The Substitute Chef

Diego had been working as a waiter at The Thistle, a small but very popular restaurant in Glasgow, for almost two years. He knew every dish on the menu, every regular customer and every crack in the kitchen floor. But he had never cooked anything more complicated than pasta for his flatmates.

One busy Saturday afternoon, the owner, Mrs. Campbell, came out of the kitchen looking pale. "Angus has the flu," she said. "He can't even stand up. And we have sixty people booked for tonight, including a birthday party of twelve." The other waiter suggested closing for the night, but Mrs. Campbell shook her head. "We can't. We have to pay the rent next week, and Saturday is our best night." Then she looked at Diego. "You've watched Angus cook a thousand times. You'll have to do it."

Diego's heart started to race. "But I'm not a chef!" he said. "You don't have to be a chef," Mrs. Campbell answered. "You just have to follow the recipes. I'll call Angus. He can give you advice on the phone."

At five o'clock, Diego put on Angus's white jacket, which was two sizes too big, and called him. Angus's voice was weak, but his instructions were clear. "First, you should keep the menu short. Take the fish pie and the lamb off the menu tonight. They're too difficult. Second, you must taste everything before it leaves the kitchen. Everything. And you mustn't leave the chips under the lamp for more than two minutes, or they'll go soft." Diego wrote it all down on the back of an order pad.

The first hour was chaos. A pan of onions burned, Diego cut his finger, and the birthday party arrived early and hungry. He called Angus again. "Calm down," Angus said, coughing. "You'd better turn the heat down and stop rushing. A good cook is never in a hurry. And you ought to ask Kenny for help. He's been chopping my vegetables for years." Diego hadn't even thought of the dishwasher. Kenny smiled, picked up a knife and started on the carrots.

Slowly, the kitchen began to work. Diego tasted every sauce, added salt to the soup and sent out plate after plate of fish and chips and vegetable curry. At ten o'clock, Mrs. Campbell came in with a serious face. "The birthday table wants to speak to the chef," she said. Diego's stomach dropped. Had something gone wrong?

In the dining room, an old woman in a tartan scarf raised her glass. "That was the best fish I've had in years," she said. "Whoever cooked it should be very proud." Everyone at the table clapped. Diego went red and didn't know what to say.

On Monday, Angus came back to work, still a little pale. He found Diego's notes on the kitchen wall, read them and laughed. "You know," he said, "you should think about changing jobs." Then he handed Diego an apron. "You can start on Tuesdays. I need a day off."