HAVE YOU SEEN AMY, LATELY?
The Broken Hill Hotel--Episode #4
The Kitchen
They were immaculate. Like they were made of thin black lines filled in with pastel hues. It was unsettling, that kind of perfection. Not one blemish. Not one speck of dust or lint. When they smiled it was in mirrored unison.
Concierge Rinaldo welcomed the two young Japanese women with what seemed to be an endless stream of bowing. They were pleasant enough, but their English was spotty at best and their assigned trainer was taking way too long to greet them. The two young women stood shoulder to shoulder, in matching maid uniforms, their skin fresh and flawless and their manners, however annoying with their bird dip bowing, were impeccable.
Across the front foyer and into the restaurant he gleaned the white jacket of the hotel’s Chef. He gave the two young women yet another polite nod and with a promise to return, he hurried from his post at the front desk to meet up with him. Chef was not a man he especially liked to talk to or associate with, as he was a grumpy, solitary person who never asked questions but somehow was aware of everything going on within the hotel.
Rinaldo briefly caught his eye and earned a glare.
“Where’s Amy? Those two new maids just arrived and she’s supposed to be greeting them and showing them their duties around the place. The hallway on the main floor isn’t even vacuumed yet. I’m tired of her slacking, I don’t care if her knees hurt she’s supposed to be here to work. I’ll be calling Head Office over this, it’s the last straw.”
Delectable aromas assailed him as he inspected the dining area, noting how precise and polished the settings were, a testament to the head waiter’s efforts. “What is cooking in the kitchen? The rosemary is heavenly.”
Chef shrugged again. “Pork.”
“Oh? It’s not on the menu.”
“It’s a stew.”
“Ah. What’s it being served with?”
Chef inspected a few tables himself, and nudged a plate further towards the edge, unsatisfied with its mathematical precision. The air between them was heavy with the unanswered question and Rinaldo fidgeted as he waited for it.
“Vegetables.”
Rinaldo hated the way pulling a conversation out of the man was like losing a limb. “So. Pork roast stew with vegetables?”
Chef let out a tired sigh. “I guess so. The triplets were at it when I came in this morning, so I guess it’s a special menu item from Head Office. You know how they are.”
Rinaldo grimaced. Yes, he did, they ruled from afar and often made strange decisions that were completely at odds with how things were properly run. Messing with Chef’s carefully constructed menus was one of their favourite acts of chaos.
“I’m getting sick of these last minute changes…”
“Where did they get the pork? It wasn’t on the truck order on Monday.”
Chef shrugged again.
The door to the kitchen swung open as the reedy head waiter marched out of it, a stack of fresh napkins in hand to place as decorative fans on each table. He did not acknowledge either of them. Rinaldo caught a glimpse of the triplets through the swinging kitchen door, the three identical line cooks happily chopping and searing. A feeling of deep terror assailed him. He gave Chef a final nod.
“Let me know if you see Amy,” he repeated.
As he headed back to his front desk, Gladys the head housekeeper was already introducing herself to the two young women, her Japanese fluent and easy as she outlined exactly what she wanted them to do and how to do it in a fast tracked tutorial that had them eagerly marching after her quick form. She paused in front of Ronaldo and held out her hand.
“Key FOB to the beige room.”
Rinaldo frowned. “That’s Amy’s room.”
“Amy isn’t here any more.”
“Since when?” He looked over her shoulder at the still smiling Japanese girls. They seemed so young and naive, but their identical smiles gave him an uneasy feeling, the same way the smiles of the triplets in the kitchen made his skin crawl. “Why do you only need one room when there are two of them?”
Gladys impatiently tapped her nails on the front counter. “They are bunking together. Head Office orders. Key please.”
He handed it over to her, not believing her. He was glad he was the one in charge, for if Gladys was the boss she’d have the entire staff living in bunk beds in the moldiest corner of the basement.
“I’ll be calling to confirm it,” he promised her.
Her too red mouth twisted into a nasty sneer.
“Go ahead,” she dared him.
He watched, feeling a strange sense of helplessness as the young women followed behind her, still creepily smiling, but all semblance of eager ambition gone.
