Casa Cosy

When Claire turned up at Casa Cosy – the worst restaurant in town - she knew she was going to lose her job.

She stared into the window and saw plastic seating covered in moss, dirty tablecloths. She turned and looked at where she should have been, The Imperial, drooping in garlands of pink and red geranium. She knew who must’ve got that job but stopped herself obsessing over him and her professional failures: a career that started as a journalist, then a respectable food critic was now ending with a trip to Casa Cosy.

             She entered the restaurant: it smelled of damp. The kitchen in the corner had tiles missing off the wall, and the ceiling above was stained. As no one welcomed her, she sat herself down, plucked her phone from her bag and found the restaurant on Google. 1.2 stars out of 5, but the true horror was in the comments:

             “Surely, it’s an illegal drug front. The owner’s more interested in his Racing Post than serving clientele and only talks to dodgy looking men who never take their shades off.”

             “Ordered a coffee after waiting ten minutes to be acknowledged. My drink didn’t come for another twenty, so I left. Always trying to support local, independent businesses, but with The Imperial over the road, you’d have to be mad to go to Casa Cosy.”

“1 star only because there’s no option of zero.”

    “Had a plate of Carbonara cooked by a lovely lady. It was tasty. Heard a raucous argument in the kitchen and noted the lady didn’t return. Not a great atmosphere, so left without tipping – will not be returning.”

             This is Jackson trying to humiliate me, she thought, why else would this place need a review? It will be out of business by the end of the week. She let out an exasperated laugh and realised from the trembling tenor at the end, she was on the edge. The HR complaint had nothing but push her into a corner.

She looked out of the window and by chance saw Jackson. He sauntered down the street, a man with no worries, and entered The Imperial. He always wore a tired corduroy sports jacket, famous from his daytime TV cooking show. Claire cursed his move away from TV and into critique: it had ruined something she loved.

             She began packing her phone away and was daydreaming of entering The Imperial unannounced with thunderous words – maybe even an open palm - when she noticed a plump lady of middle age and Italian descent standing at the table with a smile. Although she looked like a cheery type, there were more wrinkles on her forehead than by her eyes.

             “Signora. How can I help you?” she said.

             “Hi,’ Claire flapped the paper menu onto the table. “I was actually about to leave, sorry.”

             Claire began to rise, thinking still of the words she’d deliver to Jackson, when she locked eyes with the woman. She produced an aperitif that Claire hadn’t noticed – olives with garlic and chilis - and placed them on the table.

             “Please, at least try these before you go. No money.”

The woman wiped her hands on her apron, turned and left. Claire resumed packing her bags and decided to take one for the road. She bit into - it was meaty, tart and of good origin. She sat down and called the waitress back over, and quickly scanning the menu, she said:

             “That was rude. May I please have a bottle of the Soave and some sparkling water. Then, I’ll try your Caccio Pepe,” she smiled.

             The women nodded quickly and scurried into the kitchen. Claire settled back down into her seat and ate another olive.

In the kitchen, Angela washed her hands, then dried them, then washed them again for good measure. She prodded Enzo who was placing a bet on football on his phone.

             “Enzo. This is our first customer since Flavio. First new one, so please, help me.”

             Enzo’s didn’t turn, but from the side, Angela could see him mutter an obscenity.

             “You know, Enzo, your father…”

             He turned and shot a look at her that told her to stop. She did just so, and found the bottle of Soave, the water both cold to the touch - and the correct glasses. She made sure they were clean before taking everything over. She served the lady some wine.

             “This… is a good menu. Quite stripped back,” said Claire.

             “What is, stripped back?”

             “Erm, sorry, minimal. Not many ingredients.”

             “Ah, yes. We say in Italy, ‘Alla Romana’,” Angela did something with her hands that looked very Italian. “We try to keep it simple, in Rome.”

             “Well, great. I like simple. I’ll have the pork cutlet for main and a side of fennel salad. Thank you.”

             Angela turned and there was an excitement, maybe a slight panic, in her movements. The lady looked important. She wore clothes that she might’ve seen in a magazine, or on TV. She approached Enzo.

             “Enzo, come on, help your mother. I don’t think you understand how much we need this.”

             Enzo didn’t move, just kept staring at his phone. Angela couldn’t be painted the villain any longer.

