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Chapter Text

Gordon Ramsay walks along a pebbled beachfront foreshore.

“We’re here in the picturesque seaside town of Herne Bay, a place with the ignominious title of ‘Worst Seaside Town in Kent’, and we’re here for a restaurant that might just be vying for the title of worst restaurant in the Worst Seaside Town in Kent, if I can’t pull them out of the hole they’re in.”

Gordon moves to voiceover, and we cut to footage of tourists on the beach and beachfront, eating ice creams, buying souvenirs.

“Herne Bay is famous for its pebble beaches, colourful beach huts and classic charming English seaside atmosphere. Despite the title, tourists flock here in the warmer months to enjoy the sea air. Stéphane’s is a French bistro just a street back from Herne Bay’s beachfront, where owner Stéphane Fournier set out to bring the English day-tripping public the dishes of his native Narbonne, France – a town on a much sunnier and sandier Mediterranean beach than this one.”

More B-roll, this time of Stéphane, David and Nick, in their restaurant kitchen, cooking, moving order tickets, Stéphane flipping the door sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’.

“But the cracks are showing in this family-run business. Owner Stéphane and his two sons, David and Nick, run the restaurant together; Stéphane manages the restaurant, David is Chef de Cuisine, and Nick is sous-chef and baker.”

“I’ve run a really successful restaurant here for five years, and I don’t understand why the customers suddenly just aren’t coming in,” says Stéphane. “It’s the middle of the season, and we had only four tables. It can’t be the food, because that hasn’t changed. People love my food.”

“Despite Stéphane’s confidence, the restaurant is struggling,” says Gordon’s voice.

“Some days, we barely get two or three tables through,” says waiter Charlie. “Saturday nights are our best nights, and I don’t think we’ve been booked out for dinner since I started here.”

“We really need Chef Ramsay’s help,” says Nick. “If anyone can give this place the kick up the arse it needs, it’s him.”

—

Gordon approaches the front door of Stéphane’s, a small shopfront sandwiched in between a shop selling ‘Modern blinds and shutters’ and a tattoo shop. The sign has a small, awkward French flag that looks a little bit like an emoji, and the name is – for some inexplicable reason – in Papyrus font. In front of the plate glass window are a couple of supremely awkward empty cane chairs and café tables; they’d be impinging on the pavement and generally getting in everyone’s way, had there actually been anyone to get in the way of. As it is, the street seems deserted.

Gordon kicks at a pot of very wilted red geraniums at the front door.

“My nan had geraniums,” he says, looking into the camera. “They’re almost impossible to kill. These are in such bad nick I’m almost… impressed? Let’s go find out if the rest of the restaurant is any better.”

Inside the restaurant, the decor is off-kilter; a combination of classic bentwood chairs and red-checked cloth covered tables, but for some reason, the walls are almost completely bare, and the décor has a faint flavour of office-building to it; the ceiling is a grid of acoustic tile. The only decoration is a collection of dusty kites hanging over the register at the back.

“Weird,” says Gordon.

“Hi, welcome to Stéphane’s,” says a young man in a crisp white shirt and black trousers. He’s got dark, curly hair, piercing blue eyes and a soft manner.

“Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Gordon,” says Gordon, unnecessarily. “And you are?”

“Charlie,” says the waiter.

“And you’re… head waiter?”

“I suppose so,” says Charlie. “Right now, I’m the only waiter.”

“Oh, wow,” Gordon says. “Well… let me sit down and try some of the food, yeah?”

Gordon pulls up a chair at a table and unfolds the menu.

“I’ll have the… holy fuck, is that a cow’s head?”

The camera zooms in on the menu, where Gordon’s finger is pointing to an item in the list labelled ‘Tête de Veau’.

“I mean, it’s not, like, a cow’s head cow’s head. Like, we don’t bring it out with the whole face, and, like, sprigs of parsley up its nose,” Charlie says hastily. “But, um, yeah. It’s basically a slice of stuffed cow’s head.”

“Well, I’ve got to have that, haven’t I?” Gordon says. “And I’ll get the cassoulet, and the moules marinières, and a crème brûlée for dessert. Thanks, darling.”

“I’ll get those started for you,” says Charlie.

Cut to Charlie talking to the camera:

“I’m just there, really hoping he actually likes anything we serve. I mean, I know he’s going to hate most of it…”

Charlie brings Gordon the tête de veau. Mercifully, it doesn’t actually look like a cow waxwork, and instead just looks like a round slice of something stuffed. It’s drowning in a white cream sauce.

“Your tête de veau, in a sauce Gribiche,” says Charlie.

“Tell me, Charlie, mate, is the cow usually known as an aquatic animal?”

“Um… no?” Charlie says. He looks like someone who knows a joke is coming and wants to laugh pre-emptively, but isn’t quite sure whose expense it will be at.

“So why on earth is this one swimming around on my plate?” Gordon says. Charlie laughs, relieved, and says he’ll go get the next course.

Gordon picks at the dire soupy plate. He takes a reluctant bite of the veal, chewing it cautiously. And then chewing it. And chewing it.

Eventually, he spits it into his napkin.

“If the chef was trying to invent beef-flavoured chewing gum, then he’s got it spot on,” he says, disgusted. “Bland, rubbery and completely inedible. Like eating the sole off a sneaker. And this sauce is a national embarrassment to France.”

Charlie appears, putting down a plate of cassoulet.

“You didn’t like the veal?” he says, one cheek dimpling up in a nervous smile.

“Didn’t like the… No. I did not like the veal. I couldn’t even chew the veal. You can take that, thanks, I’m done with it.”

Charlie picks up the plate. We follow him through the kitchen doors, where Stéphane and his two sons are waiting anxiously. The boys are in the kitchen pretending to be busy, while Stéphane is just standing there, arms crossed.

“He didn’t like it?” Stéphane demands.

“He said he couldn’t even chew it,” Charlie admits. He sounds somewhere between mildly terrified and utterly gleeful about being the one to convey this review. “And he asked why his cow was swimming on his plate.”

In close-up, he scrapes the remainder of the hapless bovine into the rubbish.

Cut to Stéphane talking to the camera.

“He just doesn’t know French food, that’s all,” Stéphane says confidently. “I know my food is amazing. People love it. They say so all the time.”

