CHEF
by Matt Hassell

Michael Victor, celebrity chef � �King of the Kitchen�, �Master of the Meringue� � was ranting again. �You dim-witted arsehole! WHOLEMEAL flour in a rustic roux, not white. Chuck that shite in the bin and start again. God, if you had a brain you�d be dangerous.�

It wasn�t the first verbal blast he�d aimed at trainee chef Mary Li that Morning. Already he�d torn her off a strip for being two minutes late and then called her a �slant eyed slut� for inadvertently biting her fingernails whilst working (a habit she�d only recently regressed to thanks to Chef�s ceaseless bullying). This latest tirade, however, was particularly galling for Mary Li. She KNEW that you usually put wholemeal flour in a rustic roux, but she also knew that yesterday Chef had said to use white flour this time, to create a lighter texture compatible with the chicken liver stuffing. Better not to argue. Rule number one in Michael Victor�s kitchen: Chef is always right. Rule number two: even when he�s wrong. Mary Li spooned the sauce into the bin. Her wooden spatula made lonely, hollow clangs on the metal pan.

�I should take the cost of that out of your fucking wages. You fucking waste of space.�

This was just the sort of aggravation Mary Li didn�t need. She�d already had a bad week: boiler broken down, landlord not answering his phone, another depressing phone conversation with her mother (No she HADN�T got a boyfriend yet, thanks for asking), and an unexpected tax demand for �422. Add to this an �800 pound overdraft, an ongoing dispute with BT, noisy neighbours, PMT, and the mother of all bad hair days and Mary Li should have been primed to explode. Problem was, Mary Li wasn�t the exploding type. She was a hoarder. She was incapable of giving vent to her resentments and disappointments. Instead she held them close, turning them repeatedly in her pressure cooker of a mind until the steamy heat of her anguish turned them into igneous nuggets of distress. Not that wisps of anger didn�t occasionally slip through into her thoughts. She might be peeling carrots at work, or maybe making the bed at home, when strangely enjoyable visions of violence and revenge would come to her. Nailing her bastard ex fianc�e�s penis to a park bench and leaving him there, hands tied, helpless; tracking down the stoically unhelpful lady at BT accounts and throttling the bitch with a phone cord; stapling shut the mouths of her continually rowing neighbours so as they would have to argue in (blissfully silent) sign language.

Chef frequently featured in Mary Li�s violent mental interludes. Many and various were the reprisals she envisaged for that pig-headed pig of a man. Cutting out his spiteful tongue and shredding it in the waste disposal unit was one. Skewering him via the anus with a giant sharpening pole and lightly toasting him was another. Simply beating his head to a bloody pulp with an overlarge steak hammer also appealed. But all this was internalised. To the outside world Mary Li was still a quiet, diffident young woman.

Back in the real world it wasn�t long before Michael Victor was hounding her again. �Chop those leeks thinner,� he yelled standing uncomfortably close and looking over her shoulder. �You�re working in a proper restaurant now, not some back street Chinky take away.� Mary Li gritted her teeth and took a deep breath.

�Yes Chef� she managed to squeeze out. She wanted to say: �Go fuck yourself, you big fat arse. I know how to chop a fucking leek,� but she didn�t. Instead, she checked her anger. The pressure gauge moved up another couple of notches.

She was preparing meat when Michael Victor launched into yet another broadside:

�For god�s sake, you�re supposed to be cutting fillets, not massacring the bloody stuff. Do you know how to prepare real meat or did you only ever eat cats and dogs back home?�

�I�m from Coventry Chef. We don�t eat cats and dogs in Coventry.�

�Don�t you? What do you fucking eat then? McDonalds and KFC? Because that�s about all you�re fit to cook. Move,� - knocking her aside - �I�ll show you. Cut gently round either side of the bone and then make a joining cut across the bottom.� This was exactly as Mary Li had been doing. �Do you think you can manage that?�

�No Chef. I mean yes Chef. � Heat and stress caused Mary Li to fluff her line.

�Yes chef, no chef� mimiced Michael Victor in a falsetto whine. �Jesus, do you even know your own name, you stupid tart?�

That was it. The gasket blew. The damn burst. The cork popped. Choose your own analogy, the effect�s the thing.

Uttering an ear-piercing scream such as would scare the wits out of a banshee, Mary Li picked up her chopping knife and advanced menacingly on Chef. Bellowing at an alarming volume (this from a woman whose colleagues had never heard raise her voice) Mary Li let rip:

�YES CHEF, I DO KNOW MY OWN NAME. AND IT ISN�T TART, OR BITCH, OR WANKER, IT�S MARY, MARY LI. AND THAT�S WHAT YOU�LL CALL ME FROM NOW ON. OR MAYBE YOU WON�T. BECAUSE I�M GOING TO KILL YOU.�

Michael Victor�s mouth fell open in amazement. Mary Li shouting? At him!? Chef couldn�t have been more surprised if Fanny Craddock herself had walked into his kitchen and knocked up a quick coc-au-vin with spring onion croutons. All activity in the kitchen had stopped. Everyone was staring dumbstruck at Mary Li and Chef - the big man for once on the back foot, Mary Li�s knife aimed straight at him. The scene took on the dramatic slow motion quality beloved of bad made-for-TV movies. Would Mary Li really do it? Was it to be revenge by blade? The audience watched in excited horror, eager for the denouement. They didn�t have long to wait - with all the force her simmering body could muster, Mary Li plunged the knife into Michael Victor�s chest.

