It was a massive building, fifteen stories high, with the kitchen and dining room on the ground floor and a massive basement. I had to go in at 5:00 every morning, and I worked until 9:00. Most days of the week, the food would arrive between 4:30 and 5:00 and for the first hour I would load frozen foods in the walk-in, then for the next hour or so I would load dry foods onto a four-wheeler and then store them in the dry food pantry in the basement, after which I was free to study, just so long as I stuck around in case the other staff needed my help. The staff was small for the breakfast shift and business very slow, so I rarely saw anyone after the first hour. Early my second year working there, our kitchen manager Janet told me as I was clocking in, “Barsamian wants to see you this morning when you get a chance.” “Right, I’ll see her after I put away the frozen stuff.” She thought for a second, “She gets in about 7:00.” “Okay.” Maro Barsamian was our building manger, a strikingly. Morag was going to cook 'dinner' not just 'supper'. What should I wear? I wished, for a moment, that I was an American. Their dress codes are so much simpler. Casual? Smart casual, whatever that was: tie or no tie? Just casual: jeans and a tee shirt? Semi-formal: definitely a tie, sports jacket? I knew that Morag could carry off the most formal attire and still stand out in the most casual and yet "Dinner" seemed to have a more formal note. She had said dinner and not supper. In the end, possibly age was an ingredient; I plumped for jacket and tie. With the warm weather I could always dispense with the jacket and pull off the tie at a moment's notice. I also reckoned on a complete change of clothes to meet my beloved. She wouldn't give a damn what I was wearing, even though I would try to look attractive and please her. On the other hand she would certainly not want to meet me reeking of another woman, much as she loved her.I drove up to London in a high state of excitement. In less.
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