It's lunch and we're short-staffed. An American woman stops me. Indignant that her filet de bœuf is not à point as requested, but most definitely saignant. The sliced-open, offending piece of meat's rose centre stares up at me like an old wound. What she has is what French chefs would consider 'medium', I say politely, and perhaps she should try it first. Using terms more suited to the Pass, the lady thrusts the plate into my hand and tells me to get out of her sight. As a waiter, you quickly get used to the fact that people believe they can talk to you like a lower species. With no plateau to hand I pray to God I'm not caught by a manager. Carrying dirty plates on one's hand is fine, but never something with food on. And when you do carry dirty plates you must carry as many as possible. It must look impressive. It's part of the show.
At the Pass the timing couldn't be worse. Almost all the waiters are there, and the atmosphere is toxic. Accusations flying, Nimsath shouting Tamil obscenities, and De Souza and Renaud in a stand-off officiated by Adrien. De Souza is saying something about Renaud stealing tips again. Nimsath flatly refuses to send the beef back. The other waiters agree and I'm pulled back from the Pass and thrust back towards the restaurant. I'll have to take it to the upper kitchen myself, I decide. I've never been there before. We're told to stay away. The caste system keeps us separate. It's from the upper kitchen that all the important parts of each dish come: the meats and the fish. Sent down in the service lifts to join the rest of the dish that comes up from the lower kitchen. Where the Tamils piece them together into orders.
