The Cutout on the Wall

The first ever review of my restaurant still hangs on the kitchen wall, a little crooked, right inside the entrance. I can look at it every time I come to work. In fact, it’s hard not to look at it. I made sure it’s as in your face as possible when you walk in the kitchen doorway, the heading leaping at your eyes right after the smells of the day’s cooking flood into your nose. It hangs on a small plastic hook in a cheap wooden frame. The ink has faded slightly since the day I cut it out from the local newspaper, but I can still read it, I can still see the rating. One star. I can also see my father’s name credited with the review. 

Today as I walk past the framed cut out, I nudge it to try and straighten it on the wall, force of habit more than a real attempt at fixing its crookedness. As usual it resists my half effort and swings gently back to its off-centre position. I catch my reflection on the smudged glass. I should have shaved this morning. I move forward into the large kitchen area. The sweet citric scent of sanitary spray meets me. I flick the polished light switch and the brilliant white lights dispel all shade from the room. I’m here earlier than usual and the building is still otherwise empty. Taking inventory, checking equipment until my brain stops pestering me to check one more time. Everything must run smoothly today. For the second time ever, my father is going to eat at my restaurant. 

After some time, the staff begin to trickle in, chatting and finishing takeaway cups of coffee. They greet me and I nod back to them, return their smiles. I check my stainless-steel watch. Almost twelve. My father’s reservation is for half past eight. He won’t be coming as a critic this time, but that doesn’t relieve much pressure. It’s obvious to me that while he doesn’t plan to write a review, his reason for coming to critique. Why else would he have asked me to prepare his food myself? I plan to give him a reason to be more impressed. 

I thought one star was overly harsh when I first read the article. I had just achieved a lifelong dream and opened my own restaurant; my ego had quickly grown a few sizes too large. One star hurt it. I had hardly finished reading before I hurled it into the bin. Was my father trying to teach me a memorable lesson on humility? No, he’s a more direct man than that, he would have called me a cocky waste of space and moved on. Afraid of appearing biased if he showed his son’s restaurant in a positive light? Still, one star was going above and beyond in proving his impartiality and fairness. Once I had finished coming up with implausible excuses for the negative feedback, doubt pushed some of my arrogance away. It was only a couple of hours before I went back to the bin and fished out the crumpled paper. I couldn’t keep it out of my head. What if I really deserved one star? 

I almost called my father to demand an explanation, but what would I say? I would sound whiny, fragile, complaining about the rating which I knew he would stand by and defend. I’ve never known him to go back on his words. 

I haven’t had any more food writers dine here since then. I guess that review tarnished my budding reputation enough to repel the fine diners, or perhaps I’ve been marketing my business with less effect than I thought. I don’t hold any bitterness against my father for my restaurant’s lack of media attention. I’ve accepted that I probably deserved a low rating, and if I didn’t, well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I must be the only person miserable enough to give a damn about it anyway. 

Maybe being largely ignored by the media is a good thing. I do fine without much external criticism, anyway. I have developed a talent for spotting flaws in my own work without some professional connoisseur pointing them out in the most pretentious way they can think of. My waitstaff serve my dry chicken, overdone vegetables and watery soup every day. If they didn’t the customers would be kept waiting all night. Luckily, the guests don’t have the same knack for figuring out everything wrong with their food. 

At the end of each week, I write a self-critique. The aim is to learn from my mistakes, hold myself accountable for my work and improve over time. Turns out learning from my mistakes is difficult. There seems to be an infinite number of things that I can do wrong, and another endless list of things that can simply go wrong all by themselves without warning and for no clear reason. For the most part, my self-critiques are just shamefully repetitive documentations of all the different things I managed to mess up each week. But they do accomplish one thing. They ensure that I can be more ruthless towards myself than any critic can. 

The day goes by in a blur. Lunchtime is busy and dinner is even more hectic. As the clock ticks towards half past eight and I wait near the front door to greet my father, I feel as though the time has snuck up on me, like the hours skipped past me when I wasn’t looking. 

At precisely half eight my father hobbles stiffly through the door. He nods to me and shakes my hand. ‘Hey, Dad, how’re you doing?’ ‘Could be worse,’ he replies in his raspy voice. He looks around the bustling room. ‘Business seems to be going well.’ It occurs to me that we haven’t talked much about my job since I opened this place. We haven’t talked very much about anything, but I don’t bring up the lack of regular contact between us. ‘Could be worse,’ I say. 

I take his heavy black coat, then show him to a table for two beside a darkening front window, set with cutlery and a wicker basket of small white bread rolls. After a thorough look through the menu, he orders a starter of tomato soup. Since I am to personally prepare his food this evening, I make my way to the kitchen and return with a shallow bowl of soup. ‘Take a seat,’ he gestures towards the empty chair opposite him. I sit. He looks at me for a moment before starting on his soup. I stay silent for a while, but when he is half finished, I speak up. ‘How is it?’ he takes one more delicate spoonful before answering with a shrug. ‘Alright.’ Alright? I know he means exactly what he says, but his tone is disappointed. He expects perfection.

I’ve brought him his main course, Cajun chicken with side salad and chips. This time I’m less patient. I allow him four painstakingly slow swallows before asking his opinion. He is also less patient, less subtle. I notice a slight shake of his head. ‘Honestly, I expected more. This is mediocre stuff, mediocre!’ I sigh inwardly. He goes into one of his monologues, as if he’s already writing a critique out loud. ‘Far too much garlic in this seasoning, these chips are greasy…’ I block him out automatically. I was foolishly optimistic to hope for praise. 

‘Yep, I’ll call Mum. See you soon, Dad.’ My father shuffles out into the rainy night without a glance back. I turn from the door, feeling deflated. I had been looking forward to this, expecting my improvement to be acknowledged. I walk slowly back towards the kitchen. It will be time to close soon, but a few tables are still finishing their meals. I smile politely to them as I pass. 

Seeing these peoples’ faces, I notice that almost every one of them shows contentedness, even delight, and at least some of that happiness comes from the food in front of them. My food, from my restaurant. I wonder at how I haven’t noticed this joy before. I hoped for praise tonight, and my father didn’t give it to me, but just the expression on those faces tells me enough; I’m good at what I do. 

Coming back into the kitchen, I see the framed review on the wall as always. I look at it for a moment and decide, choosing what suddenly feels so obviously right. 

I take the review off the wall and throw it in the bin. 

This time, I leave it there.