We move to footage of Stéphane, leaning over a table of slightly intimidated diners. He’s standing so close they’re having to crick their necks up to look at him.

“Are you enjoying everything?” he says, and then, before anyone can do much more than nod wincingly, “Can I get anyone more wine?”

In quick succession, footage shows Stéphane descending on diners the second they open the door, introducing himself as ‘Stéphane Fournier, the owner’, and then him berating a couple for their choice of beer with their dinner instead of wine.

“Papa is… a lot,” Nick says into the camera.

“Dad’s a complete pain in the arse, and he’s absolutely why this restaurant is failing,” David says, in his own interview footage. “If he’s not underfoot, he’s breathing his horrible manky breath on the customers. He insists everything be made according to his recipe book, which Mémère wrote down after she had the stroke. Oh, and he completely cheaps out on ingredients, because he insists he can’t taste the difference. I’m the only one who ever stands up to him, and we always just end up yelling at each other. Nick’s too soft; he couldn’t stand up to a teletubby.”

“I really don’t like arguing,” Nick says; we’re back to his interview footage. “Mémère’s recipes aren’t quite right in the cookbook, but where David argues with Dad, I just tell him I’m following it to the letter. He wouldn’t know the difference anyway. He’s killed every tastebud he has with thirty years of smoking Gitanes. But it is horrible having to send out food I know is bad.”

Charlie places down the cassoulet in front of Gordon. A moment later, he’s declared it watery, weak and tasteless, eviscerating it for using what he suspects are frozen catering sausages and pre-cooked canned beans. The moules fare even worse.

“Are these mussels frozen?” he says incredulously, poking at an invertebrate in half a shell. “Even if they weren’t, the sauce is tasteless and watery, but I could literally go outside and pitch a rock and it would probably land on a fresh mussel. There is no excuse for serving frozen mussels by the sea.”

“Yes, chef,” Charlie says, in a tone that makes it hard to tell if he actually means ‘daddy’. He’s clearly starting to enjoy this parade of disasters.

Gordon picks up a piece of the buttered bread that came out with the mussels

“Oh, and this bread is fucking…”

— Dramatic music swells —

— Ad break —

Chapter Text

Infuriatingly, after the ad break, there’s a recap of everything just seen; Gordon eating the first three dishes, Stéphane intimidating the customers, David griping about his father. Finally, we cut back to Gordon holding the chunk of bread.

“Oh, and this bread is fucking delicious,” he finishes. “Is it house made?”

“Yes,” Charlie says. He’s obviously glowing with real delight over this development. “Nick makes it. He’s the baker of the family, and he does most of the desserts, too.”

“Well, tell him well bloody done. I usually don’t bother to eat bread, but I’m eating this. About the only edible thing I’ve gotten for lunch so far.”

Back in the kitchen, David is somewhere between bristling that Gordon hated everything he cooked, and blaming Stéphane’s control freakery.

“Of course he hated everything, Dad,” David says, arms crossed, in a flood of angry subtitled French. “Who the fuck wants to eat frozen oysters stewing in their own freezer juice? Or the tête de veau from last Thursday? Or the Gribiche that Mémère probably mixed up with her onion soup recipe? And of course the cassoulet is shit. Real cassoulet takes three days to make – even Mémère knew that – but that’s toooo long for you!”

“Don’t talk shit, David, did you come down in the last shower of rain?” Stéphane replies, in even louder subtitled French. “Our food is great. He’s just doing it for TV. What’s the point of coming to fix the place if he can’t find fault with everything first? You must be denser than the shit you’re serving if you don’t understand how TV is made.”

Meanwhile, Gordon is smashing the crust on a pretty gorgeous crème brûlée, then taking a bite.

“Okay, this is divine,” he says. “Creamy, not too sweet, great crack on the top, and is that a hint of something aromatic I detect?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” Charlie hedges. “I can ask for you?”

“Don’t worry – I’ll do it myself. I think it’s time I come and properly meet the people behind the food. Can you take me into the kitchen?”

Charlie leads Gordon through the swing doors, to find the family waiting. He reaches out to shake the hands of first Stéphane, then David, then Nick.

“So, I’ve just eaten in your restaurant, and I have to tell you, the news is not good,” he says, arms crossed. “The only edible things that hit that tablecloth were the dessert and the bread. Who made those, please?”

Nick tentatively raises his hand.

“Great work. Don’t change a thing. And who made everything else?”

David raises his hand.

“I mean… what were you thinking?” Gordon says. “Do you not taste anything that goes out? Why in God’s name are you serving frozen and canned shit and calling it cordon bleu?”

“I actually went to Le Cordon Bleu, in Paris,” David mutters, staring at his shoes. Gordon looks at him like he just admitted to public indecency, utterly gobsmacked. “It’s fucking embarrassing to have to make this slop night after night. But Dad won’t let us buy decent ingredients, and he won’t let me fix the recipes.”

“You went to Le Cordon Bleu?” Gordon says, gobsmacked. “You went to Le Cordon Bleu, and you served me canned bean cassoulet?” He’s clearly still processing. “Don’t you… don’t you have any pride in what you’re doing here? Where is your love of cooking, for God’s sake?”

“Every time I try to push back, Dad just shuts me down!” David protests. It sounds weak, and it’s apparent from the look on his face that even he can hear how weak it sounds. “And Nick doesn’t back me up, he just pansies out of every argument.”

“This guy—” Gordon points to Nick – “is bringing his A-game. And yet you two, for some reason, insist on arguing about whose fault it is that you’re getting a fat red F.”

We cut to interview-style footage of Nick, chatting to the camera.

“Neither of them could bake a loaf of bread if their life depended on it, so normally, I just get on with it and let them fight it out. But since David yelled at our last line cook until he quit, I’ve had to start coming here in the evenings as well, and now I’m exhausted, burnt out and I can’t get away from either of them.”

Meanwhile, Gordon’s got Stephane sitting down at a table to discuss the business.

“Exactly how far in debt is the restaurant?” Gordon asks.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to say,” Stéphane.

“How much are you losing every week?” Gordon presses.

“I would say… we are probably losing two thousand pounds each week right now,” Stéphane admits after an uncomfortable minute of Gordon staring at him.

“Well, that can’t carry on, can it?” Gordon says.

