Service: A Novel

by Sarah Gilmartin

Overview

A “powerful and compelling” novel about power, consent, and complicity in our #MeToo era — for fans of Sweetbitter and I Have Some Questions for You (Joseph O’Connor, author of My Father’s House)

Tensions are at an all-time high in an upscale Dublin restaurant as its employees grapple with the fallout from a shocking scandal involving its head chef

The waitress, the chef, and the chef’s wife may all lovingly describe the food, but they agree on little else as their 3 voices reveal a story of power and complicity, and the courage it takes to face the truth.

When Hannah learns that famed chef Daniel Costello is facing accusations of sexual assault, she's thrown back to the summer she spent waitressing at his high-end Dublin restaurant when she was a young college student— the plush splendour of the dining rooms, the wild parties after service, the sizzling tension of the kitchens. But Hannah also remembers how the attention from Daniel soon morphed from kindness into something darker.

Now the restaurant is shuttered and Daniel tries to understand how his life is now completely out of his control. His wife Julie is hiding from paparazzi, trying to come to terms with the legal case while suddenly questioning her life and marriage as she attempts to protect her two sons.

Surrounded by the wreckage of the past, Daniel, Julie, and Hannah must reconsider what happened at the restaurant.

Beautifully written and cleverly told in 3 voices, this scorching novel explores uncomfortable truths about our changing social norms with nuance and complexity.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781911590828
Publisher:	Steerforth Press
Publication date:	06/04/2024
Pages:	256
Sales rank:	741,574
Product dimensions:	5.12(w) x 7.79(h) x 0.69(d)

About the Author

Sarah Gilmartin is a critic who reviews fiction for the Irish Times. She is co-editor of the anthology Stinging Fly Stories and has an MFA from University College Dublin. She won Best Playwright at the inaugural Short+Sweet Dublin festival. Her short stories have been published in The Dublin Review, The Tangerine and New Irish Writing. Her story 'The Wife' won the 2020 Máirtín Crawford Award at Belfast Book Festival. Her debut novel Dinner Party was an Irish Times bestseller and was shortlisted for Newcomer of the Year at the An Post Irish Book Awards.

Read an Excerpt

Hannah
 
 
 
I’ve never felt as alive as I did that summer. Alive, needed, run off my feet. Every evening we were queued out the door, we had bookings a year in advance. It was the kind of place people of a certain age called hip, while the rest of us rolled our eyes, discreetly, not wanting to jeopardize our tips.
Back then, when the country still thought it was rich, there was always some brash, impossible customer demanding a table from the hostess just as the dinner rush took hold. These arguments added to the atmosphere, the heat, the energy that ripped around the establishment and kept us going six out of seven nights a week.
The restaurant, let’s call it T, was in a large, ivy-covered building two streets over from the Dáil. We served businessmen, politicians, lobbyists, the type of men who liked a side order of banter with their steak and old world red. We learnt quickly to talk nonsense about the property market and the boom, though we didn’t really have a clue, we just knew that the wages were decent, the customers wore suits, and the tips were sometimes obscene.
We only employ college students.
Don’t be brainless.
Don’t be nosy.
Be tactful.
Be knowledgeable.
Your Chateauneuf from your Côtes du Rhône.
Your bouillon from your bouillabaisse.
Your? As if. We got the same pasta tray-bake and soggy salad every day before service. It was delicious—it was free.
I remember the heat of the kitchens, the huge flat pans with slabs of butter sizzling from midday, though I was fortunate to mostly work dinner, when the bigger tables came in. You’ll get cocktails and evenings for sure, Flynn the bartender told me with a homicidal grin, then he muttered some quip that ended in ass to his sniggering colleague. That was the Ireland of the day, asses replacing bottoms, cocktails replacing pints, quick deals and easy money, opportunities that had taken decades—centuries—to filter down.     
The kitchens were so hot that summer you could feel the burn on your blouse in the throughway, the small space off the main dining room that joined front of house with back. This was the nucleus of the restaurant, where we fired orders on computers, gossiped about customers and complained about the bar staff who’d let our drink orders back up while busy working their own tips. Double doors would flap open to the kitchens as a runner passed through with four plates—the maximum number permitted—and the heat would come at us in short, magnificent bursts that were often accompanied by shouts from the chefs, which would remind us who was really in charge and send us running once more onto the floor. Yes, sir, No, sir, may I tell you, sir. It was like a show. It had the buzz of live performance.
The customers were a who’s-who of boomtime Dublin, the men in suits and open-necked shirts, the women in stiff dresses and blow-dries. With our clipped ponytails and rubber-soled pumps, we could not compare. And yet, we did not go unnoticed.
Some of the restaurant staff were famous themselves. Everyone knew the manager Christopher, his high-boned London face, and the easy charm that was just the right side of fawning. Christopher-call-me-Chris, who was lovely to work for, clear and very funny, unless you were obviously hungover or in the habit of being late. Unless you offended a customer. It was the number one rule in the restaurant, in every good restaurant around the world: the customer is always right.
They came to T for the atmosphere, and for the cooking, certainly, though they never saw the reality behind the double doors, vaunted men in white, with unnatural concentration, hot faces and drenched hairlines when they took off their caps at the end of the shift. The only women in the kitchen were the Polish dishwashers who doubled as baristas when the bar was mobbed and who refused to speak English to the waiters they disliked.
Most of the customers came for the head chef Daniel Costello, who was so good at cooking that he didn’t need stars (though shortly after I left he got his first, which nearly killed me.) He had two sous chefs who hated each other but stuck it out to work with him, then there was the rest of the team—six or seven men, largely in their twenties—who each had their own station along the stainless steel counters that ran the length of the kitchen. They prepped and cooked, shouted and swore. They plated dainty meals in a matter of seconds. They listened to classic hits on the radio, or played loud music on the prehistoric stereo above the sinks. They drank vats of Coke from plastic cups with ice that melted in minutes. One of us waiters would do a refill round whenever we caught a lull. We looked after them and they looked after us. That was the theory. But really we stayed out of their way, and out of the kitchen unless we were buzzed. Theirs was a different world. You could smell it the moment you went back there, through the spices and sauces and the bins full of leftovers. Talent and testosterone. You hadn’t a chance. You were a minnow in a pond—a help, a hindrance, a nothing. 
The serving staff were at the end of the chain, attractive bartenders and waiters hired to make the customers feel good about themselves so they’d spend more money. Easy on the eye. That was the phrase used by the owners, a consortium of rich men who treated the restaurant like a fancy canteen where they came and went as they pleased. Easy on the eye. It was literally part of the advertising policy. Everyone in the industry knew—you didn’t apply unless you had a certain figure or face. They’d turned away a waitress in her thirties, one with years of Michelin experience. They told her she wouldn’t be able to keep pace. Not in this restaurant, this so-hot-right-now restaurant.
So I suppose it is fair to say that when I went for the job, I had an idea that I was not uneasy on the eye. But it wasn’t something I thought about all that much. And then after that summer, when I no longer worked there, which is to say when I was fired, I did not want to think about it at all.
{#}
 
