Ricette d'amore [2b/?]
anonymous
April 6 2010, 01:21:52 UTC
Regulars knew the unspoken rules of The Black Magic. For instance, they knew that the chef would be annoyed regardless of the reason if he was called out of the kitchen. However, they also knew that if he was called out for a compliment (and why wouldn’t it be?), Chef Ludwig would merely issue a very red-faced “Thank you, sir” and disappear, pleased, back into his chaotic domain.
New patrons sometimes made mistakes. Some of these mistakes were fairly harmless. For instance, it was always very awkward whenever someone felt the need to point out that:
"Hey! Hey! Isn't it ironic? You've got this great Italian restaurant here, really nice, but it's staffed by a bunch of Germans and Scandinavians and owned by a British guy. Hey, how does that work? And can I get some fries with this?"
But depending on how far along the evening was, the damage could be minimal. Because, as he was the head waiter, Tino’s breaks didn’t happen until later in the evening. Which meant that he didn’t have the chance to slip in a few drinks until most of the dining crowd had passed. Which meant that when he had to deal with rowdy customers that made stupid observations, he was still perfectly sober. And really, as a waiter, Tino didn’t have access to the big knives anyway.
Ludwig wasn’t quite sure that it was fair that he was the only one being sent to a therapist, since he hadn’t been the only one to… well… have an argument with a customer. His argument hadn’t even come to blows! Arthur might have held back one of his arms, but what had truly kept Ludwig in check on that blasted evening was his pride.
Ludwig Beilschmidt would never strike a customer. No matter how tasteless their palate was. Or if they sent back one of his dishes. Twice.
In comparison, it had taken Mikkel (the easily excitable Danish roundsman), Jan (the stalwart Norwegian expediter), Ari (the best sommelier Iceland had ever produced), and Berwald (Ludwig’s sous-chef) to hold Tino back before he practically murdered that stupid American tourist. Apparently the American had asked Tino if it was true that all they did was put their fingers in dikes and dance around in clogs with reindeer back home in Sweden.
Where Tino had gotten the steak knife from no one had ever been able to figure out. The nearest tables had all been at the desert stage. But not only had the American not pressed charges (“Wow this place is great! You’ve got dinner theater and everything!”) he had even tipped all five men involved in the struggle an extra 50 Euros because “Your guys’s stunts are really good!”
Ludwig had heard about this after the fact, because unlike some people, he had not left his position in the kitchen just because of a silly ruckus out in the main dining area. The best Italian food in Germany didn’t prepare itself.
He hadn’t been so calm when he had heard about the incident, because just the day before Arthur had threatened to fire him if he didn’t start going to weekly therapy sessions. Ludwig had calmly and respectfully wondered aloud, at that point, that if he had to go to therapy, why Tino didn’t have to go too (and to alcoholics anonymous).
“Imagine it from a customer’s point of view, Beilschmidt. Would you rather have a big sweaty (“I am very clean”), meaty (“I beg your pardon?") German man who probably eats bricks for breakfast (“My breakfast consists of muesli and-”) bearing down on you, or that?” Arthur pointed over to Tino. “No offense intended.”
From where he sat on the edge of the bar, swinging his legs and folding a napkin into a rose, Tino waved him off. “None taken, Arthur. None taken.”
And that had been that. Ludwig had been sent to therapy, and Tino had been sent home to top off a few drinks with his boyfriend, the sous-chef. And injustice ruled the world.
Ricette d'amore [2c/?]
anonymous
April 6 2010, 01:47:00 UTC
The restaurant closed its doors at 22:00, and theoretically, Ludwig should have been home and asleep every night by 23:00. But he always found excuses to stay behind. He double and tripled checked the clean up jobs done by Berwald and Mikkel, respectively. He quadroupled-checked his own. No pot, nor pan, nor clove of garlic could be a millimeter out of place by the time Ludwig would finally take off his apron, put on his coat and leave.
He assured Dr. Zwingli every Wednesday that the five hours and fourty-five minutes of sleep he got every night was all his body required to properly and healthily function. But she would have none of it, and had suggested (threatened) that his hours be cut if he couldn't manage a solid eight hours every night.
