold larder with a large tray of oysters in their shells on rock salt, and oblivious to the preceding pantomime.

“Chef, these don’t smell right” he said, presenting them for inspection. Chef Andre gave the faintest sniff from a distance and barked “Kilpatrick! More sauce, more bacon and grill longer! When they smell like your grandmother that’s when you can throw them out” he taunted while winding a tea towel tightly around his fat fist before flicking it at the waitresses as they collected their first courses of the evening.

“We have a full house tonight and some very special guests. Make me proud, or I will make you all very sorry!” he barked.

For all the Gallic chefs’ culinary pretensions the theatre restaurant had a set menu. Chicken or beef. Most meals came back with a single bite taken out of them. The crowds came to drink, not praise him.

Waitresses whispered stories of the chef’s relentless harassment and sadistic practical jokes, warning me to always be on guard. “He is a pig, and the staff turnover is endless.”

After midnight the restaurant was empty as a bespectacled Andre lent on a stainless-steel kitchen bench, smoking and sipping a cognac while counting the takings.

“Hurry up, I want to get home before sunrise!” the chef snapped without raising his gaze, as a young kitchen hand and I frantically mopped the greasy floors. As I was squeezing out the last mop a tall menacing figure quietly entered the rear door of the kitchen.

“I told you to leave the girls alone,” whispered the brother of a waitress under his breath, gliding toward the Chef. Andre rose from his chair holding a full bag of coins in each hand and was struck in the face with a single fierce punch, the impact breaking his glasses in two as he staggered momentarily before showering the newly mopped floor with a glittering curtain of gold coins.

As the young kitchen hand moved to assist the wounded chef, I held out my arm and blocked his path. “Stay out of it champ. Start picking up the coins instead,” I nodded with a wink.

Stereo Story #755

Laisse Tomber les Filles (Leave the Girls Alone) was written by Serge Gainsbourg.