             “Enzo, your father, he ruined everything. Please, help me save something from this rotten mess he made.”

             Enzo rose to his feet. Angela thought he was leaving.

             “What does she want?” He pointed to the table. “What does the lady want?”

             “Pork. Thank you.”

             She wanted to tell him that saints weren’t born out of every death but instead touched her cross to repent her sinful thought. She boiled spaghetti and heated a lump of butter in the pan. She pulled the pasta out and some starchy water, then blended everything together over the cooker. As she ground pepper, she felt as if she were soaring in the sky, free again. She added cheese – a 70/30 split of parmesan and pecorino – mixed it together and strode to the table and placed the plate down with a smile.

             “Come a Roma,” she said to the lady. Just as in Rome.

             “I can see that,” Claire smiled. “Thank you.”

             Angela turned towards the kitchen and found the two men in shades at the entry. They gestured to their table in the corner and said: “Peroni.” Angela felt her smile disappear. She walked to the humming fridge and took two beers out. She arrived at the table with her finger tensing the bottle neck.

             “Do you not have any respect? It’s been one week,” she said as she placed down the beers.

             Neither man looked up to her.

             “Signora, your husband, it’s him you should be angry at. It’s him who liked our blackjack tables,” one of the men took his shades off; he had cold, black eyes. “A bad husband, a bad businessman, and an even worse gambler. Look at this place,” he grimaced, as if he’d bitten into a lemon, “a stain on Italia.”

             “I’m turning it around. I need time,” she said.

             The other man, still with his shades on, tutted.

             “You see number forty-six, down the road? They asked for time. Now on the counters is just ash.”

             Angela stiffened; a bell rang. She narrowed her eyes and walked back to the kitchen, but the lady on table four called after her. She composed her manner and approached her. There were spots of sauce on the tablecloth and both plates had been eaten fully, the universal sign of a well-loved meal.

             “That was delicious,” said Claire. “Truly a delight. You should have more people in here.”

             Angela nodded and thanked her.

             “I don’t want to be rude, but why don’t you get a loan, improve the appearance, maybe? It would help.”

             “This was my husband’s restaurant. He, erm, ran it how he felt was right. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was, but this is all that he left me,” she picked up the plates, the cutlery. “Excuse me.”

             She returned into the kitchen and Enzo was cooking the cutlet. He was a master, letting the fats and the garlic simmer at the perfect heat. It smelled of rosemary and butter. He plated up the dish as she shaved the fennel, before cutting thin strips of parmesan off the block and adding them to the salad with a simple olive oil and lemon dressing. Enzo turned.

             “Who are they?”

             “No one. Don’t worry.”

             “They were here when dad was. I’m not an imbecile, you know,” his shoulders stiffened, and he lifted his chin.

             “Enzo, you’re a chef. Leave the business to me.”

             Angela picked up the dishes and took them to the guest. The meat had the right amount of juice seeping out of it, and the salad was crisp and aromatic. The lady smiled when the plates landed before her.

             “Prego,” said Angela, but as she placed the plate down, there was a loud smashing sound from the corner of the room. She turned and saw Enzo and the two thugs arguing, a bottle of beer in pieces on the floor. The two men raised from their seats, dusted off their jackets and left with a wry smile on their faces. The man with the black eyes turned from the entry and shouted.

             “Look at forty-six. We will be back soon.”

Claire didn’t want to make a scene. She watched as the woman swept the shards of glass, then mopped. She ate the pork, then the salad – it was delicious. She couldn’t understand the poor reviews. She finished eating, drank another glass of wine, then asked for the bill. The owner arrived.

             “How embarrassing,” she bowed slightly, “sorry.”

             Claire smiled. “Listen, lady. I think you need a fresh start. Close for a week, make some changes: the name. Start again. Your husband may have been a good man…”

             “He was not.”

             “In that case, start again. Your cooking is too good, and this place is filled with bad memories and wretched reviews.”

             Claire paid double what the bill had asked and bid the woman farewell. She touched her arm.

             “You’ll be OK. Don’t worry about them,” Claire pointed to the entry. “Why not call it Caccio e Pepe?”

             Claire winked, then she left. She crossed the street and arrived at The Imperial and saw Jackson through the window. He spotted her and asked his table to be excused so he could come outside. He walked with straight, confident strides and his blonde hair bobbed in springs beneath his ears. His wide smile broke as he spoke.

