High Season Read online

  19

  Leaving the Barracks and Brisbane wasn’t a difficult choice in the end. There was a night there, right at the end of things, when after hanging around the hotel and getting completely smashed, I projectile vomited into a group of friends without bothering to get out of my chair. Which is difficult PR for anyone to spin. It was a vomit that took me, as well as my friends, by surprise. Smack makes everyone vomit, it’s just par for the course, but lately I’d been getting very tired of having to run off to the toilets and dry-retch so I had fallen into the habit of simply bending down or turning away from people and sort of heaving into my sleeve before turning back to the table of friends or pretty girls with what the fuck are you looking at? eyes. How bad could it be? If I hadn’t eaten for a while or had been dry-retching for a few hours prior, I figured it was a pretty safe bet that nothing was going to come up this time and I could save myself the inconvenience of having to walk to the bathrooms. How I got it so very wrong on that particular night is still a mystery to me. Even more unfortunate was that, in my attempts to try out new things, I figured that if I didn’t actually turn away from people any more, the heaving action would be less noticeable. As a technique, I still don’t write it off completely, but I can also categorically state that there is no sure way of knowing whether you’re going to have a dry run or actually spew up about four litres of Italian mise en place.

  People were growing tired of me in Brisbane and that was something I was both embarrassed about and unfamiliar with. I was used to being quite popular and, generally speaking, close to the centre of things. During the last few months, though, people had started to treat me with disdain. I was in my mid-twenties and that fact alone seemed to forgive a lot of illicit behaviour, but there was also little doubt that my drug intake was being perceived by others as something that was running the show rather being on the periphery of things, like it was for them. And, sadly, all the time I had spent out west on the block of land getting straight, getting to know myself and get the fuck over Newtown had disappeared from my short-term memory. It was like it had never happened and my heroin habit had picked up from where I’d left it in Sydney. And it was pissed off with me for leaving it behind. It had grown lonely and weird during my absence and now it was demanding an ever-larger speaking part. Such demands were expensive and difficult to please given the quality of the local dope.

  I found myself up to old tricks with the cash register and late with the rent. I found myself selling the car I’d managed to buy and watching in mild disbelief as I hocked my guitar. Again. And I also found that despite the extra money I was earning as head chef, it was, as the song goes, never enough. Like a lot of other losers I’d met, I heard myself constantly talking about how the problem was the supply side of things, how if I could just get the supply-and-demand cycle right, everything else would be peaches and cream. The more I listened to myself acting like that and talking like that, the easier it was to accept the logic that once a junkie always a junkie. And it wasn’t like it was something in the drug, some incomprehensible element of heroin that meant I was unable to stop using for any length of time; it was more that I told myself I simply preferred being a junkie. I was no longer able to locate the necessary motivation to actively want to be anything else. The irony was that being a junkie required a great deal of commitment; it required energy, enthusiasm, ambition and an enormous amount of self-will. It was like each day I awoke with a vital mission. And while there were plenty of days I didn’t want to go on that mission, days I wanted the mission to self-destruct, it never did: it just got harder and harder, the scams more daring and dangerous, the potential for everything to go wrong closer to the surface.

  On the morning after my unfortunate vomit, I sensed that it would be in my best interests to put some distance between myself and the people I called friends, a little breathing space that smelt of clean air and fresh opportunity rather than public bar carpet. Obviously I still had my perceptive faculties about me and, after collecting a few weeks’ holiday pay and sending flowers to various ports, I bought a bus ticket to Sydney.

  It wasn’t hard at the time to write the whole place off and the people too as I boarded a bus out of Brisbane. Sydney! Yeah, baby, I was coming back and this time, well, I’d straighten up first and get some cash together but then I was going straight to the top. I figured I could be covered in glory with about six months of genuine effort and hard work. I even started to lower my tolerance before I left and had begun exercising. I was confident I had sufficient skills now as a chef to fit into any number of kitchen situations. The hardest choice I had in regards to work was whether to join a large brigade in a fine-dining joint as a chef de partie—maybe grill section or larder—or work as a head chef in a small place where the glory was negligible but the money was great.