—

Gordon is observing how service usually runs at Stéphane’s.

In the kitchen, David is already heaping abuse on Nick, who is quietly getting on with whatever it is he’s getting on with.

“Nick, I told you we needed three bourrides ten minutes ago!” David snaps. “What the fuck are you even here for? You’re so fucking useless.”

“You said three cassoulets, David, and they’re in the window,” Nick says mildly.

“Three cassoulets and three bourrides!” David says furiously.

Stéphane, who is hanging around the order window getting in the way, starts contradicting both his sons at full volume.

“It’s two bourrides, one cassoulet and three dishes total!” he says. “No, wait. Two cassoulet, one bourride. And a salade de figues.”

David smashes down a pan in frustration and walks out the back of the restaurant, lighting a cigarette.

“Is he outside smoking?” Gordon asks Nick. “During service?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, calmly putting together a fig salad. “Charlie, can you check that ticket please?”

“One bourride, one cassoulet, one fig salad,” Charlie says, taking the dishes out.

“Oh my god,” Gordon mutters.

Outside, the restaurant seems crowded – more crowded than anyone has suggested Stéphane’s usually is – and all the diners seem very willing to chat to the cameras about how terrible the food is, sending back dishes to the kitchen freely in a way no self-respecting English person would ever do if they weren’t hamming it up for TV.

Mind you, the displeasure – however uncharacteristic its airing – does seem to be genuine.

“We can’t wait much longer… we’ve already been waiting an hour, it’s the kids’ bedtime,” one woman says, sitting next to a pair of disgruntled children, one kicking their legs, the other pulling an ‘oh my god I’m soooo bored’ face.

“They’re lucky the bread’s good, that’s all I’m saying,” says a man at a two-top. “The nice waiter has already brought three baskets of it, we’ve been waiting so long.”

Another customer is handing Charlie their plate back. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but it tastes… vinegary? And sort of… I don’t know, metallic?”

“I’m so sorry, would you like to order something else?” Charlie apologises profusely. “I can ask them to put a rush on it?”

“Do you think they could just make me a croque monsieur?” the diner asks, and Charlie promises to ask.

In the kitchen, David is back from his break, and doesn’t seem that surprised that the tuna steak has been returned. Just as Charlie’s about to scrape it into the bin, Gordon intercepts him.

“Hang on, someone’s just sent this back – what was wrong with it, Charlie?”

“Um, they said something was wrong with it, I think they said maybe vinegary and metallic?”

Gordon puts the plate down on the bench and forks up a mouthful. Then he spits the mouthful straight into the bin.

“That is disgusting,” he says, “Oh, fuck, is there something I can wash my mouth out with?”

Stéphane, who is once again hanging around the order window doing nothing of any demonstrable value, rolls his eyes and mutters something clearly contemptuous in French, which the helpful subtitlers translate as ‘Hamming it up for TV again’.

“I’m sorry, what was that, Stéphane?” Gordon says in a dangerous voice, as Charlie hands him a glass of water, before dashing out with three more plates. He’s clearly about as impressed with Stéphane as he would be with a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

Stéphane waves his hand. “They just don’t know what steak de thon is supposed to taste like,” he says, airily.

“Well, I know what steak de thon is supposed to taste like, Stéphane,” Gordon says, making ‘Stéphane’ a very clear stand-in for ‘you drivelling moron’. “Come here and taste this. You too, David and Nick.”

Stéphane comes over to take a forkful, pronouncing it delicious, but neither David or Nick stop what they’re doing. Nick becomes very busy making the rush croque monsieur, and David chooses that moment to flambé whatever’s in his pan.

“Neither of you wants to even taste it, huh?” Gordon says, arms crossed. “Want to tell your dad why not?”

David starts showily tossing the contents of his pan, while Nick disappears into the walk-in cooler.

“Just gotta get some béchamel,” his voice trails out through the door.

“Wow. Stéphane, your sons would rather literally leave the room than taste one of your own dishes, and frankly, after having done it myself, I don’t blame them. David, I’m asking you now to tell your dad what’s wrong with that dish.”

“Fucking… fine,” David says, clattering down the pan. “Though I’ve told him a million times and it just goes in one ear and bounces right out again off his rubber brain. Dad, you can’t serve bloody skipjack tuna as a steak de thon. Skipjack is the cheapest tuna for a reason – it’s disgusting. It’s meant for canneries where they cook it to absolute death, not restaurants who cook it medium-rare. And it’s meant to have balsamic in the marinade, not bloody white vinegar, but you insist.”

Gordon turns his glare on David.

“How can you have any self-respect as a chef when you’re sending that out to customers?” he says.

“Good bloody question,” David mutters. “But Dad plowed half our inheritance into this shithole, and now we’re bloody stuck here.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Gordon does a full double-take, the dire tuna steak clean forgotten.

“Yup. Mémère’s money, meant for Nick and I. It was in a fund, and Dad pulled it out without asking us, and put it into this place. Didn’t even put our names on it. So if the place goes under, we’re out a hundred thousand quid each.”

“Is this true?” Gordon wheels back on Stéphane as Nick emerges from the cooler.

“Welllllll…” Stéphane hedges.

“Is it?” Gordon says, all six-foot-two of him managing to loom significantly over Stéphane’s not inconsiderable six-foot frame.

“I suppose you could look at it like that,” Stéphane finally admits. It sounds as though he would have preferred Gordon yank out a molar than say it out loud. “I invested their money in the business.”

“So… you stole from your own sons, blackmailed them into working for you for fear of never seeing that money again, and now you won’t even let them cook without interfering?” Gordon says. “I need to go for a walk, this is insane.”

We watch Gordon walk down the deserted street, muttering ‘invested their money…’ in the same incredulous tone one might utter ‘ate an entire Cessna…’.

— Ad break —

Chapter Text

“It's a really toxic dynamic,” Charlie says to a baffled Gordon, as they chat in the dining room after service finally finishes. “Stéphane takes everything out on David and Nick – you know, like, the fish delivery is late, and suddenly David’s stock is flavourless or Nick's bread is too holey – he actually said that once. That bread is amazing. People are willing to brave Stéphane’s horrible breath and nutzo moods just for a piece of that bread. And then David takes all his stress out on Nick, too.”

