‘Oh?’ I reply with a frown.
‘Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine. I’ve known him for years. He’s all bark and no bite. The man only drinks Scotch anyway, so it’s unlikely he’ll know if you’re doing a bad job.’ Bill chuckles at this, but I cringe.
‘Bill, I, um, haven’t really had even five minutes to go through the list …’
‘No one expects you to know the list yet,’ he says, smoothing his thinning hair down around his ears.
I nod, deciding I might incriminate myself if I protest any further.
I make my way back into the dining room, with Bill following behind. There are only three lunchtime bookings today, apparently, and five tables this evening. But at lunch, Bill tells me, they rarely have the degustation, so I won’t be saved by the pre-paired menu.
‘Do you get many walk-ins?’ I ask, staring wistfully out of the window at the endless lawns and woods in the distance.
‘Maybe later in the summer,’ Bill replies. ‘But after the revamp, we’re expecting at least a couple of weeks of steady bookings. We’re already fully booked for the first Friday and Saturday nights.
‘Fantastic,’ I say, as I breathe deeply and reach for the wine list.
It hasn’t got any easier to decipher. I scan quickly for anything familiar, beyond the few bottles I paired with Heather’s help last night. I need to think fast.
What do I actually know about wine?
I know, from my limited waitressing experience, that you start a meal with champagne or Prosecco. At least generally. Or a cocktail perhaps – but I wonder if, as a sommelier, I should be pushing the wine?
I know that often a white wine accompanies the starter, and then on to a red, if you’re having meat as a main. But that maybe you’d stick with white, if you are having fish or chicken as a main. But I also know it’s far more complex than that. Heather, for example, could smell a glass and identifynotes, which were things like butter (what?), peach blossom and grated lemon rind. Not just lemon –grated lemon rind, to be precise. I must have some Heather-expertise stored in my brain somewhere.
So yes, I can remember bits like that, but nothing useful – like what the wine that tasted like grated lemon rindwas. I wish I’d paid more attention. All that knowledge I thought was nonsense is suddenly utterly critical.
But three tables? Can it really be that hard?
At the open kitchen, James and Anis are tasting a sauce from a silver jug with two tiny teaspoons. I watch for a moment as they share a satisfied grin. As she walks out of view, James looks up and catches my eye. And it’s disarming, his smile. Shy but warm, with a small dimple on his right cheek.
I do a little over-eager wave his way.Too much, Birdy, too much.
He mouths, ‘Good luck’ to me in return and I’m instantly transported from sweet anxiety to the more sinister kind. I gulp and try to focus, but I’m not sure on what. Why has no one told me what to do? Is this what happens when you’re really experienced – no one tells you what to do any more?
Irene swings through the double doors and places a plate of clear soup on the counter. She nods to Bill, who hands her a crisp napkin wrapped around a knife and fork.
‘That’s for Russell. He’ll have a bar lunch while he observes.’
I must look nervous, because her face suddenly softens.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she says, putting a calming hand on my arm. ‘Bill says you’re a real pro.’
I gulp, looking over at Bill, who is nodding supportively. No, I’m not confessing to these ridiculously kind people. Not now.
A waitress slides up beside me, with yet another open, warm face.
‘Hi, I’m Bir—’ I begin.Fuck!‘I mean, ah, I’m Heather. Heather is my name.’
‘I’m Roxy,’ she full-beams back at me and speaks in a very soft accent. She doesn’t seem to have noticed the slip. ‘We met last night?’
‘Oh shit, of course,’ I mutter. ‘I was, like, train-lagged or something.’
‘Are you okay? You look a bit hot,’ she whispers gently.
Just then the doorway to the dining room is filled with two couples, easily in their seventies. Both men remove their flat caps as they enter, showing the way for the ladies. Irene moves at speed to greet them, arms outstretched, a wide smile on her face.
‘Betty, Thomas, Shammi and … Govid, is it? A very good afternoon to you all,’ she says warmly, extending her arm to the made-up table for four people situated by the large bay window. Roxy joins her, helping to remove jackets and scarves discreetly away to a coat rack. She’s like a cat, the way she moves.
