back, making his heart race and his mouth go dry.
Pushing these thoughts to one side, he cleared his throat. ‘I’m really sorry, Matt. The Head Chef, Jason McCluskey, should be here for the interview but he’s been called away urgently.’ His three-year-old daughter, Emily, who had a rare blood disorder, had just been rushed into hospital with an asthma attack. ‘So, although this is really unusual, I’ll be doing the interview today.’
‘Okay.’ Matt smiled for the first time. He had an open, pleasing face, the sort that inspired trust in men and admiration in women. If his cooking was as good as his looks, he’d go far.
Ben picked up a blank A4 pad and tried to concentrate on Matt. Initially impressions were not good – his hair was too long and he’d not made much of an effort in his Abercrombie hoodie and skinny jeans. Ben disliked recruiting – he felt uncomfortable with the responsibility; he did not like the fact that he held the power to determine, even to a small extent, other people’s destinies. He worried that he might get it wrong. And if hiring was stressful, firing was even worse.
Only last week he’d sacked one of the waitresses, a single mum to toddler twins, for persistent, poor time-keeping. Three times she’d not turned up for work without so much as a phone call. He’d given her dozens of warnings and more chances than she deserved but in the end, for the sake of morale amongst the other staff, he’d had to let her go. And it had torn him apart. Steeling himself, he resolved to do what he always did – his best – though always mindful that he could never fill the shoes that went before him, so different in every way from his own.
Matt Irwin, he wrote across the top of the page, and settled into the brown leather swivel chair. Aiming to put the candidate at ease, he rested his right foot casually on his left knee. ‘I’ve read your CV, Matt, so I can see you’re qualified for the job. But tell me more about your practical work experience.’
‘I’ve worked in the kitchen of The Marine Hotel in Ballyfergus since I was sixteen. It’s one of the Crawford Group Hotels,’ he needlessly pointed out, keen to show he’d done his homework, to impress.
‘That’s right.’ The Marine, then rundown and in need of refurbishment, was the first hotel his father had bought thirty years ago. Now the Crawford Group had a board of directors and owned a string of top-class hotels across the province – and Alan, having done all he could feasibly do in that arena, had decided to diversify into the restaurant market. Now that The Lemon Tree was successfully established, Alan felt the time was right to establish another restaurant in the nearby thriving port of Ballyfergus. Past success, no matter how great, did not motivate Ben’s father – he was incapable of resting on his laurels. He sought out new challenges – endlessly, exhaustingly. And it had only gotten worse after Ricky. ‘You got a very good reference from the head chef at the Marine. Though you weren’t working as a commis chef, of course.’
‘That’s right. I was a kitchen porter,’ said Matt and added quickly, ‘And there were the college placements too. At The Potted Herring. That was brilliant. They were going to give me a permanent job, you know.’
‘And then they went bust,’ said Ben sadly, with a shake of his head. Restaurant closures in the city had hit an all-time high the year before, and this year hadn’t been much better. ‘That was bad luck.’
It struck him then just how remarkable the success of The Lemon Tree was, given the depressed state of the economy. And how much of that success was down to his father’s vision and business acumen. Very few other restaurateurs were in a position to expand.
‘Yeah,’ said Matt, ‘it sucks. But I’m not the only one. No one on my course has got a proper job.’ He rubbed the thighs of his jeans with the palms of his hands. ‘Look, I know I don’t have as much experience as you might like. As you’re looking for.’ He leaned forward with his large hands dangling between his spread-out legs. Ben noticed that they were shaking. ‘But I’m very good. Better than good. Honest. Ask my tutors.’
Ben, doodling a series of light zig-zagged lines across the top of the page, remembered what his father said about employing staff with relevant experience. ‘You don’t want any greenhorns,’ he’d said. ‘Let them cut their teeth on someone else’s time.’ Ben’s hand stilled and he looked at Matt. Alan Crawford would never employ this young man. And even open-minded Jason, who was all for encouraging raw talent, might have reservations. But if no one was prepared to give a lad like him a chance, how would he ever get started?
Aware that Matt had been silent for some moments and was now staring at him, Ben said, ‘So tell me why I should give you the commis chef job?’
Matt took a deep breath, held it, then let it all out in an audible rush. He stared straight at Ben and said, ‘Because I’m different. Because I don’t just follow recipes and do things by rote. I create.’ He raised his hands upwards as if tossing something into the air and his voice, quiet to start with, grew louder, the passion in it swelling like a pot coming to the boil. ‘I use my imagination. I’m not afraid to experiment and try new things. And I care. Everything I do has to be perfect.’
Ben put down his pen and stared at Matt, mesmerised by the lad’s self-belief.
Matt looked at the palms of his hands and a muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘My hands were made to cook. This is what I was born to do. I’ve been fascinated by food and how to cook it ever since I was a child. Ask my Mum.’ He looked directly at Ben then. ‘There’s nothing in the world I would rather do. And one day I’m going to have a chain of restaurants and they’ll be the best in all of Ireland. My food’ll be better than anything Paul Rankin or Rachel Allen or any Irish chef has ever done. You wait and see.’ Then he threw himself back in the chair and blinked back tears.
Ben, slightly stunned, said nothing. He’d never before met a more self-assured nineteen-year-old nor one who seemed so certain of his path in life, his destiny. And he was filled with a rush of bitter regret. If he’d had the confidence, the passion, to fight for what he’d wanted seven years ago, he wouldn’t be sitting here today at the age of twenty-eight, trapped in a job and a lifestyle he hated so much. At the time he thought he’d done the right thing, the only thing. But he’d not been true to himself. He’d sacrificed his lifetime’s ambition to rescue his father, to give him a reason to go on. But with every day that passed, while Alan’s dreams came to fruition, Ben’s became a little more distant, a little harder to recall.
‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’ said Matt abruptly and he stood up, his tall frame towering over Ben. ‘Maybe I’m not the guy for this job. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’
He turned then and started to walk to the door on the balls of his feet, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans.
‘Wait,’ shouted Ben and Matt turned round.
Ben held out his hands as if presenting this truth in them. ‘I can see you’re passionate and ambitious – and that’s fantastic – but you have to start somewhere. You can’t wade in at the age of nineteen, fresh out of college, and start running a kitchen.’
Matt nodded and said, deflated, ‘I know. And that’s why I’m here. I really need this job.’
Ben imagined what his father would say. But Alan wasn’t here. ‘I’ve read your references, Matt. I believe you’re as good as you say you are. And there’s no doubting your commitment. But there’s a big difference between catering college and hacking it, day in and day out, in a commercial kitchen.’
‘I know that,’ said Matt.
Ben,