“If you don't mind me asking,” Gordon says, “Why do you stay?”

“I don't know, I guess – okay, this is probably going to sound stupid, but I feel like I'm just here out of solidarity with Nick, a little bit? He puts up with so much, and he's such a sweetheart, and I just feel like I can't, you know, abandon him to such a horrible fate.”

“That's really lovely of you, Charlie, and loyal, too, I'm not sure I'd put up with some of the things I've seen here today.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not for the money. He owes me five grand in back wages,” Charlie says wryly, apparently before he’s had time to think, as he slaps his hand over his mouth.

“He owes you five grand?” Gordon says, incredulous. “Wow. Talk about putting your money where your solidarity is, Charlie. I wouldn’t put up with that for a week. You must really like Nick.”

“Um,” Charlie says, blushing, nervously trying to pull his buttoned cuffs down over his hands. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So… I’m never going to get a straight answer out of any of them, but maybe I can get one out of you – Stéphane said the business has been successful in the past – is that just hot air, or…?”

“Oh no, it used to be quite successful,” Charlie says. “At lunchtimes, anyway. It wasn’t a full menu, just a soup of the day and sandwiches, and Nick would run the kitchen on his own, after his baking was done for the day and before he went home to sleep. Baking starts early. We had multiple wait staff back then, and they were paying us all. We got a lot of office folks, tourists, ladies who lunch.”

“So why on earth did they stop the lunch service?” Gordon says, scratching his temple.

“They lost yet another sous chef on the dinner shift, and David said he’d had enough of ‘culinary school dropouts and meth-soaked weirdos’ and insisted Nick switch to dinner. Nick said he couldn’t do both lunch and dinner, so they cut lunches. Stéphane said dinner was ‘more important’.”

“He cut a successful money-making side of the business because dinner was more important?” Gordon says, aghast.

Cut to Gordon, who’s bailed up Stéphane in his office.

“Can you tell me how much you were making on an average lunch shift before you cut them?”

“Oh, well, I couldn’t say for sure,” Stéphane says, gesturing to a hectic maze of papers that would take an archaeologist and a private investigator a month to get through. “But it wouldn’t be so much, I don’t think.”

“But before you cut lunches, you were able to pay all your staff, and you weren’t losing money?” Gordon says, insistently.

“Well… no. But these two things are not necessarily linked!” Stéphane protests.

“Can you hear yourself?” Gordon says, incredulous. “I mean, seriously. Do you actually hear yourself? You’re delusional. You had a perfectly functional restaurant, despite your terrible food, despite your interference in the kitchen and alienating customers, despite your dismal atmosphere – and then, apparently, because your pride is more important than your actual business, you took the goose that laid the golden egg, and you took it out the back and shot it for a roast goose a l’orange!”

“We don’t serve anything a l’orange here,” Stéphane sniffs.

“Oh my god,” Gordon says. “You’re not even joking, are you? First big change I’m making: lunch service goes back to the way it was. We’ll find you another sous chef.”

Gordon’s talking to Nick now.

“So you used to run lunches here? And from what Charlie says, they were pretty popular?”

“Yeah, they were,” Nick agrees. “It was just Charlie and me, usually. He’d help me out in the kitchen on prep. We’d do a soup of the day – lighter ones like French onion in summer, heartier ones when it’s cold, and I’d pre-make a bunch of croques and baguettes au jambon and pan bagnats – but we’d just call them Niçoise sandwiches because that’s what everyone knows here – and you could get them on their own, or with a cheap wine for fifteen quid. It was always packed, and the take-away trade was heavy, too. The hardest part was making the stock, then keeping David from using it all during dinner service.”

Nick looks a bit misty recalling the lunch service, a happy, distant look on his face.

“So you’re telling me you had a packed restaurant and food flying out the door at lunchtime, and your dad just cancelled them like that—” he snaps his fingers – “because your brother wanted you as sous?” Gordon marvels.

“Dad sort of… because he was never here for the lunch service, and because it was just ‘your little thing, Nicolas’ – just soup and sandwiches – he never really thought it was, um, real? And I confess I probably encouraged him not to pay attention to lunch, to stop him getting involved – you know, things like, Dad hates cheap wine, so I’d hide the wine purchases as ‘cooking wine’. Things like that. The more Dad pays attention, the more he interferes, so…”

“One second,” Gordon opens the swing door and beckons a confused Charlie into the kitchen.

“Charlie, I can’t get a straight answer out of Stéphane, but you were handling the till – how much would you say lunches were pulling in?”

“Oh, well, it depended on the day – people drank more on a Friday and the weekends – but somewhere between five hundred and a thousand quid, I’d say?”

“Un-fucking-believable,” Gordon whispers under his breath. “And the margins?”

“Pretty good,” Nick admits. “The wine costs a bit, obviously, but my and Charlie’s labour was probably the biggest component other than that. And I wouldn’t say either of us is getting paid well.”

“Actually, your dad hasn’t paid Charlie here for over a month,” Gordon says.

“He what?” Nick explodes. It’s the first time we’ve seen anything like anger from Nick, the quiet one in this volatile French family. “I’m gonna kill him. Char, why on earth are you here if that arsehole hasn’t paid you?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie shuffles his feet. “I couldn’t just leave you here?”

“Char, you can’t just work for free!” Nick insists. “I’m stuck here, but you shouldn’t put up with that for anything!”

“If you’re stuck here, I’m stuck here,” Charlie says stubbornly.

Gordon holds up an infuriated pair of pinched fingers.

“It sounds like you two were actually running a very successful restaurant, between you, and that those two –” he points vaguely out towards Stéphane’s office – “are running a failing one that you were propping up. I’m going to have to look into this.”

— Ad break —

Chapter Text

We cut to Gordon, standing out on the main street of Herne Bay, interviewing passers-by.

“Have you heard of Stéphane’s?” he asks a couple of middle-aged women.

“Oh, yes, everyone around here knows Stéphane’s,” one of the women says.

“Have you been there?” Gordon asks.

“We used to go there for lunch all the time,” the other one says. “But they stopped doing lunches. And the dinners are…” She pauses, obviously trying to think of a polite way of saying ‘shit’.

“They’re kind of shit,” says her companion. “And not cheap, either.”

These sentiments, one way or another, are echoed by everyone Gordon talks to.

