by Cocktails
‘You’re the only one Ricardo will work with. He’s fun like that.’ Her lips quirked up in an impersonation of a smile but her eyes were deadly.
I turned to him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Ric, I’m not a chef. I’m not trained. I just make drinks.’
He grinned at me, shrugging. ‘Well, tonight you’re making dinner for the restaurant. Not much difference. Come on, let’s get to work. Tie your hair up and grab some whites from the back.’
‘I…’ I turned to Arabella, waiting for her to tell me what to do. Apparently, when it was Friday night and you had a full house on a set menu, and one chef, that chef got to do whatever the fuck he wanted.
She threw up her hands, almost vibrating with rage as she walked out. ‘Do whatever the daft fucker says, darling. Just get the food out on those tables and don’t poison anyone.’ The door swung behind her and I knew she’d be muttering to herself in that way she did, counting back from 20 under her breath when she thought no one was listening.
When I returned, Ricardo grinned at me. ‘Well, now I finally get to see what you’re made of!’
‘Yes, I’m sure you maimed yourself on purpose.’
‘No time to waste, Africa, let’s get cooking.’
* * *
I actually enjoyed it. It was simple, rhythmic. Ricardo explained the dishes’ components, showed me how to make them, and I was off. Chargrilled chilli prawns in a lettuce cup, with an avocado salsa and crème fraiche. It was simple, well balanced, and easy to organize. By the end of the first few, I was adding a twist of lime, a dash of pepper here or there. Ricardo watched quietly, nodding, letting me try things, encouraging me to taste, taste, taste.
By the end of the main courses, he was holding his hands up when I asked to make an addition, or a swap, or suggested a pinch of something else. ‘Go with your gut, Africa, you’ve got this.’
Jacques occasionally popped his head round and grinned as he collected plates.
By the end of the night, I was invigorated, excited. Ricardo had the music up loud and I danced as we added the final touches to the lemon tarts. When the last plate was out and the ingredients were cleared away, Ricardo turned to me with a smile.
‘Well, girl, you just dealt with a Friday night single-handed. You don’t think you can work a kitchen, I don’t know what you’re thinking.’
‘It… this was a quiet Friday, though, right?’ It had to be, it was easy.
Ric shrugged one shoulder. ‘Maybe a little quiet, manageable, but it was you and me and a dining room full of people! Come on, get excited!’
I grinned, feeling the flush of my cheeks as he waved his hands around. ‘I am. I am excited. I loved it.’
‘Good, because the work’s not done!’
I thought for a second. ‘What, cleaning?’
‘No,’ he huffed, ‘you’re gonna cook for me. Something you want to cook. And we’re gonna have dinner, with the staff, and they’re gonna eat it. So… go.’
‘I… uh… but – stock, and how do I know what I can use, and are any of them vegetarian?’
‘Sweetheart… just go with it.’
So I did. I went with it.
I checked the sweetness of tomatoes, sprinkled with salt and left to rest, matched with torn coriander, a little red onion and chilli. I towered up grilled aubergine and mozzarella, I seasoned and sprinkled and tasted, tasted, tasted. A little of this, a little of that.
Jacques ferried the bowls out to the restaurant, and when I walked out, they had set up some of our longer tables, so we could all eat together, family-style. The table was full with the food I had made, the salads and bruschettas, the cooked meats and rice dishes. It was simple food, rustic and colourful.
As I walked out, they stood up from their seats and cheered, clapping. I looked at each of their faces, grinning as they thanked me for their meal. I sat at the head of the table and watched as they passed food between them, commenting, tasting with their eyes closed.
‘Savvy, this food, it’s…’ Arabella sighed. ‘It’s wonderful!’
‘It’s simple.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s basically barbecue food.’
Arabella frowned, turning to the others. ‘You ever had aubergine and mushroom arancini at a barbecue? I haven’t.’
‘Dunno what barbecues you’re going to, babe, because this is fab. High quality right here.’ Taya smiled, cheeks full as she licked her lips, sparkling lipstick still in place. ‘You just walked into a kitchen and saved the night, no training, no prep! You should be a chef! Go back to school and open a big fancy restaurant.’
