Part 58. Identity

Shutting a restaurant down, quail eggs and loneliness.

Did you know, if you put a Like at the end of this, you’ll automatically be put to number one in the queue when you call Customer Services.

No long intro here, just, hello.

We’re back in December 2007. It’s a Saturday evening and this is the last night of Vanilla Black in York. Were we sad or happy? Well, neither during service.

You see, when you’re spinning on the spot, pushing pans backwards and forwards to reduce or increase the cooking time of shallots. Or when you’re watching more orders come in than you can deal with. And James Cak Boy can’t get enough starter plates washed in time. And Tricky Vicki has a table of six and they all want a different glass of wine and need the menu explaining to them twice.

Then you feel neither sadness or happiness, there is only chaos in your mind, happiness and sadness don’t get a look in.

It was a beautiful evening, some guests knew that it was our last day of opening, they were passing on best wishes and reminiscing about times past. Some of the guests were tourists, it was probably there first and last time with us, so they couldn’t give a monkey’s ding dong if it was the final day.

And as the evening passed us by, we in the kitchen were pretty pleased with ourselves as we started to see that we had prepared just about the right amount of food. Obviously there were some leftovers, but we were nearly spot on. Rosie, Donna and Vicki were saying goodbyes to the last of the diners, and the candles on the tables were blown out.

And when the civilians finally left, we actually felt a little excited, all of us.

Why? Because come Christmas time, the city of York is a magical place. The shops are decorated, the cobbled streets are lit with coloured lights and the Christmas markets are garnished with chaps wearing top hats. The chestnut bloke is doing his roasting whilst singing a Christmas carol, and oh look, is that Charles Dickens strolling past, complete with his straggly beard. Well that’s how it felt back then, maybe Walt and his buds have taken over since.

So it was difficult to ignore all of these yuletide distractions, you just felt Christmasy, even Bud felt a little festive. So it just felt as if we were closing for a Christmas break.

And as we cleaned the restaurant down for the final time, we made the famous Cak Boy sandwich for James. Now, bearing in mind that it was the last day of trading, and although we had adjusted the amount of food produced, that sandwich had a lot of ingredients pushed into it. There was onion chutney, quail eggs, a cheeses soufflé, potatoes, beetroot, goats cheese and tarragon mousse, pineapple pickle and many other delicious treats. I suppose these days it would be called a zero waste sandwich.

Cak Boy was enjoying his final sandwich enormously, but he spoilt that moment pretty badly, when half way through, with onion chutney stuck to his lips, he put that sandwich down and asked…..

“Is there like, a bit of salad to go into this, you know, to cut through the richness?”

“You what, this isn’t the Ritz sonny Jim.”

And when everyone had cleaned and tidied, and black bags were tied, we said our goodbyes to each other. Well, not to everyone, some of the team had their final day during the week, depending on how the shifts fell. We agreed to keep in touch with Briggy, Rosie and James. But Vicki and Lozza were coming in the next day, Sunday, just to help with clearing out the last few bits.

So just a few lines to let you know what happened to the characters from that York restaurant. And a little mention to some of the team who were never mentioned previously.

We never heard from Briggy afterwards, sent a text but she didn’t respond.

James Cak Boy now works for an international drinks company, selling drinks or something.

Rosie is an accountant, and doing very well.

Lozza came to London with us.

Vicki works for a train company and travels around Europe doing train things.

Not sure about Bud, he’s probably still funny.

Our Keanu still lives in Canada and manages the security at a 33k seater stadium.

Kate is a solicitor and does some nice family things.

Thanks to Lexy who worked all through the six weeks break.

To my sister Lucy, who started her course at York university, thanks for washing up, although you were the dippiest team member ever.

To Matthew, the superb cello player.

Hayley, did you continue working in hospitality, we’ll never know.

Emma, the psychology student , hopefully you’re practicing now.

And thanks to our Mam, whose culinary skill peaks at turning water into steam, for telling us to chop the rocket because the leaves were too long.

So the next day, myself, Donna, Lozza and Vicki met at the restaurant to finish the last of the chores. It was a Sunday and it was early, so parking restrictions hadn’t kicked in. That meant that we could bring the car into the city. We put the rear seats down and loaded some personal items into the boot, a few bits of furniture and some pictures.

Vicki and Lozza packed away any remaining food and drink items, and everyone took home a few armfuls of goodies. Vicki, did you really need that much bottled water?

As the time rolled on, the car had to be relocated to a car park, and a few hundred pound coins were dropped into the meter.

We said goodbye to Lozza and Vicki*, then they left to continue with their Sunday.

Donna and I loaded ourselves up with Ikea bags which were crammed with wine, beer and some food, put the alarm on and locked the restaurant. We never set foot in that building since.

And as we walked to the car park, the weirdest thing happened. There’s probably a term for the feeling, but we don’t know what it is. We felt lost, almost immediately, within five minutes of walking through the cobbly streets.

And we know that we shouldn’t be defined by what we do, but that restaurant was us, and we were it. But without it, who were we. It may sound shallow, but it gave us a level of status which we hadn’t had before, but at the setting of an alarm, and the turning of that key, all that had gone.

Even afterwards when the texts we normally received, “Can I swap my Wednesday shift with Matthew?”, “Mate, can I not work on Tuesday?”, when they stopped, we had a feeling of loneliness, a feeling of being detached from something we had been hugely attached to.

On Monday morning we had arranged to meet Amal at the restaurant to give him the keys.

He turned up, we told him the meters had been read and everything was turned off. We handed over the keys and he shook our hands. “Do you want to have a look around Amal, check everything is OK?”

“No no my friend, everything is good.”

And unusually, he didn’t talk our ears off, he just said goodbye and walked away. Never saw him again.

Then we walked back through the alleys and snickleways of York, past the chestnut roaster, the mulled wine maker and the Christmas shoppers. We arrived home to our little house in the village, and sat for a while.

But hey, we had Christmas to do, and a restaurant in London to find.

Right people, thanks for reading this, and next week, something spooky.

Andrew and Donna

*We still keep in touch with Vicki, she’s a good friend and a good soul. And James, he lives in London so he visited the restaurant a number of times. And whilst writing this Subby we’ve also reconnected with a few people. Nice eh?