“It’s becoming clear to me,” Gordon says to the camera, “that the problem with Stéphane’s isn’t the location, or the decor, or in some ways, even the food… The problem with Stéphane’s is Stéphane.”

Now Gordon’s putting out a large A-frame sign on the street outside Stéphane’s, with a huge bunch of red, silver and blue mylar heart balloons tied to it. It reads ‘We’re open for lunch again! £8 Soup / Sandwich £7 Côtes du Rhône / Sav Blanc’.

“I want to see how Nick and Charlie handle a lunch service before we re-launch with my new menu,” he says, adjusting the balloons. “I’ve also set them up with a meal delivery website for take-aways, so we’re really going to put them through their paces.”

—

“How are you both feeling about lunch being back on?” Gordon asks, as Nick and Charlie stand in the kitchen, prepping row after row of sandwiches.

“Pretty tired after last night, but happy,” Charlie says. Eagle-eyed viewers might detect Nick’s eyes taking on a faint heart-shape.

“It’s too much, asking Charlie to do lunch and dinner shifts,” Nick says.

“Pot, kettle,” Charlie says.

“Well, we’re closed tonight and lunch tomorrow for the big makeover, so you’ve got a night to recover. I’m going to be out there sampling everything, so don’t let me down, you two!”

“We won’t,” Nick and Charlie say in perfect unison. Then they both laugh and jostle each other’s hips. Gordon gives them a long, speculative look, then turns briskly and heads out to the dining room.

It’s a jump-cut montage of absolute success. People are biting into crunchy baguettes, rolling their eyes up in joy as they taste their soup, pulling long strings of cheese off their croques. Gordon, who has ordered all three, pronounces it ‘Bloody delicious,’ ‘Great soup,’ and ‘As good as I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some great croque monsieurs.’

Charlie is basically running a 200m sprint from the kitchen every five minutes, his arms piled with plates. Take-away customers crowd the pavement, waiting for their lunches.

At the end of the packed service, Gordon comes back to the kitchen, pushes the swing door open, and then immediately turns around to the camera that’s following him.

“We might just give them a minute,” he says.

As the door swings back again, it beautifully frames Nick, who’s got Charlie’s legs around his waist, and is kissing the curly-haired waiter up against the open door of the walk-in cooler. The camera operator shamelessly zooms in as they lock lips, and Charlie runs his hands through Nick’s hair.

—

A moment later, Gordon makes a big show of knocking on the kitchen door, which he pushes open to reveal Nick and Charlie hastily smoothing their hair and clothes.

“How’d we do, boys?” he says, failing to keep the smirk out of his voice. Charlie is glowing. Nick looks exhausted, but like a kid who just got every Christmas present he ever wanted.

“We took sixteen hundred quid,” Charlie says triumphantly.

“And we’ve sold out of everything,” Nick says. “I had to make more bechamel on the fly.”

“That’s incredible,” Gordon says. “If you two can do that without an ounce of help from anyone else…”

He trails off, apparently remembering he’s supposed to be rescuing Stéphane’s, not Nick and Charlie.

“Let’s just say Stéphane’s is lucky to have the pair of you, and they better bloody well remember it,” he finishes. “You two really know what you’re doing, and I’m confident that whatever you put your minds to, you’ll be a success.”

He walks out.

We switch to the CCTV footage, filmed from the ceiling of the kitchen. Gordon exits the room, and both Nick and Charlie start jumping around like idiots, and then Nick gathers up Charlie into a hug, and then, whaddayaknow, they’re kissing again.

As Charlie starts backing Nick purposefully in the direction of the walk-in cooler, still kissing him frantically, we cut back to Gordon, walking out the front of Stéphane’s.

“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever celebrated a successful shift by snogging my maitre d’, but if that’s what works for Stéphane’s, then I’m all for it,” he says. “Though I’ll leave that part to Nick, I think.” He winks and walks off, muttering into his microphone that he ‘hopes to god that they give that walk-in cooler a good daily cleaning’.

— Ad break —

Chapter Text

The next part is a time-lapse, as the show’s interior decorators work overnight on the new fit-out of Stéphane’s; a confusing montage of people drilling, painting, moving furniture and fittings. Then Stéphane, David, Nick and Charlie are led in, blindfolded.

“Are you ready to see the new Stéphane’s?” Gordon says, enthusiastically.

“Yes!” the four of them chorus, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“Okay, remove your blindfolds!”

They peel back the black eyemasks, and expressions of wonder (Nick), excitement (Charlie), grudging admiration (David) and even more grudging admiration (Stéphane) wash over their faces.

The interior of Stéphane’s has been transformed. One entire wall has been turned into a huge photo-mural of a kite festival on a Mediterranean beach – Narbonne, presumably, given the look of recognition on Stéphane’s face. The previously dark bentwood chairs have been painted a rich cream, and the tables – somewhat sparsely placed before the makeover – have been rearranged, a long row added along one wall, with a comfortable-looking cushioned banquette bench in blue and white stripes. The light fittings are ultra-modern, and the acoustic tile ceiling is gone, replaced with a high ceiling painted with a cloudy blue sky.

“Oh, wow,” says Nick, looking up at the ceiling. “That’s so pretty!”

David rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t disagree.

“Now let’s have a look at your new menu,” Gordon says, gesturing to a table covered in dishes.

This is the part Stéphane is clearly still deeply unwilling to accept, and the camera follows him as he mulishly refuses to try anything, insisting it’s ‘not authentic Languedocienne cuisine’.

“Are you going to taste anything, Stéphane?” Gordon says. “Or are you willing to let pride drive you out of business? Because if you are, then nothing, and I mean nothing, I’ve done here can save you.”

Stéphane picks up a fork like it’s an act of war, and scoops up some of the nearest dish. The fury on his face can mean only one thing; it’s delicious.

“That’s what a steak du thon is meant to taste like,” David sneers in his father’s direction.

Nick and Charlie are making noises of delight as they taste Gordon’s menu: an entrecôte de boeuf, chicken vol-au-vent, a duck and pork cassoulet, proper mussels in white wine sauce, aubergine gratin, zucchini ‘tartare’, pommes frites, Languedoc apple tart or crème brûlée for dessert, and of course, the tuna steak.

