Hogfather

In the glittering, clattering, chattering atmosphere a head waiter was having a difficult time. There were a lot of people in, and the staff should have been fully stretched, putting bicarbonate of soda in the white wine to make very expensive bubbles and cutting the vegetables very small to make them cost more.

Instead they were standing in a dejected group in the kitchen.

‘Where did it all go?’ screamed the manager. ‘Someone’s been through the cellar, too!’

‘William said he felt a cold wind,’ said the waiter. He’d been backed up against a hot plate, and now knew why it was called a hot plate in a way he hadn’t fully comprehended before.

‘I’ll give him a cold wind! Haven’t we got anything?’

‘There’s odds and ends …’

‘You don’t mean odds and ends, you mean des curieux et des bouts,’ corrected the manager.

‘Yeah, right, yeah. And, er, and, er …’

‘There’s nothing else?’

‘Er … old boots. Muddy old boots.’

‘Old—?’

‘Boots. Lots of ’em,’ said the waiter. He felt he was beginning to singe.

‘How come we’ve got … vintage footwear?’

‘Dunno. They just turned up, sir. The oven’s full of old boots. So’s the pantry.’

‘There’s a hundred people booked in! All the shops’ll be shut! Where’s Chef?’

‘William’s trying to get him to come out of the privy, sir. He’s locked himself in and is having one of his Moments.’

‘Something’s cooking. What’s that I can smell?’

‘Me, sir.’

‘Old boots …’ muttered the manager. ‘Old boots … old boots … Leather, are they? Not clogs or rubber or anything?’

‘Looks like … just boots. And lots of mud, sir.’

The manager took off his jacket. ‘All right. Got any cream, have we? Onions? Garlic? Butter? Some old beef bones? A bit of pastry?’

‘Er, yes …’

The manager rubbed his hands together. ‘Right,’ he said, taking an apron off a hook. ‘You there, get some water boiling! Lots of water! And find a really large hammer! And you, chop some onions! The rest of you, start sorting out the boots. I want the tongues out and the soles off. We’ll do them … let’s see … Mousse de la Boue dans une Panier de la Pâte de Chaussures …’

‘Where’re we going to get that from, sir?’

‘Mud mousse in a basket of shoe pastry. Get the idea? It’s not our fault if even Quirmians don’t understand restaurant Quirmian. It’s not like lying, after all.’

‘Well, it’s a bit like—’ the waiter began. He’d been cursed with honesty at an early stage.

‘Then there’s Brodequin rôti Façon Ombres …’ The manager sighed at the head waiter’s panicky expression. ‘Soldier’s boot done in the Shades fashion,’ he translated.

‘Er … Shades fashion?’

‘In mud. But if we cook the tongues separately we can put on Languette braisée, too.’

‘There’s some ladies’ shoes, sir,’ said an under-chef.

‘Right. Add to the menu … Let’s see now … Sole d’une Bonne Femme … and … yes … Servis dans un Coulis de Terre en l’Eau. That’s mud, to you.’

‘What about the laces, sir?’ said another under-chef.

‘Good thinking. Dig out that recipe for Spaghetti Carbonara.’

‘Sir?’ said the head waiter.

‘I started off as a chef,’ said the manager, picking up a knife. ‘How do you think I was able to afford this place? I know how it’s done. Get the look and the sauce right and you’re three-quarters there.’

‘But it’s all going to be old boots!’ said the waiter.

‘Prime aged beef,’ the manager corrected him. ‘It’ll tenderize in no time.’

‘Anyway … anyway … we haven’t got any soup—’

‘Mud. And a lot of onions.’

‘There’s the puddings—’

‘Mud. Let’s see if we can get it to caramelize, you never know.’

‘I can’t even find the coffee … Still, they probably won’t last till the coffee …’

‘Mud. Café de Terre,’ said the manager firmly. ‘Genuine ground coffee.’

‘Oh, they’ll spot that, sir!’

‘They haven’t up till now,’ said the manager darkly.

‘We’ll never get away with it, sir. Never.’

In the country of the sky on top, Medium Dave Lilywhite hauled another bag of money down the stairs.

‘There must be thousands here,’ said Chickenwire.

‘Hundreds of thousands,’ said Medium Dave.

‘And what’s all this stuff?’ said Catseye, opening a box. ‘’s just paper.’ He tossed it aside.

Medium Dave sighed. He was all for class solidarity, but sometimes Catseye got on his nerves.

‘They’re title deeds,’ he said. ‘And they’re better than money.’

‘Paper’s better’n money?’ said Catseye. ‘Hah, if you can burn it you can’t spend it, that’s what I say.’

‘Hang on,’ said Chickenwire. ‘I know about them. The Tooth Fairy owns property?’

‘Got to raise money somehow,’ said Medium Dave. ‘All those half-dollars under the pillow.’

‘If we steal them, do they become ours?’

‘Is that a trick question?’ said Catseye, smirking.

‘Yeah, but … ten thousand each doesn’t sound such a lot, when you see all this.’

‘He won’t miss a—’

‘Gentlemen …’

They turned. Teatime was in the doorway.

‘We were just … we were just piling up the stuff,’ said Chickenwire.

‘Yes. I know. I told you to.’