  I bought all the Sydney newspapers before I left town and scoured the positions vacant. There were many opportunities for an ambitious young chef. And I probably would have done very well in any number of the advertised positions if I had followed that plan.

  After a particularly taxing journey on the overnight bus, I figured I might rip up to Kings Cross and get a seven am pick-me-up before heading over to Balmain, where I had organised to crash with my brother and his young family. Seven am is what’s known colloquially around Kings Cross as Desperate Hour, when the lowest of the low and the ugliest of the ugly vie with each other to be the very lowest and/or ugliest. It’s actually good sport if you manage to get comfortably stoned and a ringside seat at one of the early openers. Failing that—which is to say if you’re out among it trying to score or cut a deal—well, you’re fair game, my son.

  While a part of me still felt ashamed about my vomiting session at the Barracks in far-off Brisbane, here in Kings Cross I was a veritable cleanskin. Until I got ripped off and found myself more in the thick of things, and much sooner too, than I might have imagined. What began with the reasonably simple idea that I deserved a little self-medicated relief after a too-long night on a too-crowded bus quickly turned into a welcome home that made my Brisbane sojourn look like a time of moral fortitude and prudent restraint. In fact, what became apparent by about quarter past eight was that it was only the unavailability of what might reasonably be called heroin that meant I was able to hold things together for as long as I had in Brisbane.

  At lunchtime I knocked on the door of my brother’s house. He had kindly agreed to let me crash in his garage until I got myself sorted, and getting sorted was something I was overly optimistic about now that I was partially stoned. Like a lot of junkies, I had fallen into that cliché of optimism about what I was going to do—tomorrow. It was a circle of desiring various things from life, then being sated with drugs rather than the original things that I desired. And it was a narrative that seemed to provide the script for my addictive ways: each shot both ending the desperate nature of my desire and diminishing the chance of ever being able to realise anything other than using more drugs.

  20

  As Paris and her entourage get up from the table to leave Rae’s, there’s a general scattering of waiters, scraping of chairs and turning of heads from staff and other lunch guests. The colour and movement of Paris leaving the building seems to deserve one last stare from the punters who did, after all, share lunch with the girls.

  Vinnie remains stubbornly turned away from the fracas. One of the security guys returns to take up his position near the kitchen doorway and the other security guy crosses his arms at the entrance to the restaurant. The handsome young bookmaker who is a star of the social pages and who organised the outing with Paris today pays Scotty for lunch with a crisp pile of hundred-dollar bills.

  ‘How was the fish?’ I ask Mr Security.

  ‘Excellent, Chef,’ he replies and gives me two thumbs up. ‘Busy in here today.’

  ‘It’s New Year’s Day, you clown, of course we’re fucking busy,’ says Jesse, his voice dripping with contempt.

  ‘Fucking Jesse . . .’ I say, sha
king my head.

  ‘Really?’ The security guy plays along with Jesse, looking at his watch like Dumbo the Clown.

  But Jesse’s response is exactly why this guy is standing at the kitchen doorway rather than at the restaurant entrance with the other security guy. He’s seen it all before, and while it is a little disconcerting to have a very large man basically obstruct my kitchen staff from going about their business—should they need to leave the kitchen—I figure he’s been found out before by more than one smart-arse young chef.

  ‘Glad you enjoyed your lunch,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yeah, it was the best feed I’ve had in the last few days,’ he says nonchalantly, looking around at Mr Bookmaker who, after paying Scotty, has been bailed up by a punter in the restaurant who seems to semi-know him.

  ‘See you next time, sportsman.’ The security guy winks at Jesse as he walks off to rescue Paris and the girls. They are trapped for a minute at the top of the stairs while the bookmaker tries to deal with his new best friend, which means they are standing right next to Vinnie, who has done his best to avoid contact with the whole crew up until this point.

  ‘Vinnie!’ the young bookie shouts in desperation.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Vinnie responds. ‘Don’t bother booking a table or anything, Tom.’ And really, anyone who even remotely knows Vinnie Rae knows that this is a potentially explosive situation.