‘So we’ve found Savvy’s life calling then, aren’t we smart!’ Charlotte added, shimmying and grabbing the bottle of sparkling wine in the middle of the table, ‘Shall I do the honours?’
Arabella nodded and Jacques pushed the glasses forward. When they’d been handed out, and Ricardo gave one to me, Jacques cleared his throat.
‘We would like to thank Savvy for this wonderful meal, and congratulate her on realising that she is not, in fact, invisible, but is a fucking fine foodie. To Chef Savvy!’ Jacques blew me a kiss, and they all raised their glasses, shouting, ‘Chef Savvy!’ and cheering.
Ricardo nudged me. ‘You know, I’d say stay here and I’ll teach you everything I know, but it’s not enough.’ He looked at me intently, dark eyes serious even as he smiled. ‘You’ve got it, that thing chefs have, and if you don’t go and get some proper training and use that gift, you’re the biggest chickenshit I’ve ever met. So what ya gonna do, Africa?’
I watched the rest of them again, chewing and tasting and sighing. Passing dishes between each other, grinning at me as they noticed me watching. It was the most glittering, glorious dinner party I’d ever been to, even at the end of a crazy shift. The dancers and performers laughed and glimmered, like bustling, beautiful peacocks, all feathers and sparkle. My heart was full to bursting.
‘I guess I’m gonna go get some proper training and be the best goddamn chef I can,’ I said, wildly alive and exhilarated.
‘Exactly.’ Ricardo grinned, clinking his glass against mine. ‘Exactly.’
Chapter Seven
The euphoria hadn’t worn off the next morning. I couldn’t stop grinning. I grinned as I drank green juice with Jen, even offering a little shuffle and spin along with her music. I grinned as I patted Noodle’s head, soft and still as she dozed in the corner. Baxter had gone to doggy heaven years before, but Noodle was my little lady, a raggedy mixed breed with golden curly fur. She was one of those designer dogs who hadn’t turned out quite right, but when we went to see her at the rescue centre, and she put her head next to mine, my long golden curls mixing in with hers, everyone laughed and said owners looked like their pets. It was meant to be, and I spent most of the next few years running with her around the park, and falling asleep with her curled up against me, her paws hanging neatly over my arm.
‘I think we should go for lunch,’ I said to Jen suddenly. ‘A whole new world of food awaits with this restaurant thing. Wanna have a fancy lunch with me today?’
Jen placed a hand on her chest. ‘A fancy lunch with little old me? What did I do to deserve this honour?’
‘Because you’re always looking after me, and I think it’d be fun.’
‘Getting dolled up and eating in the city at one of your fancy freebies? You’ve got me,’ she smiled.
‘Nope,’ I shook my head, ‘not a freebie. I’m paying and we’re not going to a Restaurateur Club venue, otherwise I’ll have to pay attention to every detail of the meal and I want to concentrate on you.’
Jen started to protest, but I interrupted. ‘Even without the temping I’ve got more free cash now that I’m not paying for DJ equipment and subscriptions to fancy gyms. As well as the infuriating fact you won’t take any rent from me – my treat.’
‘You win. Pick somewhere.’
A few hours later we emerged from the Tube arm in arm, walking down Embankment. I’d booked at Amazing Grace, an Italian restaurant. It was just sparkly and vintage en
ough to impress Jen without making her feel overwhelmed.
She grinned as she looked up at the chandeliers, engaging in a back and forth with the cheery host as she led us to our table. I looked around to see if there were any famous people, wondering if I’d know them if there were, and in between I watched with delight as Jen took in every dish, tasting with her eyes closed, revelling in them. And I suddenly realized where my love of food came from.
‘So I’ve been thinking I might want to train as a chef,’ I said into my wine glass, looking up at her briefly. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a wonderful idea! You’ve always been an excellent cook.’
‘I was just worried about working in a kitchen, being strong enough, tough enough…’ I pressed my lips together. ‘But I think I’ve just got to get over that.’
