A Dash of Water
Inspired by a chapter entitled “Eating Out” in Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh.
Ron, the new KP, hadn’t emptied the sink in God knows how long. The water was lukewarm at best, and the delicate curry shades, so rich but distinct on the plate, had melted together to create a muddy swamp. Unscraped appetisers and sides lay almost fully submerged beneath the water’s surface, the tops peeking through like crocodile eyes. I would’ve scolded Ron further if the bell on the front door hadn’t rung. I raced out of the kitchen and into the dining room.
A man with his nose booze-red ushered in his son. The boy’s eyes swung vacantly around the restaurant, not seeming to take anything in through his dilated pupils. Without waiting to be seated, they thumped themselves down at the nearest table.
I prepared my service smile before wandering over and welcoming them. The man spoke back to me in a voice that wasn’t local to the area, but posh, so posh that my smile momentarily jumped from my face. The boy must’ve just moved into the nearby university. Luckily for most of the town’s residents, the university was too far to walk and the occasional bus had a tendency to break down. More frequently, the students ravaged the city it was situated on the doorstep of, but September had rolled around, like it always did.
“What wines do you have?” the man demanded.
“None,” I responded. “We don’t sell any alcohol here, but you’re more than welcome to bring your own. There’s a shop just across the road.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up and his chin wobbled aggressively as he spoke. “The hell kind of place is this?” He raised his eyes from the menu I’d placed in front of him to meet my own.
I shrugged.
“Okay, you can go. We’ll let you know when we’re ready.” The man flicked his hand in dismissal.
In the kitchen, Tommy cracked open another energy drink. We always joked that the owner only hired a South Asian waitress to manifest the illusion of an ‘authentic Indian experience,’ even if my family are from Pakistan and a white man had devised and cooked the majority of the menu. The public didn’t need to know that because it didn’t matter; for this town, I was Indian enough.
“How’re the tables tonight, my love?” Tommy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead as thumping jungle music throbbed from his speaker.
“Family just walked in. The dad’s proper posh.”
“Pricks?” he asked.
During his first years here, Tommy had managed to get his little sister a job as a waitress. During her first shift, she messed up a former regular’s order, for which he called her a stupid bint. She didn’t tell Tommy until they were in the car.
I remembered the raised eyebrows and wobbling chin. “Prick,” I corrected Tommy.
The next time the regular visited, Tommy had made sure his order was snot-runny before sending it out. He told me that this was the best way to ensure a disgusting curry, but good enough that the cook wasn’t obligated to remake it. Even a dash too much water would do, he’d said.
“Well, if there’s any trouble,” Tommy said, “just say the word.”
Once I emerged from the kitchen, the man snapped his fingers at me. I took my time getting there. A bottle of Pinot Noir rested on the table.
“Be a star and get us some wine glasses, will you?” the man ordered.
“We don’t have wine glasses,” I said.
How stupid could people be, I thought. If we don’t have wine, we’re hardly bloody likely to have wine glasses, are we?
“But I’ll get you something that’ll do the job.” I went to the register and pulled out two mugs.
“Are you ready to order?”
The man looked at me. “I told you, we’ll let you know when we’re ready.”
Once the bottle was half gone, and their faces were as red as the wine they slurped down, the man finally clicked me over to order their curries. Everyone else’s food was either being prepared in the kitchen or in the customers’ stomachs and I knew their tardiness meant there was no chance I’d be home before midnight. I scribbled down the boy’s request.
“And I’ll have the madras,” the man said. Already he’d spilled drops of red wine onto the white tablecloth. The man nudged the boy and announced: “This one’s going to uni here. I thought I’d treat him on his first night.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “I studied here too. Philosophy.” After Mum’s health took a turn for the worse, moving all the way to London was no longer an option.
“Good to see you’re using it well,” the man sneered.
“Dad,” the boy sighed. I rang in their orders before retreating to the kitchen.
“Tommy,” I yelled. “That madras is going to be a special one.”
He grinned. I didn’t often request special curries so he knew it was well deserved when I did. “One special madras coming right up.”
While Tommy worked away, I grabbed a small bowl and approached Ron. He saw me coming before reaching to empty the sink, worried that I’d berate him again.
“Wait,” I said. “Not yet.”
Sure enough, the water was filthy, with lumps of soggy naan and clusters of rice stewing in it. A thin layer of grease floated atop and I couldn’t see the sink beneath it. The putrid mix of disinfectant and warm meat reheated by its brown bath contaminated the area around the scummy liquid. I dipped the bowl into the sink and lifted out just a dash of water.