And so Ludwig Beilschmidt's days passed him by, until late one evening when a little blinking red light ruined his life.
He had left the restaurant that evening at 22:30, as per his new routine, and had entered his apartment complex with enough time to be safely in bed by 23:00. Through a little mangling and rearranging of his morning schedule, Ludwig had managed to pencil in seven hours of sleep per night, which in his opinion, was quite close enough to eight. He had been reflecting on whether or not that counted as cheating, when he had noticed something out of the ordinary.
A little blinking red light was disturbing the uniform darkness of Ludwig’s otherwise still apartment. As he would discover, the little blinking red light belonged to his very neglected answering machine.
The landline in his apartment was the only phone that Ludwig Beilschmidt owned. Arthur had requested that he buy a cell phone, just in case, back when Ludwig had first started working at The Black Magic. But it hadn’t been an order, and Arthur had soon learned that the addition of a cell phone wouldn’t have made much of a difference to his new head chef anyway, so he hadn’t pressed the issue. In Ludwig’s mind, such things were unnecessary. If he was at work, then he was devoted to his work. He did not need some little plastic box disrupting his concentration.
Ludwig did not allow phone conversations to take place in his kitchen. He did not allow the kitchen staff to keep their phones on and step outside to use them, unless they were on break. When they were in the kitchen, the staff of The Black Magic was to be focused.
And during the rest of the day?
It wasn’t any of Ludwig’s business what his coworkers did outside of work. He had his own routine, and he kept to it. If he wasn’t at home, and he wasn’t at work, then Ludwig was usually doing something that required his full attention anyway. Were he to have a cellular phone, it would spend most of its time turned off as Ludwig did his errands or exercised.
And if Ludwig was at home?
That’s what landlines were for. Ludwig Beilschmidt did not need a cell phone, which was why he did not have one already. Thank you. (”Blimey, did you have to print out a bunch of charts just to tell me all of that? I thought you’d be the type to like playing with all these newfangled gadgets... Wait... My God, man, that’s perfect! Anything to cut the restaurant’s expenses! Good show.”)
Since he didn’t have a cell phone, the only way to contact Ludwig Beilschmidt when he wasn’t at home was to leave a message. And that night, someone had.
Ludwig listened to the message (a stranger's measured voice), carefully deleted it, calmly walked out of his apartment and locked his door, before racing off helter-skelter into the night.
Between a bad internet connection and Vista, it'll be slow going tonight. But I'm trying my best to get another part or two polished and up as soon as I can. And thank you, to the anon that got the jump on me.
New patrons sometimes made mistakes. Some of these mistakes were fairly harmless. For instance, it was always very awkward whenever someone felt the need to point out that:
"Hey! Hey! Isn't it ironic? You've got this great Italian restaurant here, really nice, but it's staffed by a bunch of Germans and Scandinavians and owned by a British guy. Hey, how does that work? And can I get some fries with this?"
But depending on how far along the evening was, the damage could be minimal. Because, as he was the head waiter, Tino’s breaks didn’t happen until later in the evening. Which meant that he didn’t have the chance to slip in a few drinks until most of the dining crowd had passed. Which meant that when he had to deal with rowdy customers that made stupid observations, he was still perfectly sober. And really, as a waiter, Tino didn’t have access to the big knives anyway.
Ludwig wasn’t quite sure that it was fair that he was the only one being sent to a therapist, since he hadn’t been the only one to… well… have an argument with a customer. His argument hadn’t even come to blows! Arthur might have held back one of his arms, but what had truly kept Ludwig in check on that blasted evening was his pride.
Ludwig Beilschmidt would never strike a customer. No matter how tasteless their palate was. Or if they sent back one of his dishes. Twice.
In comparison, it had taken Mikkel (the easily excitable Danish roundsman), Jan (the stalwart Norwegian expediter), Ari (the best sommelier Iceland had ever produced), and Berwald (Ludwig’s sous-chef) to hold Tino back before he practically murdered that stupid American tourist. Apparently the American had asked Tino if it was true that all they did was put their fingers in dikes and dance around in clogs with reindeer back home in Sweden.
