‘We are Ladies and Gentlemen, serving Ladies and Gentlemen’, say our competitors The Ritz. And indeed it is so. I’ve served the rich, and not so rich. I’ve served the likes of Victoria Beckham, Roger Federer, and Madonna. I’ve also served a celebrity who tipped me a £2000 cheque in the hope that I keep it as a souvenir. I didn’t. I cashed it the next day.

I am Maltese, a pure breed, a patriot. I am a believer of Maltese Hospitality, a trait I strive to deliver service after service, day after day. I trained under the iron fists of John Cassar at the ITS, and until this day I follow his teachings like the gospel. In my mind, Maltese hospitality is a cross between the French and the British style. We Maltese abroad follow the French efficiency and passion, talk like the Italians, and smile like the Brits, but we welcome, with Maltese pride. We are confident and matter-of-fact, but humble and receiving at the same time.

17.40 hrs. I am in my office, looking the part. I have polished my shoes, checked myself in the mirror, straightened ,my jacket, finishing my tie in a tidy half windsor. One last look at the mirror, and I’m out of the office. I walk into the restaurant past the snow white ironed table cloths, polished silverware, and glimmering glasses. My staff are out in line, ready for inspection. Shining shoes, check. Black socks, check. Clean clothes, check. Fingernails are clean and trimmed, and everyone has at least one pen, watch, and matches. Sommeliers are looking at me, confident. Receptionists/hostesses (damn they’re pretty) smiling. Head Waiters, Commis and Chefs de Rang, attentive, yet nervous. And they’d better be.

Being Maltese sometimes means that I am not taken seriously. (Malta? Yes. Where’s Malta? Mediterranean. Is it in Africa? Well, according to some, it soon will be. Do you make good wine? We like to think so.)

My food knowledge is constantly challenged, and the French and the Germans expect me to fail. I do not. I am educated and confident. I am a leader. I expect them to follow what I say and follow my guidance. I have worked over a decade for this. Keeping everyone in line means you have to growl sometimes to show your teeth (Mr Cassar: thanks for that), but befriend them shortly after to give encouragement. I am recognised in my role. I am your friend at the pub, but your boss on the floor.

I conduct the briefing and explain the new amuse bouche. I test the new waiter Andre on his knowledge of the Chef’s entrees. (Andre, what a good man. He later finds his fortune playing online Poker during the night. I had the ‘pleasure’ of serving him a few weeks ago when he came to visit the City with his model girlfriend. He left me a £5 tip. Bastard.) He passes the test with flying colours.

We talk about the guests expected today, requests, repeat guests. Inspector control has been done, and no suspected Michelin people that we know of are expected. No bloody food critics either.

In the fine dining industry there are two types of standard. Crap, and not so crap. We strive for perfection, but as it does not exist, it’s still crap. But we keep trying.

18.00 hrs. Doors to the Restaurant open.