“And we’re adding Nick’s croque monsieur and onion soup to the dinner menu,” Gordon adds. “They’re perfect for a light meal, or for people with kids.”

In the kitchen, Gordon teaches David and Nick the new recipes.

“God, it’s such a relief to make a proper bloody cassoulet, you don’t even know,” David says. “It’s been so long since I made one that Nicky was probably still in long dresses, weren’t you, Nicky?”

Nick just rolls his eyes and keeps chopping aubergines.

Cut to Gordon, out in the hallway.

“My next challenge is keeping Stéphane from interfering in the kitchen, or in the dining room,” he says. “He’s a menace in either, and he certainly can’t be trusted to expedite.”

He leads Stéphane into the little office.

“Now, Stéphane, your job as an owner is to have a handle on your business at all times, and so during this service, I’m going to need you to get a grip on this mess,” he says, waving at the avalanche of papers and folders. “You need to know what’s happening in your business – what the costs are, what the revenue is, how much you’re making, how much you’re spending on rent, ingredients, staff and overheads – and if you don’t know that, you’re not a restauranteur, you’re a bloody amateur, yeah?”

Stéphane gives a wordless and extremely French noise of contempt, but Gordon’s in no mood.

“No— I’ve seen you out there, Stéphane, and you’re about as useful as a rubber fork. You can’t taste anything, you interfere with both the kitchen and the front of house, and frankly, you have about as much sense of the restaurant business as a garden mole does of who’s going to win an Oscar this year. What did you even do before you started this restaurant?”

“I was in property development,” Stéphane says, somewhat smugly.

“Pr— You were in property development?” Gordon says, incredulous. “And do they let people get away with this kind of crap –” he waves at the papers – “in property development?”

Stéphane looks mutinous, but he shakes his head. “Property development, it’s much more difficult than running a restaurant,” he excuses himself. “It’s not so important here.”

“This isn’t a bloody beach holiday, Stéphane, it’s a business!” Gordon rages, pointing emphatically at nothing in particular. “The restaurant industry is the hardest industry there is! You’ve been coasting on profits you had nothing to do with earning. Nick and Charlie’s lunch services were keeping your little vanity project afloat, and you didn’t even know it, because you couldn’t even be bothered to keep track!”

He’s practically spitting by this point, he’s so angry. Stéphane looks like a resentful kid in the principal’s office, looking at everything but Gordon.

“Look at me, Stéphane – no, look at me,” insists Gordon mercilessly. “If you can’t manage to get this lot under control, it might be time to play to your strengths and go back to property development.”

Stéphane sits down at the desk and begins pulling out books.

Meanwhile, customers are arriving, wowed by the decor. Charlie is, as always, run off his feet, and doing a masterful job of hiding it; at least Gordon’s managed to dig him up a new waitress to help out.

In the kitchen, Nick and David are cooking up a storm, but David is getting more and more tetchy with every ticket Charlie clips to the rack.

“Oh my god, Nick, I asked for that cassoulet three minutes ago, all you have to do is scoop it onto a plate, you numbskull,” he says.

“What cassoulet? You didn’t ask for a cassoulet. You asked for a croque and a gratin,” Nick says.

“I bloody asked for a cassoulet,” David insists.

Black-and-white footage of David asking for a croque and a gratin earlier plays, with Nick repeating the request and agreeing to it.

“Well… one cassoulet, heard,” Nick says, resignedly.

David’s mixing up more and more tickets, and every time, he blames it on Nick. Stéphane, who’s left his office and is now hanging around the kitchen getting in everyone’s way, starts trying to sort out the tickets and making it much, much worse. He’s also fiddling with dishes before they go out. Charlie’s having to correct orders as he picks them up, only to find Stéphane has moved the tickets and he can’t double-check.

Out in the dining room, people are getting antsy. Tables have received three-quarters of their meals, or have been waiting longer than people who arrived later.

“I’m really hungry, too!” says a diner mournfully, eyeing their companions’ meals.

It all seems to be turning into a three-star clusterfuck.

— Ad break —

Chapter Text

After the inevitable post-ad-break recap of the dinner service chaos, Gordon wades into the middle of the mess in the kitchen at Stéphane's like an avenging angel in a white double-breasted coat, just as David’s yelling at Nick for some new perceived infraction.

“Oi, all of you, stop, right now. Stéphane, back to the office, now.” He points to the door.

Stéphane tries to argue, but Charlie comes through the swing doors with an armful of empty plates and almost cleans Stéphane up spectacularly. Reluctantly, Stéphane departs, swearing in French.

“Okay. That’s one problem down. David – get a grip. You need to focus on one ticket at a time, and get it right, yeah? Charlie, can you see if you can sort out this mess with the tickets on this side, and Nick, can you sort out your side? And I’m going to have to step in and expedite, or this service is going to turn into even more of a shambles. There are already customers out there who’ve gotten the wrong food. Pull it together, yeah?”

While David still seems inclined to try to find a way to blame Nick for everything, Gordon’s not having it.

“I don't want to hear it, David," he says bluntly. “You're the chef. Sharpen up. Come on. That's a tuna steak, a moules and a vol-au-vent!”

The team at Stéphane’s manages to limp their way to the end of service.

The customers are all smiles, thankfully, with nothing but compliments for the food.

With the front door locked and the last customer out, Charlie all but collapses on a chair, and Gordon leads the family out to the restaurant. Nick immediately sits down next to Charlie.

“Now, that was a little bit of a mess, yeah?” he says. “But you pulled it together in the end.”

“No thanks to Nicky,” David mutters.

Nick winces, but unexpectedly, it’s Charlie who explodes. And boy, does he ever explode.

“You absolutely ungrateful sack of shit,” he says. “You’re awful to Nick, constantly, and you don’t even realise how blatantly obvious it is to everyone that you’re just taking out your own incompetence and frustration on the nearest person who’ll take it. You’re a sad, middling, pathetic hack.”

“Charlie, I don’t think it is your place to criticise my son,” Stéphane pipes up, unwisely.

“And you! You’ve got two sons! You’re a delusional bloody criminal, who stole from your own children, who actively undermines this place on a minute-to-minute basis, and who couldn’t taste the difference between bread and drywall if you put enough butter on it. You have no business running a restaurant. Oh, and brush your fucking teeth, you stink.”