The strength of the blow easily overcame the weak resistance of tunic and skin. The razor sharp blade careered through Chef�s chest flesh and passed directly between ribs number five and six of his left side ribcage. Ploughing on it sliced open the left ventricle of Michael Victor�s heart causing a short pulse of his lifeblood to issue forth and splatter noisily on the tiled floor. Continuing, it punched a hole in his left lung which collapsed like a rookie marathon runner overcome by heat exhaustion. The blade didn�t come to rest until the handle of the knife butted up against Chef�s chest.

Carried forward by the momentum of her blow Mary Li ended up virtually nose to nose with Michael Victor. Close enough to see his pupils dilating in shock and feel the moisture of his last breaths settling on her face. She was totally aware of what she had done yet she felt neither panic nor guilt. Indeed, she felt remarkably serene and light headed, as if she had no centre of gravity and might float up to the ceiling at any moment.

Standing close by, chef rotisseur Paul Evans looked on, grimly spellbound. Michael Victor tottered on his feet, swaying like a great oak in a hurricane. His mouth was opening and closing, desperately trying to vocalise. Paul Evans leant forward to catch the great chef�s last words of wisdom: �You cunt� he whispered, before collapsing in a lifeless heap. Paul Evans hoped this epithet was aimed at Mary Li and not him, but with Chef you could never be sure.

A short scream, uttered by Lucy Smith, chef-de-partie, brought the maitre d� John Coulson into the kitchen. Coulson had spent 15 years serving with the British army and with one look at Michael Victor he knew that the �Prince of Puddings� was dead. All eyes in the kitchen were on Coulson. With Chef gone he was in charge. The head honcho. The big cheese.

�Who did this?�

�I did.� It was Mary Li that spoke. This complicated things. Coulson had a soft spot for Mary Li, had done ever since they�d got drunk together at a colleague�s wedding reception. They�d gotten on well, two single people glad of one another�s company in what seemed like a sea of couples. Coulson was flattered when Mary Li asked him to share the last dance and had since regretted not trying to take the situation any further. He had no wish to see her young life wasted in jail over the death of a man he knew to be a despot and a bully, even if he was a damned good chef.

�She �� she was provoked sir.�

�Yes sir, he was bullying her again.�

Coulson instinctively felt the sympathies of the room lay with Mary Li.

�Lift him onto the table.� He ordered. It took four of them to do it; Michael Victor had grown fat on food and fame.

�What are we going to do sir? Shall I phone the police?�

�No that won�t be necessary.� Coulson was pulling out the knife from Michael Victor�s chest. It was well wedged.

�What are we going to do with him then?� a hint of panic was creeping into Paul Evans� voice.

�We�re going to ��.� Coulson was really tugging on the knife now. Ssccchhlapp! It was free. ��� eat him. Or, more accurately, our guests are going to eat him.�

There was a stunned silence in the room. Eyes widened. Jaws dropped. Had there been any tumbleweed in the vicinity it would have rolled across the floor. �Don�t look so shocked. Human flesh is quite palatable when properly prepared. And unless we want young Mary here to end up doing a twenty-year stretch we have to do something with the body. Any better suggestions?�

Even stunned-er silence.

�All right then. David and Mary strip the body. Paul, Frank and Jeanette get your knives and cut some joints � we�ve got some cooking to do.�

Thankful for clear leadership in a time of crisis the staff set about their appointed tasks. Coulson left the kitchen to seek out Ian Pearson, his headwaiter, and explain the situation to him. Fortunately, like many who�d worked under Michael Victor, Pearson was an avid Chef hater. The idea of serving up the �Duke of Dumplings� as the evening�s main course didn�t seem to bother him at all.

�You know the Lord Mayor�s party we�ve got coming this evening� said Coulson, �I thought we could do a special menu for them, get rid of the evidence that way.�

�Mm, going to be hard to pass it off as standard dishes though. Surely the taste �.�

�I�ve thought of that. We can do a bush menu - you know, antelope, chimpanzee - stuff they won�t of tasted before.�

�Yes, yes, it might just work.�

Coulson and his headwaiter got their thinking caps on. They extended on the bush meat theme and came up with - �A World Of Choice - a special menu in honour of our esteemed Lord Mayor and his honourable guests. � It offered such delights as : Roast shank of wildebeest with coriander and mustard sauce (in reality Michael Victors ample thighs); Scallop of Patagonian otter (bicep / tricep / forearm); Highland heron pate (liver and lungs); Great ape sizzling platter (heart, kidneys, ribs, fingers and toes); Haunch of tapir braised in butter and onions (calfs, shins); Armadillo stir fry (tongue and cheeks); Punjabi pork sausage fondue (I�ll leave that to your imagination) and African land tortoise stew (any left over bits).