Even before I got the job, I knew that T would be a fun place to work. There were rumours about town. A generosity with shift drinks, a runner who doubled as a dealer, people having sex in the bathrooms, the odd private party with DJ such-and-such. We all thought it was exciting. For Ireland, we thought it was insane.
My interview took place in the middle of the restaurant, at Table Four as I would later learn, and lasted around ten minutes. While two middle-aged men scanned my CV and body—it was as blatant as those machines at the airport—I watched waitresses fold napkins at the bar. A stocky bartender was teasing a girl who looked younger than me, pretending to knock over her pile of cloth triangles with his tattooed arm. The messing broke off suddenly when Daniel Costello himself approached with a bowl of chips and some dip they all appeared to love. I found it hard not to follow his movements, that uncanniness of seeing a celebrity in real life. He was tall, almost hulkish, with formidable arms and unruly hair. The air in the room seemed thinner with him in it, the low roof gave a little bounce.
On the way back, he stopped at our table and I avoided his eyes, dark and roving, and not particularly interested in me. I stared at the immaculately white, double-breasted coat, the grandfather collar neat at his neck, which was tanned and thick. ‘Ever more canaries,’ he said to the owners. They laughed, then considered me in silence for a moment. I felt like I might melt. ‘Take it easy on her,’ Daniel said, walking away.
After a few cursory questions (Tipperary, twenty-one, business studies), one of the owners offered me the job on the spot and I said yes without asking about the pay, which caused the other one to laugh and hit the table with his hand and promise to teach me a thing or two about the real world.   
I started the following Tuesday on a trail shift, shadowing a real waiter, helping with whatever small tasks they might entrust to a newbie. For five hours, I ran after Tracy, a slim, sharp-tongued redhead from Drogheda. I didn’t leave her side all night. It was tricky work, trying to make a note of everything she did, without distracting her tables. From the beginning I loved it, the sense of belonging the uniform gave me, the snug blouse and tailored skirt, the neat black aprons we tied around our waists, buzzers clipped on the back.
I felt privileged to work in a place that was so obviously luxurious. People, I mean ordinary people, came to the restaurant once or twice a year for special occasions, whereas I was lucky enough to be there six nights a week. The place was so fancy it almost seemed holy. This was back when restaurants made an effort, when bare bulbs and exposed brickwork were only seen by the builders. Everything was plush and radiant. Stained-glass windows in the bathrooms, velvet-roped elitism for the upper floors. Customers were always commenting on the varnished floor in reception, the shine, the remarkable cherry wood. I learned to tell them it was antique, over a hundred years old, part of the original building, a former merchant bank, which meant that they were not just having dinner, but dining out on history.
In the main room that stretched over two levels, ground and mezzanine, there was soft grey carpet, beautiful to look at and a nightmare for carrying cocktails. The walls were a lighter shade of grey and had original paintings by Irish artists I’d never heard of—Nano Reid, Robert Ballagh, a huge canvas of blocky autumnal colours by Sean Scully, which everyone said was a masterpiece. I knew nothing about art. Though I’d spent three years at college in Dublin, at heart I was still from Thurles, a midlands town whose only museum was a glorified tourist centre that told a fine story about the Famine. I eavesdropped on the customers’ conversation. I liked to hear the different reactions from the rich business types who seemed to view art as a challenge. We have a Scully in the veranda, they might say. I found a stunning Le Brocquy at auction. You could always predict what people like that would order—some part of a cow and a bottle with Grand in the title. The kind of customer who cared about the origins of the produce, but didn’t give a damn about the staff.