‘Savannah, you are one of the strongest people I know. Just because you don’t shout the loudest or demand everyone’s attention the minute you enter a room does not mean you’re not tough. Tough can be quiet. Being strong is a long-time gig, sweetheart, and you’ve been doing it your whole life.’
I felt the sudden desire to cry, and shook my head to try and ward the tears off.
‘You know, my favourite times were cooking together when you were a child. It was the first thing we did together, do you remember?’ Jen ruffled her dark pixie hair and her cheeks dimpled at the memory.
‘The pancakes the first morning after she left,’ I nodded. I was silent and still that first evening, sitting stroking Baxter as Jen put Disney movie after Disney movie on the television. She made me fish fingers for dinner, and I wondered how she had kids’ food when she had no kids. By the end of the evening I’d smiled a couple of times, mainly excited to have an adult sit with me all evening without having to go anywhere, and having a fluffy companion to warm my feet and be happily cuddled. The morning after, Jen had asked if I had ever made pancakes, and I said I hadn’t. She told me there was a very special way to make pancakes, and you had to have great music and lots of dancing whilst you stirred the batter, to make the pancakes fluffy.
‘You were the one who taught me how to cook,’ I said. ‘Before you I lived on McDonald’s and room service, and suddenly there was all this amazing food in the world.’
‘I loved it. I loved every minute teaching you to cook, and helping you with your homework, and watching you become this amazing person.’ Jen clasped my hands across the table, then lifted her glass to clink against mine.
I paused. ‘Are you happy with how everything turned out? Is this what you wanted for your life?’
‘I’ve had a wonderful life, Savannah, and I continue to. I didn’t have the career or adventures in the way your mother did, but I lived a wild life earlier, before you, and then I got to be with you, and what an adventure that was.’
‘Still is, if these last few weeks have been anything to go by,’ I laughed. ‘But you didn’t… you didn’t want that traditional thing, the family, more kids?’
Jen’s smile faded a little, and she regarded me seriously. ‘You’ve been wanting to ask me that for about 20 years, haven’t you?’
‘I remember asking you before, and you seemed sad.’
Jen leaned back in her chair, moving the food around her plate before putting the fork down, and pushing the plate away.
‘When we were kids, your mum and me, we were quite different. If anyone had guessed which one of us would be the crazy party girl with no responsibilities, it would have been me.’
‘Really?’ I couldn’t help myself.
‘I know,’ she smirked. ‘I travelled, wanted to be an artist, sold a few paintings, got in with a bad crowd. Lots of drugs and drinking and I ended up feeling numb. Your mum was a lot younger than me, she was the golden child, still doing what she was told and singing for family friends at dinner parties.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know,’ Jen snorted, ‘and then I met Dave, and he pulled me back from all that. I met him when we were in our early 30s – he was in the art scene, and he thought I had talent. I wish you’d met him.’ Her face lit up with the memory. ‘He was the kindest, cheeriest guy. Always turned everything into a joke. There was nothing that couldn’t be fixed. And he taught me about everything else in life, beyond partying and losing myself. He taught me about plants, took me abroad, showed me art and history and all sorts.’
‘So before him, you weren’t you?’ I said in surprise. ‘I mean, the you I know.’
‘Exactly.’ She shrugged. ‘Before him, I was… well, I was more like your mother.’
The waitress came over and offered us desserts, and Jen seamlessly switched, her voice light and cheery as she asked about the cherry cheesecake and what flavour ice cream was available. As the waitress left, she turned back to me.
‘So, obviously, there’s not a happy ending to the story, is there? Or rather, I had a happy ending with you, but it wasn’t as expected.’ Jen took a breath. ‘He died. In a car accident. I was pregnant at the time, and the grief and the shock – well, I lost the baby.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I reached across the table for her hand, and she squeezed it as I took hold.
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, ‘a very long time ago. And I lived my quiet life, as he had shown me, seeking to find joy in growing, and cooking, and learning, and day by day, the colour came back. And then you arrived. And even though I was so angry at my sister for the way she left you, the way she ignored her responsibilities and didn’t think to call or stay in touch, I had been angrier at the way she had been raising you on the road, all the things she was denying you. And I was relieved that she left you with me, so I could give you something warm and loving and stable. Something I had always been ready to give, and something you needed.’
