Teaser

"Order in!"

A slight hush falls over the staff. It doesn't get much quieter in the actual room, what with the industrial extractor fans whirring overhead, the industrial dishwasher running through a cycle in the corner, four oven fans working at various sections around the space, the clank of pans against cast iron stove tops, the rush of hot oil cooking potato fries in two thirty litre deep-fryers, the crash of plates in the dishwasher pit and under that, the noise of a knife against a plastic composite chopping board. It was her staff that become suddenly alert and attentive, their ears all turn slightly towards her as she calls the docket down the line, even if they continue to move around placing food against heat.

"Three scallops, one bruschetta! To follow: three eye fillet and a risotto!"

"Yes chef!" Comes the returning cry from her commis down the far end of the kitchen in larder. Her two demi chefs on the fish and vegetable sections echo it. The chef de partie on the seafood section also responds to the call, this time answering, "oui chef."

The docket is slid onto the rack to await its turn and she spins back to her hot plate, turning over the eye fillets already on there and pushing them to the side to make way for three new ones. She sprinkles them with rock salt, New-York-cut black pepper, and drizzles over garlic oil before placing them on the hottest section of the hot plate so they will colour very quickly. The oil takes hold of the heat almost instantly and starts to spit and sizzle before she can even get her hand away from them. Tiny pricks of pain and hot oil dance over the skin of her left hand and she withdraws it quickly out of the onslaught.

Turning back to her workbench she finds a plate. On the plate is a perfectly shaped quenelle of mashed potato the side of a woman's hand. "What's this doing here?" She asks no one in particular. When she gets no response she holds the plate up. "What's this doing here?" She asks, raising her voice.

Three stunned faces look back at her; the chef de partie ignores her. "I didn't say we were going away," she tells her three junior chefs. The commis on larder looks away first, it has nothing to do with him. Neither of the demi's give anything away but it is clear that only one of them is actually on the vegetable section and is therefore responsible. She tips the plate into the bin so the potato slides off. "Don't go until I say we are going," she directs firmly and takes the dirty plate to the kitchen hand and leaves it on their bench.

Back at her section the first set of eye fillets go into the oven. The heat that wafts out of the open door makes her eyes water. The second set of eye fillets get turned over so the other side can seal. The doors to the restaurant bang open and a waitress comes in, her hands laden with plates. She dumps them on the kitchen hand's bench and starts to sort them by size. The cutlery goes in a fish bin to soak in soapy water. "Table thirteen away," she calls over her shoulder.

"Away on two pasta, one mussels," she calls down the line, getting a response from all her chefs as they set about cooking those meals. The kitchen is hot and everyone is red cheeked. For a moment she stops and grips the bench.

To the side, she is aware of her commis asking the kitchen hand to slice the pastrami for the function lunch tomorrow. A few minutes later the whir of the meat slicer starts up. A 40cm radial blade spinning faster than the eye can see. There are safety signs attached to the wall next to the machine, indicating it should only be used with the safety guard in place, or it could cause a grievous injury.

She turns to watch one of the demi chefs carry a 30 litre pot of boiling water over to the sink. It's obviously very heavy and he takes careful steps, keeping the pot close to his body. He has to manoeuvre around several obstacles; ones he can't see because of the large pot in his hands. He bumps into a rubbish bin and gingerly moves around it, the boiling water sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the pot.

The kitchen hand sprays chemical cleaner onto a deeply charcoaled pot and immediately starts coughing. He chokes and splutters and turns red in the face, squirming where he stands, trying to get away from the burning sensation.

The demi chef with the pot reaches the sink and awkwardly lifts it to drain off ten kilograms of pasta. She watches the hot water gush into the sink, engulfing the young chef in a great cloud of hot steam.

Working next to her, the other demi chef drops something into the fryer, causing a splash of a hundred and eighty degree Celsius oil to coat the younger chef's hand. There's a cuss, and a furious wiping of the back of a hand against a hip. Then the demi goes to reach for whatever he dropped in there. The words to stop him are right on the tip of her tongue. She lunges for him, desperately hoping she'll be able to reach his arm in time to pull him back. At the last minute, he stops himself. He looks over at her. "That was close."

Clearly unsettled she responds, "No shit."

They go away on that table, placing food up under the heat lamps simultaneously and she presses the buzzer to alert the waiting staff. Within minutes they're there to retrieve it. "Chef!" A sudden frantic voice called across the kitchen.

"Yes?" She calls back, focussing on the eye fillets.

"Chef you need to come and see this."

"I'm in the middle of service."

"Chef it's important."

"More important than service?"

"There's a body in the freezer!"

Lightman Group. Day.

"Good morning," Gillian greets as she crosses Cal's office.

He looks up from his desk where he is furiously typing out a message on his phone. He gives a grunt of acknowledgement. Gillian comes to stop in front of his desk and looks a little perturbed, especially when he goes on ignoring her. She waits but he still doesn't look up and hurt falls across her features. She opens her mouth to say something but hesitates and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, so her hips juts out. "Is that important?"

"Yes," Cal answers abruptly but a moment later his fingers still and he puts the phone down. He looks up at her and it is clear he slept badly the night before.

"Can we talk?" Gillian perches herself on one of the seats on her side of the desk. She leans forward, toward him.

"What about luv?" Cal leans back in his chair.

Gillian looks a little perturbed. She studies him so blatantly but he doesn't seem uncomfortable under her scrutiny in the slightest. "About," she starts softly. "What happened last night."

"Nothing to discuss luv," Cal tells her getting up suddenly. His chair kicks back to clatter loudly into the cabinet behind where he sits. He tucks his phone into his jeans pocket and gives her an overtly fake enthusiastic expression. He starts to walk away and ignores her again as she calls out to stop him.

"Cal please!" She turns to watch his back disappear through the doorway. She turns around in her seat dejectedly and hangs her head.

Opening Credits