Bon Viveur

Bon Viveur

(1806 words)

I knock back the neat whiskey.  The liquid gold both sears and comforts my parched throat. I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror of my bedroom. I’m completely shocked by my unkempt appearance standing there in my chef’s whites from service the night before. Bloody hell! I have to be in the studio in three hours’ time. Can I pull it off again?

I’m expected to present myself in Montrose and do an interview and food demonstration on the Late, Late show. Why had I agreed to this? I mean it’s not as if I need the money or the exposure. Jesus, it's like they can’t get enough of me. Believe me I used to be invisible. How times have changed. Now I’m really at the top of my game. I’m constantly in demand and my phone never stops ringing.

I always avoid any in depth interviews. My agent sets strict guidelines on what I’ll discuss. No interviews on my childhood. EVER. That’s completely out of bounds. I mean it's not as if my childhood is anyone’s business. Also, it’s not exactly covered in glory either. Who wants to hear about my stepfather and how handy he was with his fists? My mother must be kept out of the picture too. The last time I saw her I was infuriated by her emaciated appearance. Fucking coke – head!

My escape from Paris aged fourteen has to remain unknown. I also never want to divulge how I’d started as a kitchen porter and worked in some of the crappiest establishments in Dublin. I’ve managed to crawl my way out of poverty through sheer determination and hard work. In truth, I’m ashamed of my past. Today’s mantle of culinary genius and bon viveur sits easy with me.

Winning the Michelin star signalled I had arrived. Recently I did a spread for VIP magazine. Gary, my agent, said Hello had been making discreet inquiries. A six -figure sum was mentioned. I’d even cooked a meal in Farmleigh when Donald Trump visited Ireland almost two months ago now. I loved the coverage my talents had received because of that visit.

Back to more mundane matters. Can I wangle my way out of this engagement? Perhaps Karl, my PA, could concoct some excuse. I mean I’m just not up to it. I look again in the mirror. My eyes are badly bloodshot and there appears to be a purple-coloured bruise emerging over my left temple. Fucking hell! No studio makeup could hide that. The tabloids would have a field day. I don’t want to be an easy target for those hacks. I remember the time when a reporter had been on my tail when Rachel and I first became an item. I smashed that fucker’s camera. That’s one episode I love revisiting. It always gives me a rush thinking of the horror on his face as his precious camera lay in smithereens at his feet. Rachel was terrified and mortified in equal measure. “Nobody messes with me”. I firmly told her. She gave me that look. It made me feel uncomfortable somehow.

How in hell did I receive these mysterious injuries? My head is starting to throb now, and the pain is radiating all over. Sure, I’ve had hangovers, but this really is a doozy. Just then my hand goes, of its own volition, to the site of the worst of the pain, at the nape of my neck. I feel a large, soft congealed lump there. It hurts like hell. Examining my hand, I notice traces of dark blood. Fuck what happened last night? Did I get into a fight? I need a drink to calm my nerves. I grab the Jameson bottle from the bedside locker. There’s probably only half a tumbler left. Hopefully it’ll steady me. I sip the whiskey as I try desperately to remember.

I walk unsteadily back to the bed and sit down on the edge, glass in hand. Fucking try to remember.

Yesterday was Saturday. I'd been in my restaurant Anton’s Bistro just off Stephen’s green. The place had been packed to the rafters. There were over forty covers to attend to. It had been a stressful evening. They all were. Nobody understands the pressures of my job. 

I mean everyone wants a piece of me. I really can’t stand the patrons. They are a crowd of fucking idiots. I see them night after night and their inane antics. I witness them taking photos of their food. Photos of their dinner appear on Facebook and Instagram regularly. Any time I emerge from the kitchen I’m accosted by fools who demand selfies with me. Their cries of “oh my friends will be amazed I got to meet Anton”, really gets on my nerves. They love it when I deliberately ham up my French accent. Broadway has nothing on me!

This charade would never happen in Paris. My fellow Parisians have so much more class. They have respect for good food. Only for me, Dubliners wouldn’t know what top- notch cuisine is, with their bacon and cabbage palates. Some patrons have the temerity to ask for tomato ketchup. I had to tell my waiting staff that ketchup does not belong on any dish served by me.

