Serving the Man

Dinner was served in the older Tate’s most opulent room. Three tables stretched past Ophelia, past the Lady of Shallot, past Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, from the double doors to the furthest wall. They were beautifully dressed. The candles, glassware, cutlery, tablecloths and flowers mimicked the surrounding pictures, where ginger girls hung out in green environs. In the daytime, this space is full of people standing around, gawping, chatting, and drawing. After dark, it exists for another public. On this night, the gallery had been taken over by the catering company I was working for. The occasion was an investment bank’s winter celebration, but no-one had arrived yet. It was just tables, chairs, art, and us.

Catering Food.

We were to greet the guests as they arrived in the grand hall. It looked different to normal; the floor had been partially tiled, outsized squashes and gourds sagged and drooped on white blocky benches. The atmosphere was still and stifling, not helped by the suspension trays we had to hold. Every shift involved those ghastly trays. These were slatted so that you could slide champagne flutes into them, their stems dangling in the air. As a result, the glasses appear to float before the server. To keep the champagne level you had to tilt the trays forwards, which meant contorting your hands into a peculiar, unnatural grip. It took a considerable effort. I stood next to a stone column, tray loaded with fizz, and waited. Our shift leads and supervisors made it clear we couldn’t move from our spots. “This client has paid a lot of money for this. That includes you.”

Two hundred suited people flooded the hall. They came from under the arches and between the pillars. They spotted the floating champagne and moved towards me. The hot room was getting hotter. My grip on the suspension trays meant the blood in my body was rushing towards my hands. I started seeing things. The squashes and gourds appeared to be wearing frilly clothes and started to move, draping themselves over the tiles. By then my face had drained of colour. If my brain could formulate any thought, it would have been ‘oh no.’ I had to sit, I was going to faint, but I couldn’t put the tray down. It had no base. Glass and fizz would go everywhere. The world was turning purple and fast. I had to act. I staggered past the squashes and the suits, tray outstretched, knees wobbling, vision turning, towards the nearest supervisor. I slurred the words “I’M GOING TO FAINT,” shoved the tray into her hands and collapsed into a nearby chair. I put my head between my legs. Someone handed me some orange juice in a plastic cup. The world soon returned to its normal colour and I hoped they’d send me home. I was wrong.

Catering atmosphere, 2025. Photo by Kader Azra Namuslu.

It wasn't meant to be like this. Catering was only a seasonal gig when I was home from university, but the setting was so close to where I wanted to be. My degree was boring, but the previous term I had taken my first art history class and fallen in love. To my surprise I read voraciously, had opinions and wanted to speak in class, rather than being little more than an elaborately decorated chair. I felt that the art world held a future for me, but I wasn’t sure what. As an artist? A curator? It seemed too late, I wasn’t at art school and I wasn’t majoring in art history. Nevertheless, I kept trying to be in the right places. Taking catering gigs in artistic institutions seemed like a decent start. It felt comfortable. I was in my element. These were the churches of London’s art world and I treated them with due reverence. But I still had to work.

Tate Britain exterior, 2024. Photo by Laura Chouette.

The guests sat at the tables. Fiddling with a corkscrew, I stood in the corner of the room as the starters emerged. At these events, I never served the food and always worked the booze. “The clients prefer to be served by girls,” our manager said, “that’s it. It’s not sexist, it’s just the way it is.” I looked at the walls and flexed my art-muscles. Chatting to the other boys, I pointed out different artists: a Burne-Jones here, a Rosetti there. It felt great and I bet the feasting bankers didn’t know anything about them. I doubted they could distinguish between Jane Morris and Elizabeth Siddal. I felt superior until a guest caught my eye, lifted his empty glass and gestured for a top up. I smiled and moved towards him.

As the wine hit the bottom of his glass, I wondered why the bank chose this space for their dinner. I mean, art is a good backdrop for wealth. It suggests decadence. You can see it in the shiny sculptures and monumental paintings that fill the foyers of offices in the city. Glass halfway full, I sensed a contradiction. People like this surrounded themselves with art, yet their wealth was totally irrelevant to it. They made their money in lucrative, perhaps unsavoury, fields like pharmaceuticals, petrochemicals, and gambling, and came to art powerful. They are able to finance enormous wings, ambitious exhibitions, and hold lavish dinners. Art would happen whether those industries existed or not, but maybe not at the same scale. With his glass full, I twisted the bottle and walked back to the corner.

Tate Britain interior, 2024. Photo by Laura Chouette.

After the main and dessert, a glass tinkled at the other end of the room and everyone stopped talking. A head honcho was retiring, and there was a speech, laughter, a toast, and applause. The man was given a limited edition wooden Rolex, apparently hilarious because he loved the environment so much. The dinner was almost over. It was nearly time to go home. I stood by the temporary bar and watched the girls come back out to clear their plates. A drunk American suit sidled up to me and asked, “Do you get to bang the b****** afterwards?”