  ‘Vinnie, I’m sorry, mate. I couldn’t call, the press are all over us and I just couldn’t . . .’ Tom pleads.

  ‘Do I look like the fucking paparazzi, mate?’

  Then Paris intervenes. ‘Paris Hilton,’ she says, holding out her hand.

  ‘Vinnie Rae,’ Vinnie replies, getting up from his chair and shaking her hand. ‘How was lunch?’

  ‘Great!’ says Paris.

  ‘So nice,’ chime in the rest of the girls.

  ‘It was definitely the best meal we’ve had in Australia,’ Paris adds, as the security guys start moving things along.

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Vinnie replies, as one of the security guys says, ‘Got to go. Now!’ He holds up his phone, as if we’re all in a movie.

  ‘Thanks so much for everything,’ Paris calls to Vinnie as she skips down the stairs with Nicky and the girls, the smell of perfume wafting back to hit the kitchen.

  Tom wraps his arm around Vinnie and guides him down the stairs as the girls pile into a car that screeches into the drive. Heads are turning everywhere, from punters trying to get a park on Marine Parade, to guests in the hotel, to passersby on their way to the beach. It’s like this small moment of chaos has been suppressed up until now, and at the point of departure people are keen to shake it up, say what they always wanted to say, be what they always wanted to be. Famous people are weird like that. We generally have a celebrity of some description at Rae’s, either staying in the hotel or dining, but there’s no doubt there’s been something different about Paris Hilton. It’s like she really is the centre of something in this particular cultural moment, and when she leaves the people she waves back to lack direction for a beat as if, now she’s gone, everyone’s lives are somehow a little less meaningful.

  The car with the girls inside screeches back out of the driveway and roars down Marine Parade. Another car pulls into the driveway. The security guys pile into that car, then wait while Tom tries to smooth things over with Vinnie. But Vinnie is not easy to win over. He doesn’t give a fuck what the other punters in the restaurant think of him or the staff or anyone else; he’s the host and owner of Rae’s of Watego’s and Tom got it wrong when he thought it would be a good idea to dine at Rae’s and not tell Vinnie they were coming.

  Despite not being able to hear what Vinnie is telling him, it’s obvious the guy is getting a dressing-down. Eventually Tom hangs his head, nods in agreement with everything Vinnie is saying, then slinks off into the waiting car.

  Vinnie bounds back up the stairs at Rae’s and takes his place again at the table with Jackie. Order is restored. Vinnie’s presence fills the celebrity vacuum that Paris Hilton has left. And as Vinnie might say, ‘Who the fuck is Paris Hilton anyway?’

  ‘You ready for the fries, Chef?’ Choc asks.

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ I reply, and clap twice for service. ‘Let’s get Vinnie’s food out, ladies.’

  ‘Salad’s up, Chef,’ Jesse says.

  ‘Fries in one minute, Chef,’ Choc tells me.

  ‘Sodapop, you lazy dishwashing shit-for-brains, give me a hand to plate up these dishes,’ I call down to Soda, who desperately needs a break from the galley. ‘Choc, take over on the dishes for ten minutes.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, Chef?’ Soda asks.

  ‘Wok me up a fish of the day pot and shine up two plates,’ I instruct.

  Soda fires the wok up straight away, turns on the water that keeps the surface of the wok station cool, lightly oils the top of the wok and then dumps the vegetable pot into the instantly hot copper bowl.

  I admire the way that all the boys in my kitchen have a certain confidence at the wok. I’ve worked hard to ensure they’re all comfortable with its peculiar ways. To see Soda now, having not been anywhere near the wok for a week, rip into it like he owns a street stall in Thailand is satisfying.

  ‘Vinnie’s lunch ready, Chef?’ Scotty asks.

  ‘Hang about, mate,’ I tell him. ‘C’mon, Soda, get those plates down and shine the fuckers. I’m ready on the protein.’

  My portion of beef and extra-small portion of fish are resting on the protein tray. I could have done the plates and sides myself but Soda was fading down in the galley and I wanted to snap him out of dishwasher land and into service.