Their behaviour regarding the wine list is another farce. My sommelier always offers them the best international wines. They pore over it diligently only to choose the cheapest one. Every time!

My staff aren’t much better. I often return home hoarse from having to shout at them. The number of times I had to yell “move you fuckin bastards. Get the food out.” I get a secret thrill seeing them quake in their boots. Power is exhilarating, don’t you think?

 On top of that are the breakages. Expensive plates and wine glasses fall to the floor with regular monotony. I insist through gritted teeth, that they pay for these losses out of their tips. So what they have families to support? You don’t become a millionaire by being nice.

I really must figure this out. I have full recollection of the evening service. Yeah it started at 7.30 and ended at 11. I remember the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. I definitely had a few glasses of Chateauneuf de Pape while I prepared some of my signature sauces. Having a few drinks during service always helps.

Rachel, my ex, used to say I was an alcoholic. What did she know? Let’s see how it pans out with whatshisface the boring old fart she now lives with. What has that prat ever achieved? I push down the pangs of hurt as they threaten to envelop me. No, I refuse to let that bitch get to me anymore. Her recent posting on Facebook announcing hers and whathisface’s engagement still rankle. I experience the now familiar descent into rage. I gave her everything!

Forget Rachel. Think. How did I get home? Was I involved in a fight? I mean I had sustained a broken nose and fractured arm three months ago when I confronted whathisface about his relationship with Rachel. These fresh injuries had me puzzled.

Her having the abortion knocked me for six. I never wanted a sprog, but still. I should have been consulted. It was my kid too. My fingers curl and tense into a fist. Fuck her.

I get up from the bed placing my empty glass on my bedside locker. I just want to check something from the window of the lounge. Straight away I know something is amiss. Where’s my fucking Merc? Did that fool Marcus, my maître di, insist on my leaving it in the car park of the restaurant? I would have been well able to drive. I drive better with alcohol in my system. Wine helps me to do everything better. It takes the edge of, you know. Right I’m going to ring that dick now.

Where the hell is my mobile? I return to the bedroom. There it is, on the windowsill. Good it has a 20 percent battery left. I locate Marcus on my contacts and dial his number. He answers after only a couple of rings. Before I can even open my mouth, Marcus asks abruptly. “Have you heard the news today Anton?”

“You Irish are obsessed with the news,” I roar down the phone.” I want to find out where my fucking car is?”

“Can’t you remember? You insisted on driving despite being four sheets to the wind. Turn on the news Anton! Do it. NOW. It’s important.”

Who the fuck does he think he is? That wanker has me worried though.  Annoyingly my phone dies at that point.

I turn on the radio reluctantly. Within a few minutes the 1 o’clock news comes on.

Gardaí are appealing for witnesses to a hit and run accident in the south great George’s street area of the city. A man in his forties died at the scene in the early hours of the morning. A pregnant woman who was a passenger in the car at the time is in a critical condition in Beaumont hospital. She is thought to be the former partner of celebrity chef Anton DuBois.

A blue Mercedes sport was abandoned nearby. Anyone with information should contact the Gardaí at Kevin Street.

I feel my throat constrict. A deep guttural animal-like noise comes from deep within me. The door- bell is ringing incessantly now. Blue lights shimmer through the opaque glass of my front door. Terrible images start to enter my consciousness in quick succession like I’m watching a horror movie with the fast- forward button jammed on.

 Bile travels in an upward motion from my stomach and enters my throat. I start to gag. I’m choking. The urge to vomit is intense. A greeny brown liquid is projected violently from my mouth and splatters in a greasy pool on the polished parquet floor. The smell is pungent and I start to feel dizzy.

My knees buckle beneath me as I realise the enormity of what I've done. I hit the floor hard. I lie there prostrate with grief and self – loathing.

 The hall door is forced open behind me. I realise in that moment the game is up and I’m powerless to resist. Two guards pull me roughly to my feet. Vomit mixed with sputum dribbles from the corners of my mouth.

 Within minutes I’m bundled into the garda car, a large hand pushing down hard on my head. My eyes blink as cameras flash through the car windows. The press photographers run frantically alongside the moving vehicle in a bid to capture my image.

 I look outside and observe the black storm clouds gathering on the horizon and wonder how my life as a bon viveur has come to this.