tr

THELAST-]
STEPSOF I
DAIID
DEMPSEY
Flrul |t dna plrct
Attercalls from seveml
residents, police bring arc
lights and traine dogs to
the scene. David s body is
located
around l2.10am
DURING RUSH HOUR INATOPBRITISH RESTAURANT WHERE DAVID DEMPSEY
oNcE woRl(ED, the staffoffer their own opinioDs aboutwhathappened thal
night. Theories abound as to whether he fell accidentally or delibelately
jumped. Were drugs involved? Most people aren'tsure. On one topic,
though, they all agree:
'You had to Anow David Dempsey..."
"I don'tknowwhybut I wasn'tsurprised to hearhe was dead," says one
chef. "He lived his life in the fast lane ard then it allwent abitcrazy," says
another.
"He saw the whole thingas rock'n'roll.I mean, c'mon - fallingoutof
a windola. in London!In his head he'd maybe even see it as a fittingend."
Dempsey would have been alltoo familiar with the concentrated tableau
ofmadness that follows the eveningt firstorders. A-rrivingvia the pretty
waitresses, pink slips withdetails are pasted to aboard and the dishes are
announced to the staff Then,
like the crewofa nuclear
"He
submarine preparingto
lived his life in undertale acomplex
the fast lane and maloeuwe, each chef mans
their station. Timecodes are
then ii all went a bit
punched into tiny little digital
nrazrr" qarrq: r'ho{
clocks, and then the
who countdown begins.
"He
knew Dempsey.
saw the whole
"Four minutes..."
"Oui!"
thing as rock'n'roll. "Three minutes and 20..."
I mean, c mon -
"Oui!"
"Forty
falling oui of a
five seconds..."
"Oui!"
window in Londonl
in his head he'd
Shod in Birkenstocks,
they command their areas
Tn2\/np p\/pn qoa lT
like officerg Eachcook is
as a frttrng end" different: one stands foursquare
and tough, another
moves lightly like a painter
at a canvas, another talks and
sings to himself, another nods and whispers encouragementto the others.
The cooked ingredients are passed to the boss - the head chef- for final
preparation. When he receives the food he turns round to add his touches as
his staffstare attheback ofhis headwith the nervous look offootballerswho
know theycould be substituted, or even sold, instantly. For a momentthey
aren't a team - they're individuals worrying deeply that it'll be their bit ofthe
dish that fouls the whoie thingup.
Steam licks the head chef's face as he sets the dish on the plate. For a
momenthis eyes narrow as he inspects the completed order Then he nods
silently aDd sends it off, with a mix ofconfrontation and reluctant pride.
Everyone pauses. They wipe their hands and surhces. Stretch. Mumur to one
another Pace their spaces. within 40 seconds, another order arrives and it all
begins again. The sequence oforders becornes increasinglycomplex as the
restallrant fills up. Soon each cook is handlingseveral dishes. The head chef
surveys it all like a chess grandmaster playing several games simultaleously.
Some would find this high-stress world unbearable. David Dempsey,
though,loved it.Inhis latter years, he ruled akitchenlike few others.
'Yeah,
he had it," one ofhis fiiends tells me, "he knew he was talented and he was
absolutelypassionate about what he wanted to do and where he wanted to
go... And, he hadballs -verybigballs."
AS HER LARGE GERMAN SHEPHERD PADS RESTLESSLY AROUNDTHE
GROUl{D-FLOOR COUNCIL FLAT, Eileen Dempseycarefully arralges the
newspaper clippings she has kept ofherson's careerbeside heron the sofa.
There are other reminders in the smalllivingroom ofthe circles in which
this high-school teacher's brilliantson once moved: two large Gordon
Ramsaycookbooksit on asmallbookshelf, and a framed picture of
Dempsey in his kitchen whites looks down from the wall.
"I got that one liamedbecause he's actuallysmilingin it, unlike fiesg"
she says, handing me aselection ofpress shots.
"That's him inhis kitchen:
tough guy, knives-in-hand pose."
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