“Hey, everyone, look, it’s been a long night, yeah?” Gordon says, attempting to placate the enraged waiter. “Charlie, you did incredible work tonight, and so did you Nick. David, you really stepped up to the plate.”

Meanwhile, Nick’s woven his hand into Charlie’s, who’s still steaming gently, and lifts it to his mouth to kiss the back. David’s eyes light upon the gesture, and they take on a nasty gleam.

“Oh my god, Nick, I always knew you’d turn out to be gay,” he spits. “Of course Charlie stands up for you. Can’t even do it yourself, can you? Too much of a pansy,” he adds, somewhat nonsensically.

“I'm bisexual, actually, you absolute twat,” Nick says. He stands up, pulling Charlie with him. “And you know what? I don't give a shit what you think. I'm done with this. I’m done with you, David, and I’m done with you too,” he skewers Stéphane with a look. “We’re not even people to you. We’re just pawns in your imaginary little empire. I’m done bending over backwards to try to please people who treat me like shit. Bonne chance to the both of you.”

He gets up, and despite Gordon’s (no, stop, don’t) attempts to get them to stay, Nick and Charlie walk out, hand in hand – but not before Nick opens the till very pointedly, and counts out all the cash in it into Charlie’s hand, carefully writing the amount on a slip of receipt roll.

“He’ll have the rest of it by direct deposit tomorrow, or we’ll go to Acas,” Nick says to Stéphane. “What’s he still owe you after this, Charlie?”

“Another three and a half grand including this week,” Charlie admits.

“Three and a half grand,” Nick points at Stéphane. “Tomorrow, or we get the authorities involved. Tu comprends?”

“Oui, je comprends,” Stéphane finally says, and the pair of them walk out, hand in hand, the jaunty little ring of the bell on the door seeing them incongruously out.

“Well, that was…” Gordon seems to be struggling not to cheer, and decides to abandon the sentence. “How are we feeling about that?”

“You know what?” David says suddenly, into the resulting silence, “Fuck it. Nicky’s right about one thing – you couldn’t give a toss about us. And you’re right, Gordon, I don’t have a passion for cooking any more. In fact, I fucking hate cooking. I quit. I’m going back to uni to study whatever is furthest from bloody cooking I can find. Accountancy, maybe. Or geology? I’ve had enough practice talking to the rocks in your head, papa. Please tell your crew sorry about their nice makeover, Gordon,” he adds.

He unties his apron, throws it on the floor and elects to leave out the back door.

Gordon leans on a table, looking at a bemused Stéphane.

“I wish I could say I’m surprised, Stéphane, but I’m not, really,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone less suited to the restaurant business than you, and that’s saying a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone take people for granted quite the way you do. Even today, after all that work, you still managed to make life harder for your sons. You know, I’m sorry to see them go, but it’s pretty hard to fault them. You had a good little business here – no thanks to you – and you flushed it down the loo.”

—

Gordon theatrically flips the sign on the door of Stéphane’s from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’ as he walks out to film his final monologue.

“Well, there it is – sometimes you can help, and sometimes all you can do is stand by and watch as the inevitable unfolds. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a less competent restaurateur than Stéphane. He was an active liability in his own business. His son David was a talented chef when he put his mind to it – but he lacked the heart for the job; he’d lost his love of cooking. And his youngest son, Nick – well, I think Nick and Charlie will go on to great things, but it looks very much like they won’t be happening here. What a shame.”

He shakes his head theatrically and walks away down the dark street.

— Episode outro music plays —

Chapter Text

Gordon’s driving his BMW down the A2.

“It’s been four months since I finished up at Stéphane’s in Herne Bay, and a lot has happened,” he reports to the camera in the passenger seat.

The next twenty minutes are a shameless recycling of the best bits of the original episode: the sad geraniums, disastrous food, Stéphane yelling at his sons, David yelling at Nick, Nick and Charlie’s triumphant lunch and kitchen snog, Charlie tearing David and Stéphane a whole pasta strainer of new arseholes and everyone storming out.

“The fan reaction to this dysfunctional family restaurant was incredible, with thousands of people commenting online, press coverage, memes...”

Footage plays of people discussing the episode on The One Show, on YouTube channels, Reddit threads and memes of Charlie shooting laser beams out of his eyes and Stéphane’s head exploding.

“But the big mystery was – what's happened since? So I’m heading down there now to see what’s become of Stéphane’s.”

Gordon pulls his car up on the street outside – well, it looks like Stéphane’s, but now, the sign reads ‘Chez Nellie’, with an adorable picture of a cartoon dog with a French flag in their teeth. One of the front panes of glass has been replaced with a service window, piled with baskets of fresh bread. It’s crowded with people waiting for coffees and drivers waiting for delivery orders. More tables have been put out on the pavement, and they’re all packed with people eating. Nobody seems to mind the obstacle course much; they're all there for the restaurant anyway

“Well, at least one thing is looking better,” Gordon points to the geranium at the door, who’s been pruned and is blossoming wildly. The plant has been joined by a matching one on the other side. The bell tinkles as he pushes it open.

A young person with a pink mullet and a nose-ring greets him in a cute French accent.

“Bonjour, welcome to Chez Nellie,” they say.

“Wow,” Gordon says, looking around at the packed restaurant, full of people chatting over a pleasant soundtrack of French trip-hop, then holding out a hand for the wait person to shake. “Hello, I’m Gordon, and your name is?”

“I’m Alix,” says the young person. “Let me take you through.”

In the kitchen, the camera just catches Charlie planting a kiss on Nick as he goes to pick up a pair of plates.

“Gordon!” They both turn and chorus simultaneously.

Charlie hands off the plates to Alix, and they both hug Gordon, complete with cheek kisses.

“All I can say is… wow,” Gordon says, once he’s stepped back. “This place is… wow.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees. “It’s been a wild few months.”

“So give me the speed wrap-up of what’s been going on,” Gordon says.

“Well…” Charlie starts, then looks at Nick, who nods for him to continue. “It turns out Stéphane not putting Nick on the paperwork was a blessing in disguise, because he was further under water than anyone thought. Nick and David’s inheritance was long gone, and he owed half a million quid on top of that. He had to declare bankruptcy. Luckily David managed to build a paper trail, and he and Nick went on as creditors. With some help from Nick’s mum and aunt Diane and my parents, we made an offer to the liquidators for the fittings, talked to the landlord, and a week later, Nellie’s was off and running!”

