The Incident: As Told By Leo

        The guy who got me into Backstreet, just to reiterate, was George. I was working at a cafe in the city called Hash from December to March and George would come in with his wife a few times a week to get a single origin latte. His wife would get the same but weaker. They were quiet at first, but I broke them down with my raging fist of charisma (that's how charisma works, like a battering ram or a heavy steel drill) until by the end of my short stint at Hash we'd shared like, probably three conversations. I hated the manager at Hash and he hated me, so I was surprised when a few weeks after our “Parting of Ways” he messaged me – confusingly in all caps and from an unknown number – saying to “CALL GEORGE THINK HE WANTS TO OFFER YOU A JOB”.
        George was also a regular at Backstreet, he lived upstairs in the apartments above the cafe and came down every day with his laptop to drink lattes and work as a financial consultant... or something. A financial something, which evidently he did quite well at because he drove a Jag and could always afford plenty of Old Spice. He spoke in a calm, extremely quiet voice, which I assume was at least partially calculated to convey an air of strength, like a constant reassurance that Everything is Under Control.

        When George explained the position to me that first afternoon when I walked the forty minutes to Backstreet from my house, he told me that he was helping Stu out with his finances as a favour to a friend. It was made clear from the start that the business was not in good shape, and George said his only wish was to get the place making money so he could, “just sit back and enjoy the coffee.”
        He was doing all the staff rosters, controlling the social media presence, and designing new menus etc. as well as pushing ideas like Pizza & Pasta Sundays to try and bring in more customers. The Instagram struggled, the Pizza & Pasta never happened, and every now and then due to a lack of staff, George could be found in the kitchen.

        One morning Leo came into the cafe with an even grander opening flourish than usual, looping Wallis the Dog's lead around the leg of one of the bar stools before gleefully turning to me with a barely-suppressed smile: “So! Taco! Did you hear what happened last night!”
        Leo belonged in the theatre.
        For the next twenty minutes Leo fed me details of the previous night's dinner service one by one. A group of six had come in, apparently having booked the private downstairs room for dinner weeks ago, but the booking hadn't been written down in the right place, so no one knew, and nothing was ready. The table wasn't set, the food hadn't been bought to make the menu they'd requested. Nothing.
        “And WHO – can you tell me?! – was in the kitchen, Taco?!”
        “George and Stuart.” [laughter]
        “That's RIGHT! And are George and Stuart qualified to cater for a function of this kind, Taco?”
        [out-of-the-nose-laughter] “...no.”
        “No they are NOT!”, Leo's eyes were alive with joy, laughing.

        Immediately Ginette – the regular waitress most weekday evenings – offered the group free drinks as she told them there would be a wait while the room was set up. They were led down and it was explained that they would have to order off the regular menu as the chef had called in sick. Commonplace industry lies.
        “They were down there for two hours!” Leo struck a note of disbelief. “And you should have seen some of this food they were being served... one of them ordered their steak well done WELL. Big Mistake! I've never seen anything like it, curled up like a piece of leather, and served on a plate by itself WITH NO SIDES ! Oh Taco!”
        Apparently When they'd sent one of the dishes back because it was cold, more free drinks were taken down, but Ginette finally reported back upstairs saying the guests were sitting in cold silence with their coats on not speaking. She refused to go back down because it was too embarrassing, Leo giggled at the bar drinking wine.

        After hitting me with all the main points of the story he started jumping about the chronology trying to wring out every last bit of schadenfreude: “...Taco, I tell you now, I've never seen anything so funny in all my life as the look of sheer terror on Stu's face when those people walked through the door!”
        “...and when they went downstairs, he opened the book to find their booking, and then he started PUNCHING THE BENCH!! – 'WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME ABOUT THE BOOKING!?' – like a MAN POSESSED I tell you!”
        “And when they all came upstairs to leave, the woman in the dress stopped in front of the till and said, 'surely we're not paying for the food, it was awful!', and Ginette said 'Well of course not.'... and then the woman says, '...well and as you said, the drinks were free, so we're done.' And they walked out!!”

        Over two hours, six awful meals, and a bunch of free drinks later, and they left without paying a cent.

        When I questioned Stu that night about the steak he said, “Steaks aren't meant to be cooked well done!” So from what I can gather he turned it into a piece of footwear as a kind of punishment to them for calling such an abomination into existence. George adamantly defended his chicken spatchcock, reviewing his effort as “Primo”, before cooking some for me to sample as proof during the quiet afternoon;
        “You try that and tell me it's not on the mark. That's exactly what I cooked them last night mate.” Whether the chicken was good or not seemed to be a matter of semantics when the undeniable fact was that the customers left without paying, but fair play to George, his chicken was pretty good.

        Leo's greatest joy came from explaining to people that there was no danger of a bad review because if anyone from the group thought to post the details of their evening on the internet, the truth would be so absurdly terrible that no one reading would believe it.
        I was upset with George for a time, I thought it was arrogant of him on some level to think he was fit to step into the kitchen and cook restaurant-level food with no training. My assumption there was that it was an active decision on his part, as if he intentionally put off hiring another chef and decided to jump in himself to save money. I soon discovered that persuading quality staff to come and work in the hospitality equivalent of a burning treehouse is much more difficult than putting an ad in the window. In the coming weeks I was tasked with hiring a new full time barista, and in selling the job to people I had to search myself for my own reasons for staying at Backstreet.
        “Why AM I still here? Can I persuade others to join up for the same reasons?” Turns out not everyone likes their life to be stupid.

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