The first table that walked past the doors claimed to have a reservation for six people, and we simply do not have their booking. Dammit. Not a good way to start.

The receptionist keeps her cool, and asks if the reservation could have been done under another name. It wasn’t. Worse news, they specifically requested our centre table. Not only is it booked for someone else, but the house has a full seating tonight. Absolutely brilliant.

I happen to walk past and catch the name of the gentleman who’s obviously getting a little bit agitated. We later find out that his reservation was lost by the hotel’s complex and arduous reservation system. The hotel, large as it is, is infamously incompetent in handling more than one thing at a time, and obviously failed to do their job once again. Bloody amateurs.

I walk briskly up to the desk and with a welcoming smile come down on Mr. Harris like a hammer on the anvil. ‘Ah Mr Harris. So very glad to see you again!’ I wasn’t glad, I was panicking. "Louise, do you remember Mr Harris? He came here a few months ago with his family' – (think quick!) - 'Such a lovely gathering it was indeed that night (Stop stalling. Act quick!) How’s everything going? (His table is booked and he’s going to throw a fit soon) My your boy has really grown hasn’t he! Well, we do have a surprise for you tonight!"

Silence. All look at me. Today was a rare occasion that the chef’s table did not happen to be booked that night. The chef’s table is a table sitting literally in the middle of the kitchen, sitting majestically on a raised podium to have a full frontal view of all the action and going’s on in the kitchen. Don’t expect the chefs to be on the best behaviour just because you booked it. I reckon after all the frantics put up by Gordon Ramsay on Hell’s Kitchen, people always expect to see a show in that manner. Sometimes they get it. You really need to be there when the Americans ask for the Chef’s signature dish with home made ketchup, or take the tasting menu the other way round, starting from desserts. Yes, these things happen. The table usually sells for thousands on a busy night, wine excluded. But since I happen to recognise Mr Harris who dined with us half a year ago, I have no choice but to

"...surprise you with a special upgrade tonight. Chef wants to extend his courtesy by inviting you on to the Chef’s Table."

Louise breathes a sigh of relief. While I talk and chatter away, she has already downloaded Mr Harris’s likes and dislikes from the customer database, Mrs Harris’s intolerance to garlic, and his mother’s fondness for foie gras. The information is sent to the kitchen, were a customised set dinner is planned, before he even enters the back of house to be greeted by Chef himself. That was lucky. Other times you may not have such luck by your side. On an absolutely full night, we had to invent some other excuse and send our precious customers to our rival restaurant within the hotel. Worse comes to worse, to the Arch Rival Hotel.

The customer database is a valuable tool that is used within the modernised industry. It records the reservations of past clientelle, with the option of entering valuable information and other personal information such as telephone numbers, billing addresses, and even credit card details for those who do provisional booking for tables above 6 pax. So don’t think you can run away if you didn’t pay the bill. We’ll charge your excellency at our earliest convenience if you do.

The database is also used for higher level purposes. When the concierge gave us a red signal that the gentleman from table three was acting suspiciously in the hotel (asking too many questions, taking photos of the hotel itself, manic attention to detail), we helped by doing our part. The manager himself goes to take the order, and as expected, was asked far too many professional questions to be a regular client. The manager repeats the order, clicks his pen, and continues on his way. You might be forgiven if you thought that the click of the pen was just a way of finishing the order. It wasn’t. It was a hidden camera, taking a photo of the suspects face, and put on file. (We would later find out that he was an inspector from AA, similar to Michelin, but not as recognised).

The service starts off well. The customers arrive on time, the staff are behaving (a few weeks ago two of my best workers were dismissed after being caught red handed snorting cocaine in the cellar. They were sent home for a week without pay, but I’ll call them again soon as I simply do not afford to fire them. They’re too good), and the orders are being taken.

I go quickly to the kitchen to discuss an guest’s dietary requirement with Chef, where I meet an enthusiastic Mrs Harris. ‘Oh thank you for the surprise!’, she chirps, ‘it’s perfect!’

Perfect my ass.

We just hide our mistakes better than anyone else.