Where Tino had gotten the steak knife from no one had ever been able to figure out. The nearest tables had all been at the desert stage. But not only had the American not pressed charges (“Wow this place is great! You’ve got dinner theater and everything!”) he had even tipped all five men involved in the struggle an extra 50 Euros because “Your guys’s stunts are really good!”
Ludwig had heard about this after the fact, because unlike some people, he had not left his position in the kitchen just because of a silly ruckus out in the main dining area. The best Italian food in Germany didn’t prepare itself.
He hadn’t been so calm when he had heard about the incident, because just the day before Arthur had threatened to fire him if he didn’t start going to weekly therapy sessions. Ludwig had calmly and respectfully wondered aloud, at that point, that if he had to go to therapy, why Tino didn’t have to go too (and to alcoholics anonymous).
“Imagine it from a customer’s point of view, Beilschmidt. Would you rather have a big sweaty (“I am very clean”), meaty (“I beg your pardon?") German man who probably eats bricks for breakfast (“My breakfast consists of muesli and-”) bearing down on you, or that?” Arthur pointed over to Tino. “No offense intended.”
From where he sat on the edge of the bar, swinging his legs and folding a napkin into a rose, Tino waved him off. “None taken, Arthur. None taken.”
And that had been that. Ludwig had been sent to therapy, and Tino had been sent home to top off a few drinks with his boyfriend, the sous-chef. And injustice ruled the world.
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He assured Dr. Zwingli every Wednesday that the five hours and fourty-five minutes of sleep he got every night was all his body required to properly and healthily function. But she would have none of it, and had suggested (threatened) that his hours be cut if he couldn't manage a solid eight hours every night.
And so Ludwig Beilschmidt's days passed him by, until late one evening when a little blinking red light ruined his life.
He had left the restaurant that evening at 22:30, as per his new routine, and had entered his apartment complex with enough time to be safely in bed by 23:00. Through a little mangling and rearranging of his morning schedule, Ludwig had managed to pencil in seven hours of sleep per night, which in his opinion, was quite close enough to eight. He had been reflecting on whether or not that counted as cheating, when he had noticed something out of the ordinary.
A little blinking red light was disturbing the uniform darkness of Ludwig’s otherwise still apartment. As he would discover, the little blinking red light belonged to his very neglected answering machine.
The landline in his apartment was the only phone that Ludwig Beilschmidt owned. Arthur had requested that he buy a cell phone, just in case, back when Ludwig had first started working at The Black Magic. But it hadn’t been an order, and Arthur had soon learned that the addition of a cell phone wouldn’t have made much of a difference to his new head chef anyway, so he hadn’t pressed the issue. In Ludwig’s mind, such things were unnecessary. If he was at work, then he was devoted to his work. He did not need some little plastic box disrupting his concentration.
Ludwig did not allow phone conversations to take place in his kitchen. He did not allow the kitchen staff to keep their phones on and step outside to use them, unless they were on break. When they were in the kitchen, the staff of The Black Magic was to be focused.
And during the rest of the day?
It wasn’t any of Ludwig’s business what his coworkers did outside of work. He had his own routine, and he kept to it. If he wasn’t at home, and he wasn’t at work, then Ludwig was usually doing something that required his full attention anyway. Were he to have a cellular phone, it would spend most of its time turned off as Ludwig did his errands or exercised.
And if Ludwig was at home?
That’s what landlines were for. Ludwig Beilschmidt did not need a cell phone, which was why he did not have one already. Thank you. (”Blimey, did you have to print out a bunch of charts just to tell me all of that? I thought you’d be the type to like playing with all these newfangled gadgets... Wait... My God, man, that’s perfect! Anything to cut the restaurant’s expenses! Good show.”)
Since he didn’t have a cell phone, the only way to contact Ludwig Beilschmidt when he wasn’t at home was to leave a message. And that night, someone had.
Ludwig listened to the message (a stranger's measured voice), carefully deleted it, calmly walked out of his apartment and locked his door, before racing off helter-skelter into the night.
Between a bad internet connection and Vista, it'll be slow going tonight. But I'm trying my best to get another part or two polished and up as soon as I can. And thank you, to the anon that got the jump on me.
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