Hospitality is a strange business. Most people experience Christmas from the customer side. They remember family gatherings, overcooked turkey, wrapping paper everywhere, arguments about board games and somebody inevitably falling asleep in front of the television before the Queen’s Speech had finished.
People in hospitality experience Christmas very differently. Christmas is work. Restaurants are full. Bars are packed. Hotels are bursting at the seams. Everybody else is celebrating, which means somebody has to stay behind and make sure the celebration actually happens.
For most of my life I accepted that as normal. But there was one Christmas that has always stayed with me. Not because it was glamorous. Not because it was tragic. Quite the opposite. It remains memorable because it was utterly ridiculous.
At the time I was managing a large nightclub in Edinburgh. Getting that position felt like a major step forward in my career. I was young, ambitious and convinced that hard work could solve almost any problem. Looking back, I wasn’t entirely wrong, although I perhaps underestimated how many problems hard work could create.
The festive season was our busiest period of the year. Every night seemed louder than the last. Christmas parties. Corporate bookings. Students home for the holidays. People determined to squeeze every possible ounce of enjoyment out of December before January arrived and presented them with bills and regret.
The days blurred together. Long shifts. Late finishes. Constant noise. The strange nocturnal existence that hospitality people slip into when the rest of the world is sleeping.
On Christmas Eve we finally reached the staff party. Anybody outside the industry would probably struggle to understand the logic. After weeks of serving everyone else’s celebrations, hospitality workers create celebrations of their own. Usually late. Usually loud. Usually involving entirely too much alcohol.
Our staff party started after the club closed. Which meant it started at around four o’clock in the morning. There were drinks. There were stories. There were increasingly exaggerated accounts of events that had happened only hours earlier.
My assistant manager, Gavin, was there too. A lovely lad from Newcastle. Sharp, hardworking, endlessly reliable. Like me, he wasn’t going home for Christmas. There simply wasn’t enough time. His family were hundreds of miles away. Mine were elsewhere. The nightclub schedule didn’t care about either circumstance.
So when the rest of the staff eventually drifted away, Gavin and I did what countless young men have done throughout history. We opened another bottle. Then another conversation. The hours stretched on. The stories became sillier. The whisky became better looking.
At some point, sometime after common sense had abandoned the premises entirely, I stumbled back to my hotel room. I vaguely remember seeing Christmas presents lying on a chair. I vaguely remember deciding I should perhaps open one. After that, nothing.
The next thing I remember is opening my eyes. For a few moments I had absolutely no idea where I was. The room looked unfamiliar. My mouth felt like somebody had lined it with carpet. There were half-open presents scattered around me. Wrapping paper lay across the floor. A shirt hung from a lampshade for reasons I could not begin to explain.
Then I saw the clock. Seven o’clock. I smiled. Plenty of time. Then my brain slowly engaged. Seven o’clock in the evening. Christmas Day. I had slept through Christmas. Not part of Christmas. Not Christmas morning. The entire thing.
My mobile phone looked like it had suffered a coordinated attack. Missed calls. Voicemails. Texts. Messages from family. Messages from friends. People checking where I was. People wishing me Merry Christmas. People wondering if I was still alive. I quickly established that I was. Barely.
Then another thought hit me. The nightclub opened in two hours. And I hadn’t counted the cash from the previous night. Nothing sharpens a hangover quite like discovering several thousand pounds remain uncounted in a nightclub safe.
I threw on clothes and sprinted through Edinburgh. Christmas Day Edinburgh is an odd sight. Beautiful. Peaceful. Almost empty. Meanwhile I was running through it like a fugitive.
When I arrived, staff were already beginning preparations. Music systems were being checked. Bars stocked. Doors prepared. And sitting exactly where I’d left it was an intimidating quantity of cash.
So Christmas dinner became counting money. Bundle after bundle. Stack after stack. The glamorous reality of nightclub management. Outside, families were pulling crackers and arguing about whose turn it was to wash dishes. I was counting banknotes while trying not to be sick.
Eventually another problem emerged. I was starving. Not peckish. Not hungry. Starving. I suddenly realised I hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Perhaps longer. The whisky hadn’t exactly contributed meaningful nutritional value.
The problem was obvious. It was Christmas Day. Nothing was open. No takeaways. No restaurants. No corner shops selling emergency sandwiches. The entire city had collectively decided to spend the day with their families. An entirely reasonable decision. Incredibly inconvenient for us.
Gavin appeared carrying the keys to the pub next door. The Ferret and Trouser Leg. At least I think that was the name. Memory improves stories over time. Facts occasionally suffer.
“I’ll sort Christmas dinner,” he announced. Those words sounded magnificent. Heroic. Almost biblical.
I returned to counting cash. Minutes passed. Then more minutes. Customers began drifting into the club. The first determined Christmas Day drinkers appeared. The music started. The night began. Meanwhile my stomach was attempting to digest itself.
Eventually Gavin returned. He carried a tray. On the tray sat two bowls. Each covered by another bowl turned upside down. Steam escaped from the edges. The presentation was unexpectedly impressive. In my starving state it looked like something from a fine dining restaurant.
Gavin wore the expression of a man about to unveil greatness. With theatrical flourish he lifted the bowls. A cloud of steam drifted upwards. Then I saw Christmas dinner.
Two bowls of microwave chilli. And slices of white bread spread with margarine. That was it. No garnish. No vegetables. No festive touches. No attempt whatsoever to acknowledge the occasion. Just microwave chilli.
The saddest Christmas dinner in Edinburgh. Perhaps the saddest Christmas dinner in Scotland. Possibly Europe.
I looked at it. Gavin looked at me. Then he smiled. The thing is, he was genuinely proud. He had searched the city. Everything was closed. He’d raided the pub kitchen. He’d found literally the only food available. And he’d brought it back like a conquering hero returning with treasure.
So we sat. Two hospitality managers. Two young men far from their families. Eating microwave chilli on Christmas Day while counting nightclub takings. And it was wonderful. Not because the food was good. It wasn’t.
Years later I can’t remember most of the Christmas dinners I’ve eaten. The expensive ones blur. The perfect ones fade. I remember that bowl of chilli perfectly. The steam off it. The margarine melting into the bread. And Gavin, who searched a closed city so that neither of us would eat alone.