Maze Grill, Mayfair

Maze Grill
10 - 13 Grosvenor Square
London
W1K 6JP
020 7495 2211
www.gordonramsay.com/mazegrill

by Rhys Chris Peese

My business manager, Martin, only came and knocked on my door.“What the fuck do you want?” I enquired.

“I’ve noticed,” he said, “there’s nowhere to get a Gordon Ramsay breakfast in London.”

“Fuck!” I said. “We’d better fucking sort that out!”

So I opened Maze Grill, and did it up in a pistachio and pebble colour scheme.

“How much should we charge?” said Martin.

“How about eighteen quid for the buffet, and twenty-six for a full fucking breakfast?” I said.

“…fine,” he said, totting up the massive fucking profit margins.

We planned the buffet first. We planned the fuck out of it. We ordered chorizo, Parma ham, miniature pastries, sweaty cheese – “And make sure it is fucking sweaty!” I yelled – cereals, yoghurt, and fruit.

“Call the muesli ‘Maze Grill muesli’!” I bellowed at Martin. “It’ll be indistinguishable from any other muesli, but we won’t have to pay the cunts at Alpen royalties.”

“We won’t have to anyway,” he said.

“Fuck off!” I replied.

Then we designed the cooked breakfast.

“How’s this?” said Martin, “Two eggs, streaky bacon, Old Spot sausages, mushrooms, beans, black pudding, and a tomato.”

“Too fucking generous!” I said. “For a start, make sure they’re the smallest fucking eggs there have ever been. Use quail eggs if necessary. And don’t waste much seasoning on them. That shit costs money! One sausage is plenty. Put the beans in a poncey bowl to disguise how fucking few there are. And only give ‘em half a tomato.”

“Half a tomato?” asked Martin.

“You heard, you fuck!”

“But they’re paying twenty-six quid.”

“Half a tomato is plenty!”

“How about three-quarters of a tomato?” he urged.

“NO!” I barked, involuntarily spitting in his eye, “Half a fucking tomato and not a fucking tomato seed more! And if they think that’s not enough then they can fuck off!”