After the Guests Go
From duck crowns to half-empty cans — a night at Lapin after hours.
The final dish goes off the pass, and knives are swapped for sponges. A head peers out from the kitchen.
“Can we get three Pils, please?”
The real last orders.
Cans hiss as the final guests pore over their desserts, savouring the last drops of wine. They settle tabs. We say our goodbyes. And the restaurant falls empty — not silent, just ours again.
The slightly frantic polish begins. Glasses gleam, tables reset, corners corrected. Then suddenly, the upbeat French pop grinds to a halt. The playlist changes. Something loud. Something that would’ve scared lunch off.
Back in the kitchen, pans and gastros clatter into their end-of-night bubble bath. Chairs from the terrace are stacked and dragged inside. Only a few are left out — not forgotten. They’re beckoning. A promise. You’ll sit soon.
We run through the checklist.
Glasses cleaned — check.
Cutlery polished — check.
Tables set — check.
Restock?
Fuck. We forgot to restock.
Someone sprints to the lock-up to grab the wines we drained tonight. Pomerol was popular. Carole beams.
“Chef.”
That’s all she says. But we know. She loves it when people drink the nice stuff — the bottles we actually get excited about, the ones we’d drink ourselves, and love to share.
It’s about 11:30. The final tick lands on the checklist.
The chefs are sat at table 10, close to the door, beers dripping condensation onto the freshly wiped and laid table. We’ll have to redo that later. They’ve got the day’s menu and an open order book between them.
What sold? What didn’t?
86 duck crown. Doesn’t mean we sold 86 — it means we ran out.
“We’ve got a great deal on some incredible Creedy Carvers. They’ll be in tomorrow — need to be brined first thing.”
“Hello, this is Jack from Lapin in Bristol. Please can I order…”
Why, oh why, do we still have to phone in our orders every night? This industry is gloriously chaotic — and terribly dated.
Another beer hisses. The wine that isn’t quite fresh enough to serve gets decanted into glasses. We claim the last few seats left out on the terrace. The air’s still warm. We glance left and right.
To our left, the tapas place is knocking back beers. Someone has a guitar — no idea why.
To our right, the Mexican restaurant’s gone full party mode — music pounding, smoking, shouting.
We sit in the middle. Half-empty cans and glasses of salvaged wine dot our marble tables — the same ones that, hours earlier, held birthday candles, anniversary toasts, and long-overdue reunions.
Our own music spills out through the open doors, competing with the neighbours’ speakers. Someone lights a cigarette. The lighter makes its way around.
“That was a great service.”
“Lots of happy bunnies.”
Carole always calls them that — our guests. Happy bunnies.
We bandy around our thoughts.
Table 8 were lovely.
Table 20 have been in twice this week — definitely my favourite.
Table 3 were disappointed we’d sold out of the prix fixe, but they said they’ll come earlier next time. They were nice.
The chairs stay out a little longer than they should. The cigarettes burn down. Someone tops up their wine with the dregs of another glass. We’re not in a rush.
There’s still clearing to do. Still bins to be run out. Still one of us trying to remember where they left their apron. But for now, we sit.
This is the bit no one sees. Not the service, not the food — just us. A strange little island between the noise of the day and the quiet of the night. Where chefs scribble, the playlist swears, and the staff become something closer to friends.
We don’t talk about the Pomerol again. We don’t need to. The good stuff got poured. The room was full. The food went out hot. The bunnies were happy.
Got a post-service ritual of your own? Share it in the comments — always curious what other restaurants do when the lights go low.
I do miss those end of night get-togethers. The favourite night meant cleaning the beer lines. There would usually be about 16 to 18 pints along the bar available to the team who stayed to the end of the night. Those nights were messy. Relationships were made; any light flirting in the stock room was dialled up. We didn’t serve that much wine back then so those rarely only leftover from tables.
The music is the first thing to change--cooks rule now after their first half cigarette by the dumpster--hip hop, punk, metal always loud! In the front of the house, its the vacuum cleaner, the clatter of stacking patio chairs. Servers sneakng texts between resetting tables,
restocking beer fridge, wiping, wiping, wiping. Fill salt shakers, fold napkins, a dozen trips down the steep stairs for supplies. The kitchen is making lists for the delivery truck, for the morning shift, for the boss. In the dish pit, the mountain of filthy stainless steel slowly shrinks. Clean plates and cutlery are already stacked on the work tables. Garbage bags bundled, grill scraped, pail ready for emptying the fryers in the morning once the oil has cooled. Bus pans through the machine, turned over on the racks. Cooks have a cold beer in hand now, the battle is almost won. A few of us pour our post shift drink-bring out the food we salvaged earlier. Mis-ordered wings, onion rings--all of it now cold and unappealing. A few nibble. Heavy click of the walk in lock. Bolts slide across the back door. A server takes our empty glasses to the dish pit. Bar fridges checked and locked. Last out, first in tomorrow. Any mess you leave will be yours just after dawn. Same time same place.