             “How was ‘the worst restaurant in town’?”

             Claire took out a cigarette and lit it. “Delicious.”

             “Sure,” he snorted.

             “I wanted to thank you,” Claire exhaled smoke to the side. “Today was important to me.”

             “Well, a thank you is much better than a HR complaint. Are you going to apologies, for that, also?”

             Claire didn’t respond, she kept smoking and stared directly at Jackson. His sharp features made him look like a weasel – never will she let a man do that again.

             He knotted his brows in confusion then gestured towards The Imperial.

             “Do you want to join us? We’re just about to have a Crème Brulee.”

             Claire took another drag. Her right arm was folded across her chest, and her left held it in the air like a crane. She took another drag then dropped the cigarette and stamped on it.

             “Thank you, but I’d rather die.”

             She walked away, making sure to take photos of number forty-six on her way to the tube station. It was a burnt-out mess, with black pieces of timber hanging disjointedly from frames and ash still marking every inch of the walls and structure. Graffiti inside issued warnings. She knew she had a lot of work to do, so hailed down a cab.

             “Where are we going, love?” Asked the driver.

             “King’s Cross. The Daily Reviewer head office.”

             She called her old friend as the cab bumped its way across town.

Angela did what the lady said. She shut down for a week, her and Enzo re-tiled the kitchen, re-did the bathrooms and painted. They peeled off the vinyl on the front that had said Casa Cosy, and instead had a friend paint the words Caccio e Pepe.

             She found new wooden chairs and tables and printed menus on thick paper. Finally, she asked Enzo to remove the old Google Listing and start anew.

             On the first day, she was thrilled to be opening. It was light outside, and although early summer, it reminded her of winter days in Rome. That excitement waned as customers didn’t appear, and after a further three weeks and a growing pile of bills through the door, she accepted that Flavio had ruined both her lives: the one with him and the one without.

             It was a terrible feeling, watching time eat into your only chance of a future. Across the road, The Imperial had customers willing to queue for an hour instead of eating with her. Then, she did receive her first customers. The two men wish shades walked in and whistled sarcastically, then sat themselves down in their corner.

             “Look at this, what a change! Flavio would turn in his grave,” said one man, “I’ll have a Peroni,” he grunted.

             “It doesn’t look like your fortunes are different, eh, Angela?” The other smirked. “We said we’d give you four weeks, but maybe, it’ll be tonight…”

             Angela felt her arms shaking as she wrote down the orders. She approached the fridge and plucked two Peronis. She opened each with a hiss. She looked to see Enzo, how he was reacting to the men, but his face was thrilled by something. She felt a gust of air crawl up her neck and her skin shivered. She turned, and a group of four people were waiting to be sat. She approached them and they smiled. They asked for coffees and Italian pastries and fizzy water and Angela was busy and smiling, and she saw many more people were now waiting to be seated, all women. She took orders and Enzo readied food, and soon, the two men left having hardly drank their beers, leaving on the table a copy of a newspaper opened on page 12.

Jackson Hendrick arrived at The Agency. He wore his sports jacket and was, as always, twenty minutes late. The lady at reception looked at him with dead eyes. He was used to those looks, and wasn’t surprised she was annoyed, as he hadn’t text her back since they made love last week.

             He took off his jacket and sat at his desk and opened his laptop, but before he could get onto his emails, The Daily Reviewer landed on his desk, and the towering figure of Al – the agency owner – stood above him. He felt cold.

             “Hello chap,” said Jackson. “What’s this?”

             “This,” said Al, “is the end of your career.”

             He pointed to the paper. Jackson opened it, saw the article with his name in the headline:

             Handsy Hendrick from daytime TV fame accused of sexual abuse and bullying by Claire Stoddard, former Senior Food Critic. An attempt at demeaning her professionally saved her life, she said.

             Story continues P12, including a piece by Claire herself on patriarchy and mob influence in the culinary world, and a call to all women to support and protect our women in the kitchen – starting with a trip to Caccio e Pepe on the West side of town.

             He couldn't believe it - rape! She was lucky they spent the night together! Jackson laughed wildly. He’d easily beat this attempt at a smear through HR – this would be no issue. He rose to his feet and turned, only to be faced by Jose, the big Spanish security guard, who had two policemen at his back.

             “Shit.”