Mary Li�s commission was the Armadillo Stir Fry. The irony of using Chef�s tongue in the dish was not lost on her. It was on her chopping board now. Away from its natural environment the pudgy pink lump seemed awkward and lacklustre - an African cheetah living out its life sentence in Reykjavik zoo. Hard to imagine this soft, pliable flesh having the strength to dig out grape pips from between enamelled teeth. Harder still to imagine it forming the harsh words of Michael Victor�s famous rants and spraying them out like bullets.

Mary Li enjoyed finely slicing the tongue, adding it to the other meat and frying it in a hot wok. She added some ginger and ginseng powder - a touch of Chinese cuisine she felt sure Chef wouldn�t have approved of. The standard stir-fry vegetables followed and Mary Li added a sprinkle of lemon grass because - well, because she could. She presented the finished dish to Peter Glass who was now the senior chef. He took an analytical taste.

�That�s very good Mary. Did you fry it in the lightly spiced oil?�

�No Chef, I mean �.. chef? I added some ginseng and ginger, I thought it would soften the meat�s flavour a touch.�

�It�s worked really well. Frank, come have a taste of Mary�s stir fry.�

Soon, all the kitchen staff had gathered around Mary Li�s work station and were singing the dishes praises. �Subtle yet substantial� was Jeanette Aucott�s verdict. Paul Evans jokingly called it �the best armadillo dish I�ve ever eaten� but added �seriously, it�s really very good.� David Yates declared: �What a great dish. Distinct flavours but with a sense of wholeness. Even Chef would�ve liked this.� There was an embarrassed silence as everyone realised they were in fact eating said Chef. �Yes, but the miserable bastard would never have admitted it would he?� said Coulson. The tension broke as everyone laughed.

The big test of the evening came when the Lord Mayor�s party turned up. �We�ve taken the liberty of preparing a special menu for you sir,� Pearson told the Mayor. �We hope you find it to your liking.� There were no worries on that point. The Mayor�s party were adventurous and hearty eaters. From the �Heron� pate starter to the �Tortoise� stew main, all the dishes were eaten with gusto and lavishly complimented. �Quite the most satisfying meal I�ve had in a long time. Please give Chef Michael my compliments,� said Councillor Jane Smith. �Yes, and mine too� added the mayor. �In actual fact would it be possible for Chef to come to the table so as we can thank him personally Mr. Pearson?� �Oh yes, I�d love to meet him� chimed in Chief Environmental Health Officer Pati Patel, �He�s so funny on the television with his effing and blinding. Mind you, I don�t think I could work with him, I think I�d end up killing him!�

�I�m so sorry ladies and gentlemen,� intoned Pearson in his most obsequious head-waiter-at-your-service voice �I�m afraid Chef never comes into the restaurant during business hours. It�s a little superstition of his, though I�m sure he�ll be glad to know that you enjoyed him. His meal, I mean, his meal.�

In the kitchen, the problem of how to dispose of what remained of Michael Victor - basically his skeleton and head - was occupying Coulson and Peter Glass.

�We can�t just throw it in the skip it could easily get found.�

�How about we just boil it?�

�How would that help?�

�Well, if you boil bones for long enough they just turn to mush and we can tip them down a storm drain.�

�Sounds good to me Peter, let�s go for it.�

The staff didn�t need much prompting to inflict this final indignity on their old boss. A primeval lust for destruction gripped the group. Bare hands wrenched bone from bone. Stronger joints were twisted until the cartilage snapped with a loud crack. It took three pairs of hands to detach the head. The larger bones were chopped into smaller chunks by Mary Li who handled the twelve-inch meat cleaver like a ninja assassinette in a Jackie Chan film - all elegant power and directed fury.

The job of handling Chef�s head fell to Paul Evans. Even in his very dead state Michael Victor still intimidated the young chef rotisseur. He gently cradled his grisly package in the crook of his arm, to make Michael Victor�s last journey a comfortable one. He was carefully lowering it into the middle of the pan when he received the shock of his life. The heads lips were moving! He stared dumbstruck in horror as it clearly mouthed the words �You bunch of wankers. � Paul Evans dropped the head like a hot potato and slammed the lid onto the pot.

�Everything all right Paul?� asked Coulson, noting the lad�s distress.

�Yes, yes, fine sir ���. just fine� he said, backing away to take up a position cleaning a stove at the far side of the kitchen.

With the days work over the staff began to drift away. Mary Li was the last out of the changing rooms. Maitre d� John Coulson was locking up. Even though she was tired and wore no make up, Coulson couldn�t help noticing how exotic and pretty Mary Li looked with her shiny black hair let down around her smooth oval face. Gathering his courage Coulson spoke: �I was, er, wondering if you�d maybe like to go for a drink at the bar down the road. It�s been quite a day.�

�Yes John, I�d like that very much� she replied, casually slipping her arm through his.

They turned the lights out and left. In the stillness of the empty kitchen the only sound was that of Michael Victor�s head boiling angrily in its pan.

� Matt Hassell
Reproduced with permission

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