I've
been the Manager at The Corner House for almost four months now and
no one has asked me to leave yet.
When
friends come to see where I work they comment on how very 'me' the
place is and I know what they mean. If I had the doors taken up I
could probably wear it as a coat.
It's
often described as 'shabby chic' an expression I don't much like.
It's like telling an overweight woman she has a really pretty face.
I'm allowed to say that because I was on the receiving end of it for
twenty years. I don't think its shabby at all. Nor do I think its
chic. It would be more accurate to describe it as; 'Pleasantly
eccentric with a tongue in cheek approach to décor and a steely eyed
determination to make every singe visitor feel as though they've
stepped through the front door of a much loved but rarely seen
friends house. Who has a lot of booze. And some nice cakes.' It just
doesn't trip off the tongue like 'shabby chic' does it.
When
I first got the job I imagined myself plumping the cushions and
throwing the curtains wide. I'd always have on red lipstick and exist
in a Darling Buds Of May halcyon dream of gin and cake and charming
sun dappled afternoons.
The
scales continue to throw themselves lemming like from my eyes.
Yes,
the building has charm. It's a crooked house with beer mats keeping
the tables from wobbling and unusual artefacts dotted around, the
usage of which in some cases is still an arcane mystery. (There are
these wooden roundish blocks that a customer recently informed us
were the bit milliners used to shape the hats they made. Live and
learn live and learn)
But
what holds it together, what makes it inexplicably magical, is its
staff. Sone of whom have been here for decades as far as I can make
out. I suspect Alison may have laid the first brick. And she would
have done so with great but stretched patience (this is a metaphor
for how she deals with me). Without them I would be a wild eyed Miss
Havisham staggering around the place pouring ribena from a tea pot
and begging people not to disturb the dust.
Please
don't tell them this as I'm trying to create an illusion of utter
capability whilst keeping them on a knife edge of terror. With mixed
results. The mission is occasionally knocked off course when I throw
my arms around one of them and beg them never ever not never to leave
me.
Karon
(no that's not a spelling error) has of course gone and ruined
everything. She has very inconveniently decided to grow a baby. I
can't be certain of the ins and outs of it but knowing Karon it'll
probably arrive in a three piece suit with not a hair out of place.
Karon
makes everything look right. That's her job. No one that works here
is just a waitress or a bar person. I can spend hours lighting
candles, polishing tables and rearranging cushions only to have Karon
stroll in, cast her eye across the devastation, move one table a
quarter of an inch and transform the place in to a cosy paradise.
It's
INFURIATING.
She's
tiny. The size of a rice crispy with bright blue eyes and a cheeky
little bob. When I ask her what's going on with her tables during a
busy service I expect her to say: Table 2 is on mains, 7 on desserts
etc. What she actually says is: Table 2 just met their first
grandson, his name's Henry and he's 6 pounds. They really like
daffodils and he's got a gippy leg as a result of cycling incident in
1976.
INFURIATING.
And
then there's Ali. Ali can carry 27 plates whilst chatting about her
puppy and operating the coffee machine with her left foot. She makes
the inventor of multi tasking look like a rank amateur.
Interestingly
I knew ALL about her puppy and its proclivities for several months
before she even mentioned she had kids. In the words of the great
late Victoria Wood:
Did
you ever love us Mummy?
-I
didn't know what love was until I bred my first Afghan.
I
jest. She's really fond of her kids. Really
fond. I just suspect she'd prefer them with a shiny coat and a wet
nose.
Ali
orders everything. To maintain an illusion of control I text her
weekly on her days off and check very officiously that she has
remembered to order toilet roll or cake or coffee beans. She rarely
responds.
She
has the look of chaotic capability about her until you take pause and
really examine her features. She has the kind of classically high
cheekbones you can eventually cut your wrists on when she hands her
notice in.
Simon.
Ah, Simon. It's pronounced Simmon by the way. It's because he's from
Chile. I sometimes speak Spanish to him with a heavily accented
Mexican inflection which really makes us laugh.
He
laughs on the inside. It's a Chilean thing.
Simon
works the bar diligently and when anyone thanks him for anything he
always says 'you're welcome' in a way that leaves a lot of room for
flirting.
These
are the longest serving staff at The Corner House. There's a fair few
more that I'll tell you about next time. And the regulars of course.
And then there's the chefs, some of whom haven't seen daylight for 27
years. That's a blog all it's own.
But
in the mean time you should probably come and have a look for
yourself. And if you're not a cake sort of person we do have a really
substantial arsenal of hard liquor that you just don't seem to be
taking advantage of as much as you should.
Why
don't you come Tuesday next week? I just picked that day randomly. If
you can't THAT'S FINE. I'm really busy actually.
Oh,
hang on. How silly of me. We have a live music night on Tuesdays.
There's this really beautiful young woman called Charlotte who'll be
playing the saxophone for a bit whilst we serve lovely wines and
cheese boards. It's a very casual affair at the Corner House that
could at a push be described as 'Pleasantly eccentric with a tongue
in cheek approach to décor and a steely eyed determination to make
every singe visitor feel as though they've stepped through the front
door of a much loved but rarely seen friends house. Who has a lot of
booze. And some nice cakes.'
Or
shabby chic. Whatever.