“I think we must have put a flyer through every letterbox within thirty miles?” Nick smiles fondly.

“You mean your cousins Tillie and Leo put a flyer through every letterbox in thirty miles!” Charlie laughs, and Nick concedes the point.

“We’ve made a few little changes, too,” Nick says. “We’re more of a bakery and café now – we only do dinner on Fridays and Saturdays. But we’ve hung on to a lot of your dishes!”

He gestures to a chicken vol-au-vent he’s somehow still managing to plate up while they talk.

“May I?” says Gordon, and Nick passes him a tiny spoon. Gordon tastes it, and makes a noise of heavenly approval.

“That actually might be better than mine,” he says. “What did you do to it?”

“It’s finished with my own infused olive oil instead of butter,” Nick says, unable to repress a grin. “And I upped the thyme. You can never have enough thyme on your hands.”

Charlie groans at the pun, and Gordon laughs indulgently.

“And the new name?”

“We named it after my dog, Nellie,” Nick says. “She’s pretty old now. One of the reasons we don’t do dinners is so we can spend more time with her. Mum brings her in for an outside lunch sometimes – she's here today, actually – and I'm sorry to say, Gordon, but I think she gets the celebrity treatment more than you do!”

Gordon laughs again.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking – is this place in the green now?” he asks.

“Not quite, but we’re turning an okay profit!” Charlie says. “You saw we were able to hire some help. It took us a little while to pay off the little renovations we did, but we’re expecting to break even on our folks’ investments some time next week.”

“We’re also saving on rent,” Nick says, his grin escaping beyond all possible containment. “I moved into Charlie’s place a month back.”

“Aaaaw, I’m very happy for you,” Gordon says. "You two have a lot of fans in the Kitchen Nightmares community, but the question everyone's been burning to know – if you don't mind me asking – is who made the first move?”

“It was me," says Charlie. “I… sort of jumped Nick at the end of service.”

“No, it was me!” says Nick, somewhat shocked. “The second you walked in with that huge dimpled smile, I just grabbed you!”

“It seems we're not the only ones wondering,” Gordon says to the camera as Nick and Charlie jostle each other, a wordless smiling argument underway. “Even they don't know. But luckily, our team has cameras in the kitchen…”

Gordon pulls out an iPad for a blushing Nick and Charlie to look at. Charlie peers through his fingers, laughing.

Black-and-white footage plays of Nick and Charlie, back at the end of the lunch service in the original episode: We see Charlie burst into the kitchen, grinning.

“We did it, Nick,” past-Charlie says. “The last customer just left. We did it!”

Past-Nick stares at Charlie, a smile like he's won the lottery spreading over his face, and after a full second of staring at each other, Nick drops his ladle and strides for Charlie, who closes the gap, and the pair crash together at speed, their lips finding each other almost before Nick's hands close behind Charlie's back.

“There you have it, folks,” Gordon laughs. “Like everything else in Nick and Charlie's kitchen, it was a true team effort.”

Charlie wraps an arm around Nick's waist, and Nick puts one over Charlie's shoulders, the pair of them laughing and blushing like schoolboys.

“And… dare I ask how the rest of the family is doing?” Gordon mercifully (or tragically) changes the subject.

“Dad moved back to France,” says Nick. “I think he’s getting back into property development. And David’s enrolled in a law/finance degree at Edinburgh Uni. He sent us a postcard.”

Charlie pulls it off the kitchen wall to show Gordon. It’s a postcard of a statue of a dog, with the label ‘Greyfriars Bobby’. On the back, David has written:

Thought you might like this, you’re such a loyal puppy dog. Food here is shit. Bloody love it. Ate a slice of deep-fried pizza yesterday. Say hi to Charlie-boy for me. Hey, why did the gay guys get out first when the fire alarm rang? Because they already had their shit packed!’

“Well, he seems like he’s flourishing,” Gordon says, with the air of a man who will never think about David Nelson again for any reason. “Anyway, I’ll stop disrupting your service and get out of your hair. But not before I grab one of those sandwiches!”

Nick laughingly bags up a selection of Chez Nellie treats for Gordon.

“Best of luck to both of you, yeah?” Gordon says.

Nick and Charlie both hug him goodbye, with effusive thanks.

Out on the street, Gordon shakes the hand of a smiling woman sitting at a table, and crouches down to ruffle the ears of a brown and white border collie.

“And this gorgeous lady must be Nick's mum Sarah, with another gorgeous lady – Nellie herself?” he says, sliding into the empty chair and leaning his chin on his elbow. “It's such a pleasure to finally meet you! I understand you and Stéphane have been separated for some time, is that right?”

“Yes, we separated when the boys were small – gosh, over fifteen years ago, now!” Sarah says.

“It must have been hard for you, watching your boys struggle with the dynamic at Stéphane’s?” Gordon says, asking the question clearly on the lips of any number of Reddit commenters.

“I think sometimes, when things are tough, there's nothing like a fresh pair of eyes to really put things into perspective,” Sarah says diplomatically, with a wry shrug that somehow conveys that Gordon succeeded where she had failed a hundred times over. “I'm very grateful to you for that.”

“You must be very proud of what Nick and Charlie have done here,” Gordon says.

“They're such lovely boys,” Sarah says, smiling warmly. “This change has been such a relief, and we were all so excited to pitch in and help. It's been a real privilege to watch them realise they didn't need anyone's permission to succeed.”

“Well, isn't that just the truth,” Gordon nods at the packed restaurant.

Gordon does his final monologue on the street outside the packed eatery, in front of a backdrop of customers trying to pretend not to look at the camera.

“Well, I thought that my week at Stéphane’s was a complete waste of time – and in a sense, it was, because the real restaurant – Nick and Charlie’s restaurant – never actually had a problem at all. They’ve finally managed to break free from the confines of Stéphane’s, and Chez Nellie is doing fantastically. And honestly, you can’t ask for a better outcome than that.”

Gordon walks off down the street – in the opposite direction to where he supposedly ‘parked his car’ – hands in pockets, off to his next restaurant disaster.