~*~
Chef Martin is a highly observant man. He had to be, having been the Head Chef of a Michelen starred restaurant in Italy and would still be there if the scandal hadn’t ruined him. Sometimes he wonders if he shouldn’t just pack it all in and opt for selling sugary mixed drinks on a beach in the Honduras, becoming a semi-hermit and living off of fish, beans and rice. Sometimes he has pleasant dreams of salt kissed air. Sometimes he wakes up screaming, remembering why he ended up here, in the middle of nowhere, in a hotel run by a faceless benefactor who rules from afar.
“Probably Dubai,” he muttered to himself. He cursed over the butter that had been left in the walk-in uncovered, a hard shell forming on the corners.
“Do you want to try this, Chef?”
One of the trips. He didn’t bother to figure out which one. Chef shuddered and tried to pretend he didn’t hear him. But the trips were like a uniform set of sensors that could detect every untruth, no matter how subtle. He turned and found one of the cheerful blond monsters holding out a tablespoon.
He reluctantly took a sip of its contents. Too salty and too heavy on rosemary.
“I keep telling you guys to stop using that powdered chicken stock.”
“Sorry, Chef.”
He watched the blond young man join the other two, a person split three ways. They hovered over the rondeaux, admiring their creation like the Frankenstein freaks they were. He didn’t hire them, they came with the place, and their weird synchronicity, which would be a benefit and a blessing in any other setting, hit him like an alien anomaly. They were wrong. He couldn’t get why, they just were.
Maybe it was how they were too eager, a demonic trilogy that loved fire and meat too much.
“Where did you get the pork?”
They all grinned over the flames.
“Gladys,” they said in unison.
Why did that name slide out of their mouths like bacon grease?
“Why did you start early this morning cooking it off? Why didn’t you wait for my orders on what to do with it?”
“Sorry, Chef.” He didn’t know which triptych replied to him. They were all one cell, split.
“Too late now.” He gestured to pink hocks sitting in the hotel pan marinating beside them. “Seal and freeze those. We’ll put those tenderloins on for Sunday dinner.”
“Yes, Chef!” Unified, eager agreement.
The stink of the charred meat and the watery fat the roasts swam in made him sick to his stomach.
“Have any of you seen Amy, lately?”
A collection of giggles was his answer.
He had to get out of this damn kitchen.
Towel over his shoulder he swung the doors open and marched through the dining room, out into the front foyer, ignoring the questioning look from his head waiter. He had a horrible headache and he had the cure waiting in his room.
He took the employee elevator up to the fourth floor and with his forefinger and thumb pinching his brow he walked down the dimly lit hall towards the end, where his room was waiting. His skull felt fractured. By the time he got to his room he was feeling nauseous and could barely see to get his required medicine out from under the tiny kitchenette sink.
He took the large bottle of real Jamaican rum into his hands and poured himself a half a cup. He downed it in two gulps.
The headache abated. He braced himself at the counter, feeling it ease away.
He took two deep breaths and returned the bottle back to its prescribed place. He’d been trying like hell to keep it strictly for the evenings, but dealing with the three line cooks and their weirdness was pressing on his nerves. He left his room and locked it with the FOB key, his steps more steady and slow than before.
He passed a room with an open door and saw two identically dressed young women who looked similar enough to be twin sisters. He felt that familiar terror rise up within him and it was pure willpower that kept him from running back to his room and polishing off that big bottle of 100% proof rum. His whole world seemed to be a mockery of his singularity, the universe a constant stream of identical images superimposed on each other, plagiarized people and places and lives.
He headed back to the kitchen, the stink of rosemary and pork thick on his skin. He still didn’t know where Amy was. It bothered him more than it should.
If you enjoyed this story be sure to let me know! I am an indie #author of several books which can be found on my Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/writermjones/shop. You can also hear me blather on at Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/pinkbagels.bsky.social.
The Broken Hill Hotel wishes to make your culinary experiences stellar. We encourage the consumption of mouth-watering, artery clogging fat for it tastes so, so very good. If you are a guest on the heavier side, be sure to visit our Kitchen on the main floor for added suggestions. Our talented triplet sous chefs can make a meal out of all you offer.