“Just put it on the table and don’t blather, damn it!” Rácz bangs his fist on the table and his brow is furled capriciously and, seemingly, angrily. The headwaiter silently bows and motions to a waiter bringing the soup. While the waiter ladles the delicious soup for Rácz, the headwaiter nervously looks for the musician, who immediately enters, catching his breath, with a violin under his arm. Stojka, the fat gypsy from the cabaret band has to play every day at dinner for Rácz’s pleasure. Rácz often puts aside his cutlery and is moved to join in, singing the refrain of a popular tune before continuing his meal.
“The boss has finished the soup already,” the incoming waiter tells the manager who is nervously hiding behind the curtain dividing the dining room from the kitchen.
Rácz has slurped his soup and waits impatiently for the second course. The manager clumsily arranges a plate of veal medallions and accompanies the waiter to the curtain. One can hear Rácz singing to the accompaniment of the violin. Then comes the sound of the guests’ insincere, embarrassed applause. No one dares to eat while Rácz sings. Everybody pretends to listen to him. They wait for the song in an unfamiliar language to end before they resume dining.
“He’s started on the veal,” the waiter reports. “He’s tried the potatoes! He doesn’t like the sauce! It’s sour!” All this is reported in a panicky voice to the kitchen where all movement has stopped.
“He’s smashed the salad bowl with his fist,” the waiter following the action in the dining room cries in desperation.
“To hell with the salad,” the manager says to himself. “That doesn’t mean a thing. How about the meat?” he asks the waiter. “Does he like it?”
“He’s taking it out and putting it on the side of the plate,” the waiter tells the manager and leaves to get a drink. He’s been on his feet since morning.
The manager is pale. He gets even paler, when he hears the sound of smashing china. Stojka’s violin falls silent.
“Quick! Get him the next course!” shouts the headwaiter, running into the kitchen, his face and hair covered in sauce. Everyone starts to run around in panic, but nobody knows what to do.
“I’d really like to know what miracle you’ve cooked for the next course,” the chef tells the manager. He’s just come in from the changing room, a cigarette in his hand. Through the open door, the cooks could be seen drinking rum originally meant for the flambé.
“Give me goulash, Szegedi style!” shouts the headwaiter. “I expect it was too hot,” cries a trainee waiter, holding his cheek, which bears the mark of five fingers.
“Ice! Give me ice!” somebody shouts hysterically.
All work in the restaurant has stopped. All the kitchen staff are clinging to the curtain. They dare not let Rácz see them. They all realise that the situation is unsustainable and cannot go on much longer. Sooner or later a waiter or cook has to enter the abandoned dining room from which come guests’ muffled voices and Rácz’s terrible silence.
“You ought to go in,” the frightened headwaiter suggests to the chef.
“Send in an apprentice,” a cook suggests. The trainee waiter with the mark of the stoker’s hand on his cheek starts to cry.
“Don’t you have any apprentices?” the headwaiter addresses the cooks. “Who screwed up, anyway? You, the cooks!”
“Us?” The chef gets furious, and throws his cigarette butt away. Before he can suggest anything, there’s another proposaclass="underline" send in the prettiest waitress topless. Maybe that will appease the stoker. There are two waitresses behind the curtain; at a vigorous nod from the headwaiter, they take off their blouses and bras. The staff assess them. They shake their heads; both waitresses are flat-chested. They’re as tall and thin as bean-poles. Offended, they put their clothes back on.
“I might as well go in there with my top off,” the chef mumbles. “Well, go,” the headwaiter says, watching through a hole in the curtain.
The noise in the dining room has stepped up. Nervousness reigns behind the curtain. “Let the man responsible for the cock-up go,” a waiter suggests. All eyes are on the manager.
“Yes, that’s right,” the headwaiter agrees. The manager makes an evasive manœuvre, but two waiters firmly grab him by his shoulders.
“Scheisse!” says the chef. In emergencies he relieves his stress with foreign words. “Scheisse!” he repeats. “That would be even worse,” he counters. “Rácz hates the manager and if he sees him, he’ll destroy us. No, not that,” he shakes his head. “I suppose we’ll have to send in a woman, a waitress. But not a topless one, a bottomless one! Get it? Bottomless!”
They all agree, except the waitresses. They resist desperately. “This isn’t what we agreed!” they repeat in unison, but illogically. Finally, they are forced to take off their skirts. Now it’s clear why they resisted so hard: they are naked under their skirts. In chagrin, they explain that it is hot in the restaurant, and wearing knickers would make them sweat.
The men in the kitchen like it. (They also like lace-edged black tights.) Tension subsides. It is clear to all that they’re out of the danger. Even Rácz won’t be able to resist. Everyone wants to grope them. The waitresses squeal. Only the headwaiter keeps a worried eye on what’s happening in the dining room, which has been left unsupervised. And when the bottomless waitresses, one with a tray of the manager’s speciality, and the other with a bottle of red wine, (both red with embarrassment), are ready to enter the room, the headwaiter shouts: “He’s throwing up! Throwing up! I told you this would happen!”
Chaos reigns behind the scenes. The waitresses run away and quickly dress, as if they have until then been acting under hypnosis, and have only just woken up. The waiters and cooks run around in confusion and yell with penetrating, surprisingly screechy voices. The headwaiter is about to hang himself. He makes broad, very graphic gestures, as if hoping that someone will try to stop him.
Only the chef has not given in to panic. He is all red from drinking rum. “See, what you’ve done?” he turns on the manager. The latter has in the meantime profited from the chaos to stuff his jacket with tins, vegetables, meat, and bottles of wine, together with biscuits and sweets. Do you see? “Now you want me to go to the boss and fix it? I don’t think even a case of Havana Club will be enough to calm him down. Lucky we economized by using the local hooch instead of real rum for the flambé!”
The manager fearfully peeks into the dining room. Rácz is sitting at the table. His head is bent down and a shock of hair hangs down in resignation. His orange-green jacket and fashionable tracksuit bottoms are covered in vomit. In the silence that now reigns he smashes his fist into the table. He stubbornly tries to get up, but he doubles up with a spasm of vomiting and helplessly sinks into his chair. The terrified guests watch him. Everybody is afraid to make a move. “Uuuppp!” comes out of the stoker and a new stream shoots out of his mouth. “Uuuppp!”
“What are you hanging around for, you dolt?” the chef says to the manager, and lights up. “Haven’t you done enough to mess us up? Get lost! I don’t want to see you here ever again!”
Sadly, the manager goes away. The chef catches up with him on the ramp. The manager had better give back everything he’s stolen from the kitchen during the chaos! On the double! The chef has no time for jokes. He has to cook goulash and sauerkraut for the boss. “Move it!”
The manager unbuttons his jacket and unwillingly takes out his loot: a frozen chicken, five potatoes, a bottle of soup stock, a bottle of red wine, two raw pork steaks, a side of bacon, a bunch of onions, three carrots, a lemon, a can of mushrooms in brine and a jar of mustard. “And now get lost!” The chef orders him out, after feeling the manager’s jacket to check he hasn’t got away with anything.