She met my eyes then, searching mine for something. ‘I did all right, didn’t I? I know… I know it wasn’t always easy for you, but you were happy overall, right? You had a happy life with me?’
‘I had a very happy life with you,’ I told her, smiling. ‘Happier than I had on the road, definitely. I was difficult sometimes, but I was always so grateful for you taking me in. You saved me from being miserable and lonely.’
‘You saved me too, sweetheart. You have no idea.’ She squeezed my hand again, those light eyes of hers so like my mother’s. ‘But if you want to pay me back for all those years of teenage strops and rolled eyes, you can bloody well go to cookery school and live your life to the fullest. Don’t live small. You deserve better than that.’
‘Live small?’
‘Settling for the quiet, easy life. You need to love things enough to fight for them.’
I paused. ‘What are you fighting for?’
‘For you, obviously,’ she laughed. ‘I’m fighting for you to live the life you deserve to have. That’s what I’ve always been fighting for. And first place at the swing dance competition, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I laughed, stealing a forkful of Tiramisu, feeling more and more like I was finally making the right choices in my life, grateful to finally know the person who had raised me as more than a guardian, but as a whole. She was right, I didn’t just deserve to ‘live big’ – it was my duty. And that’s why I was going to see Milo again.
* * *
I finally felt like I was making the right choices, guided by instinct. I grinned at the man who stood too near me on the Tube, until he backed off. I grinned at the lady who bumped into me and told me to watch where I was going. And I grinned as I walked through the lobby of Soraya, explaining that I was a Restaurateur Club member, and, no, I didn’t have a reservation, but maybe she could make an exception, seeing as it was three p.m. and I just wanted to sit at the bar? I was getting a little too comfortable with the privilege. The staff member smiled through gritted teeth and assured me it wasn’t a problem.
I’d already checked with Alba if I could start visiting different places as and when I felt like it, and she said as long as I sent her an email to report whe
ther it was a crappy experience, or if I got any VIP treatment, she was happy for me to pick and choose.
I don’t know what it was, but I just wanted to tell Milo things. I wanted to walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, I’m not just a bartender, I’m gonna be a chef. Let me tell you about my life. Tell me about yours.’
But I considered it was probably a little less crazy to work on the facts first, rather than walking up to a near stranger and telling them your life plans. Soraya was gorgeous. A little 1940s, with red leather chairs and the bartenders wearing braces over their white shirts. The floors were marble and there were floor-to-ceiling windows. The food was pan-Asian, and the cocktails followed suit, with lychee, coconut and lemongrass featuring in most of them.
I was surprised how at home I felt in such a beautiful place. I felt less shocked by it all now. It was just dining out, but with really tasty food and interesting drinks. I deserved to be there. I wasn’t scared of anything any more, because I had found something I was good at. Something that made a table full of talented, beautiful people who moved on stage and got paid for being their wonderful, glorious selves turn to me and say I was brilliant too. Nothing could take that away.
There were fewer beanies at Soraya, but still a lot of laptops. People sat reading the paper, eating their gluten-free, vegan, paleo meals and generally not paying attention to the world around them. I ordered a Thai coffee, sat and observed and got out my computer. Not quite as expensive as everyone else’s but at least the childish stickers on the lid added a little personality. Although the ‘Keep your hands off my kitties’ sticker was probably a bit ridiculous, thinking about it.
A cheerful female server came over to take my drinks order and recommended a few options. I enjoyed asking questions about it, being specific in this new joyful world of food that I was going to be a part of. What was in the salad, could she tell me about that ingredient, was there anything special about the mayo or was it just out of a jar? She looked unflustered and unsurprised, and it was just like Alba had said. People pay good money for something, they expect to get what they want. Even if it was a complete pain in the arse. Just as she started to leave, I suddenly asked, ‘Oh, is Milo working today?’