The walnut bar was another talking point, glasses and bottles backlit in cool pink, a vast tinted mirror that gave an illusionary depth to the room. On the upper floors, there were smaller spaces, similar in style to the dining room, grey carpets, linen cloths, banquet seating for the tables near the wall. I loved the way the rooms changed as the restaurant filled, the afternoon slid into evening, the low hum of prep that would gradually give way until you were right in the centre of it—in the weeds, we called it—and the noise and rush was incredible.
Service!
Behind you!
Coming through!
Fire seven!
Clear two!
Turn ten!
Every day, in the break between lunch and dinner, we had a team meeting. Half four sharp, front and back of house, all the waitstaff standing to attention. Depending on Daniel’s mood, it could be a wine-tasting, a specials run-through, a fierce interrogation about various items on the menu. Which of the starters contain nuts? How many oysters in the seafood platter? What’s the difference between a langoustine and a prawn? Between jus and velouté? An artichoke and a chayote? Answer, a pass or a bollicking.
For the initial meetings as a lowly backwaiter, I stayed under the radar, but by Saturday afternoon of my second week, I no longer felt secure. Lunch service had been chaotic. Tables were slow to finish, the ticket machine jammed, a bottle of Montepulciano smashed on the bar. Daniel ranted, looked everyone in the eye as he spoke, seeking out ignorance. The waiters aren’t selling, he said. A T-bone. A fine cut. A treat. What was wrong with us? He glared our way and only Mel, the elegant head waitress, held his gaze with her clear, expressive eyes. 
‘It’s too big,’ she said, when he’d worn himself out.
Daniel turned to face her. He was in a polo shirt, his muscular forearms crossed over each other. He clenched a fist as Mel continued, the skin tightening at his bicep.
‘No one wants a sixteen ounce steak,’ she said. ‘You’d be better off doing it for two.’
‘Are you a chef now?’ Daniel said. ‘Will we put her in whites, Christopher?’ And then to the gallery, his underlings who were huddled by the archway to the throughway, ready to run back to their prep, to the real business of the restaurant. ‘She’d look good in white, wouldn’t she, fellas?’
There was some mild hooting that died out quickly as Mel eyeballed them.
‘Whatever, Daniel,’ she said. ‘It’s up to you. But you’re right—it’s not selling. Not even to that table of bankers. They all went for the fillet.’
‘Well,’ Christopher said, ‘we could slash the price.’
‘No fucking way!’ said Daniel. ‘Are you insane? That cut. That beautiful piece.’ His eyes flashed again. His melty-brown eyes, as Tracy had called them the previous night, four or five wines in. With another waitress, Eve, we’d gone drinking after the shift to some dive on Montague Lane that had a back-door policy for industry workers. I’d woken up dying right before work, hadn’t even had time to shower.
Christopher raised his palms.
‘Just sell, girls,’ Daniel said, with mild asperity. ‘Sell like your job depends on it.’
‘How many to shift?’ said Christopher.
‘Eight. And they need to go tonight. OK?’ Daniel tipped his head respectfully at Mel.
She nodded and we followed suit.
Daniel turned to the chalkboard to go through the rest of the specials. He was saying something about depth and sauce and milk-fed veal, when my legs started to shake. All I wanted was a seat, the comfort of the staff meal that followed team meetings—the creamy pasta sauce, the salt.
‘You,’ Daniel said. ‘Sell me the veal.’
It took me more than a moment to realize that I was the unfortunate ‘you’. I looked at the carpet, hoping he’d move on. I wasn’t even a waitress yet. I couldn’t sell to anyone.
‘You!’ His hands were waving in the air.
I felt a swell of vomit between my ribs.
‘Veal,’ I said uselessly. 
‘And?’
Everyone was watching. Christopher didn’t seem remotely like he might save me. Tracy shrugged and examined her nails.
‘The depth,’ I said. ‘In the sauce.’
‘What in the fucking fuck?’ Daniel exploded, a long line of expletives that were impressive in their own right, but not when they were firing like pellets towards your face.
‘All right, Daniel, we get it. All right.’ Mel moved in front of me, a welcome shield.
Daniel stormed off to the kitchen, his crew trailing after him.
‘Thanks,’ I said to Mel. ‘Thank you.’
She shook her head and pointed to the bathroom. ‘Clean yourself up,’ she said.