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ responds Soda, who is moving like a professional chef ought to move. In the next half a minute he has the plates polished, the vegetables for the fish cooked to perfection and spooned neatly onto one of the plates with just the right amount of wok sauce oozing out from under them. Then he salts the fries and pours them into a sparkling white bowl set with creased white paper.

  ‘I think we might let Soda spend some time down here on woks tonight,’ I tell Jesse and Choc.

  ‘Yes, Chef,’ they respond, familiar with the routine of mixing up positions in order to share around time spent at the dishwasher.

  ‘You reckon we can afford a dishie tonight, Chef?’ Jesse asks facetiously.

  ‘Only if you’re paying for it, Jesse,’ I inform him.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll pay if I don’t have to do any dishes,’ Jesse says.

  ‘We’re obviously paying Jesse far too much money, Chef,’ Scotty puts in.

  ‘I think he was going to pay with sexual favours, Scotty,’ I say.

  ‘Where’s my fucking lunch, you clowns?’ Vinnie leans into the kitchen.

  ‘Coming up now, Chef,’ I tell him.

  ‘You fucking morons can’t cook steak anyway. Mr Fucking Carpetbag Steak here . . .’ Vinnie goes on with it, taking the piss out of me in front of the boys, something he is fond of doing when things go well: pull the glory out from under head chef in order that the rest of the crew get to feel a little less like the kitchen scum they really are.

  ‘You want me to tuck a few oysters into your steak, Vinnie?’ I ask, giving it back to him as much as I am able to without ending up on my knees.

  ‘Fucking oysters . . . you would too. That’s what they did in the seventies, wasn’t it? What are you doing, Scotty? Mr Fucking Technology! Can’t use a phone, can’t phone a friend. You’re fucking hopeless, mate,’ Vinnie says, warming to the task of taking Scotty apart, limb by limb. He has obviously swallowed a quick half-bottle of wine and is starting to get a shine on. His mojo would appear to be flooding back through his system, his confidence returned, after being temporarily thrown off-balance by the whole Paris Hilton thing. Now it’s time to pull everyone down a few pegs, get their minds back on the job.

  Scotty grabs the plates off the pass and nods at Vinnie, all business. ‘You ready for this?’ S
cotty asks.

  ‘Of course I’m fucking ready. I’ve been ready for half an hour, you clown. Fucking Jackie’s lost two pounds just waiting for her . . . oh, that’s very nice, Chef.’ Vinnie laughs when he sees the size of Jackie’s piece of fish. ‘Now I’ve got to listen to her for the next hour while she whines on about how small the portions are at Rae’s.’

  ‘Food costs are killing us, Vinnie,’ I suggest as a possible argument.

  ‘Mate, she saw all the figures the other night,’ Vinnie sighs. ‘I got too pissed to put the paperwork away and she went through everything.’ He laughs again. ‘She knows it’s you clowns that are costing me all the fucking money.’

  ‘Jesse wants to know if we can have a kitchen hand tonight, Vinnie,’ I call after him as he walks back out to the restaurant.

  ‘You’re on dishes tonight, Jesse. Fucking dishwasher . . .’ Vinnie shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he just heard. ‘There’s four of you idiots in the kitchen and you want a kitchen porter as well.’

  ‘Thanks, Chef.’ Jesse nods to me from over in larder as Vinnie disappears from view.

  ‘I’m here for you, Jesse,’ I tell him.

  ‘Where’s Vinnie’s fucking mustard?’ Scotty is back, and he sounds pissed off.

  ‘Settle down, mate. C’mon, Choc, just because you’re on dishes doesn’t mean you can drop the ball over here, mate.’

  ‘Sorry, Chef,’ says Choc, and he grabs the hot English mustard from the stand-up fridge.

  ‘Jackie’s whingeing about her fish,’ Scotty adds.

  ‘Did you tell her the food costs are killing us?’ I ask.

  ‘Vinnie did,’ Scotty says, and all the chefs laugh.