The Nudger.

The Nudger Quinn, now there was a man who stuck out in every way. You’d know him by the twist of his smirk. The way he would greet and seat a guest. His benevolent left hand with his palm outstretched portrayed their table impeccably laid for them, just for them! Couples were potential honeymooners; single men were bachelor’s gay and possible race-horse owners, with vital information to impart. While young single women were for charm practice, widows and American divorcees were for silent sophisticated seduction. Receiving his uplifted chin, demure respectful eye contact, he exuded masculine protective encouragement. Dessie, as he was known to his fellow workers in the restaurant, was a Chef de Rang, that protruded noticeably among the rest of us, garbed in white. Even the station heads in swallowtails black and the Maitre D in short jacket tuxedo, deferred occasionally to Desmond, for culinary expertise in flambe lamp work. Desmond was renowned for his subtle blending of Armagnac with cherry and apricot liqueurs in creating an aphrodisiac effect to lighten the heaviest Crepe Suzette for the extra indulgence in devil-may-carement of any slim-line model or femme fatale, whose pouting lips had dextrous Desmond flashing lilac lights with luscious aroma wafting from the flaming copper pan. The Nudger’s lamp work was a show performance that would dazzle the sight of your eyes, the envy of all inner- city waiters in Dublin. He was “the man” and he knew it!

The penguins too, they all adored Dessie. That’s what they called him, “Our Dessie”, because he too came from The Liberties where most of them were born. They were the professional casual staff, that worked on the big functions. They were made up mainly of older women, with large families to support. While Dessie might be called in to serve the hob nobs at the top table; Dessie was the hob-nob of the waiters in the Gresham Hotel. The Coq-au-Vin himself. The white starched jacket with the gold and blue braided epaulets, the starched stiff, upright collar on the pleated dress shirt with white flowers, and bow tie. His cummerbund was tight and a little extra wide and acted like a corset, as those of us who knew, when he shed it after service. The sharp crease on his fitted trousers was clearly defined and the military braid on the sides, stood prouder than any others in the room.

Off duty in the staff dining-hall, The Nudger’s upper apparel was carefully placed on a separate chair, while he displayed his masculine torso, his gold chain and medallion hanging of the outer edge of his immaculate white singlet, as he shuffled the deck for the daily big game of Don. Paddy O, when he was not on duty, was one of his regular partners, whereas the opposition was the sous chef, with a chef-du-partier as his partner. Occasionally the head plungier and silver man, Tim C from Cork, or the pastry chef, Shay K from Dollyier, would wobble his eye, which was invariably tense. On-lookers and scrutineers from all departments surveyed the big game; silent Lady Laverys’ were in the pot!

Silence was observed throughout the game, except when the big Wag or the little Wag was laid out for cover, by the partner. Then the inrush of breath was audible all around as the big Don, the small Don, the nine and five of trumps, for which double points had been secured of course by the highest trump. The Nudger’s glistening, pin-prick eyes were a gleam of approval when the partner covered with the ace, as the game progressed and his confidence rose. He might call Moeggs, the pastry commis chef, to go down to De Massios for a few One- and- Ones for the players. De Massios was an Italian Fish & Chipper, the best in Dublin, and could outflavour this hotel in which we were playing. Even Macker, the Head Chef, when playing, would smile and indulge.

When the big game went on for a long time, and the stakes were high, and the likelihood that it might last into the early hours, a coddle might be put on by Tim C, if he was acting as Night Kitchen Porter, and he wanted some of the action. The Dublin sausage, Haffner’s or Byrnes’ of Chatham Street, together with good smoked streaky bacon, left-over boiled potatoes and onions stewed slowly in a crock pot, is worth waiting up half the night for, especially if you are in good company. A bit of coddle for breakfast with a few bottles of stout, and who needs sleep to go again for another day!

Well now, that’s how The Nudger got me to cover him when he was on the breakfast and lunch shifts. Up all night at the cards he might be, and then he would go to rouse the lonely widows who come from Cork, Kildare or Belfast to pout and pant for our Desmond. I didn’t know it back then that Dessie had specifically asked to train me in waiting, while I was working as a young commis chef in the kitchen and he had to wait over a year longer than normal due to my reluctance in leaving the kitchen without all the knowledge and culinary skill I craved. Strange and fortitudes it had been our first encounter. An Early House in Parnell Street it was. I was a medical student with strong addictive tendencies for alcohol, race horses, nurses and benzadrine. To sustain my fast-living lifestyle I required a high protein diet and good acting abilities to amuse and entertain the wealthier patrons of the bawdier establishments. Dessie was celebrating a Leopardstown coup with some of the off-duty night porters and I had had some similar good fortune on the previous afternoon. I was busy spending the remainder of my winnings while awaiting a lovely nurse to finish her night shift in the Mater Hospital. In the “spit and sawdust” atmosphere of the Early House, frequented by dockers, night workers, fish and fruit market workers, we stood one another drinks and got acquainted while singing a bawdy duet on the amorous adventures of an isr?? Harlot and a recitation of lines regarding a red haired woman from Ringsend. As we parted amicably, he having imparted his occupation in the Gresham Hotel to me and I imparting my dwindling interest in continuing my study of medicine in Trinity College as it interfered with my passionate pursuits and my gregarious temperament. He was the first to suggest the Hotel Management might fall into a category suitably fulfilling and attractive to my lusty and adventurous asperations. We laughed, hugged and said we would meet again some sunny day!

We did too, but in the bowels of a hot sweaty kitchen, where I commenced my training as a Management Trainee which commenced as a young commis chef, who received no wages for the privilege of learning culinary skills from the masters of Haute Cusine. Ingenuity, bribery and corruption, charm and an innocent face can in vagal a hungry barman to part with his highly proofed beverages for succulent sirloin, especially when he might be about to go a courting! Desmond imparted lots of advice to the impoverished student in need of liquid sustenance among the busy professional, paid employees. Desmond’s slate was made open to me, in Tommy Moore’s Pub in

Cathedral Street,, where I was always assured of a cure for the shakes. As a result, he got total loyalty and dutiful service with station coverage for his occasional rambling abs conscious in his own smiling service to lonely widows.

The back gate man had a blind eye where I was concerned and always asked after a an uncle of mine who had been a previous manager there. As I was not duty bound to clock any card in or out for myself, my handling of someone else’s card was ignored when I occasionally covered his station for overtime for which he duly compensated my impoverished pocket. The Nudger’s compassionate eye could assess a situation and act with immediate and effective silent generosity.