Recipe for Disaster

by Miriam Morrison

  'And upstairs we have the owner's accommodation – very handy.' Might as well get it over with, thought Eric.

  'Go on then. It couldn't possibly get any worse.'

  Oh, smashing – more brown walls – and a hideously stained carpet, which might possibly once have been beige.

  Artery Joe had thoughtfully left behind his collection of art. This consisted of three posters of Jordan, put up with Blu-Tack and now peeling off the wall so that both men were in serious danger of being engulfed by pairs of enormous paper breasts.

  The bathroom was painted the sort of yellow that would make you feel as if you were taking a bath in a bile duct. Neither of them wanted to look down the loo, but both were drawn to it, inexorably. It looked like a test tube for biological warfare.

  All chefs are gifted with a vivid imagination. They have to be. Even the very best have been asked at some stage of their career to make a five-star meal out of a piece of bilious looking stewing steak. This was about as bilious as it got.

  'It's perfect – I'll take it,' said Jake.

  Eric leaned against a wall to get over the shock. He tried to be quiet, but he couldn't help himself. 'For the love of God, why are you doing this?'

  Jake tried to lean nonchalantly against the wall too, but his legs were suddenly shaking too much to hold him up. He slid down and came to rest gently on the carpet, where, despite its griminess, he decided to stay for a while, just until things had calmed down.

  'You see a crumbling wreck – I see my future, and it is glittering.'

  'Well, actually, structurally it's perfectly sound,' began Eric, then he stopped and peered closer. 'That's it – I thought you looked familiar! I've seen you before. You were in one of the Sunday mags a few months ago – the big piece about new and upcoming chefs. My girlfriend was drool – looking at it. You're famous!'

  'Don't be silly,' said Jake irritably. 'It was just an article and I won't be doing any more of those any time soon.'

  'Why ever not? Are you mad? Didn't you get loads of cash for it?'

  Jake's eyes gleamed with the fervour of a man who has seen brighter visions. 'I've got more important things to do than waste time trying to get rich!'

  'So is it a difficult job then? How did you get started? How many A levels do you need?' Butter up the clients, fake an interest in their lives, his boss had told him.

  'None. It's got to be all in here.' Jake patted his chest. 'Good cooking comes first from the heart.' He grinned. 'It's a good thing too – I didn't last long at school.'

  'Why not?'

  'I was chucked out for assaulting another kid,' said Jake, drawing his brows together in what he hoped was a fierce look. It wasn't strictly true, but it wouldn't do any harm to give Eric the impression that Jake was a man who couldn't be pushed around. Then he sighed. He'd had a long journey to get here and it didn't make for a glorious story.

  He'd actually had an uneventful time at school, successfully avoiding the bullies, but not getting much out of lessons, apart from cookery. He was sixteen and learning for the first time how to make a marinade when the only other boy in the class – who was only there because no other teacher would have him – had spat his chewing gum into Jake's mixing bowl and called him a retard for actually showing interest.

  Jake couldn't have cared less about the insult, but: 'Take that out, you idiot! If you do it again your head will follow,' he said, shoving Wayne's hand in the bowl. The marinade was full of red-hot chillies and Wayne came out in a horrible rash.

  Jake refused to apologise. 'Why should I? I'm not at all sorry. The school has benefited since Wayne's been off sick because we've all been able to get on with our work in peace. I should be given an award for services to education, not punished. If you don't back me up, I'm leaving.'

  They didn't, so he did. It didn't take him long to get his first job in London, mainly because no one else wanted it. There was a tradition in catering that anyone who worked as a kitchen porter was either mad or a smack head – who else would choose to wash hundreds of dishes in a hideously overheated kitchen when they could be somewhere else, having a life?

  The head chef, Denis, was a six-foot bruiser from Birmingham who had a bottle-of-whisky-a-day habit. He would roar round the kitchen like a mad bull, tossing insults and saucepans over his head like confetti. His attitude was simple – he hated everyone. When it got too much for him, he would sack someone.

  His second in command was an anally retentive beanpole who only had one love – his sauté pan. He would never let Jake or anyone else near it. He would wash it up himself, tenderly, as if he was bathing a baby. He had furtive eyes because he spent all day thinking of new places to hide it.

  True to form, the chef sacked Jake about a dozen times, but he just kept turning up for work anyway. He did nothing but wash up and chop enormous buckets of vegetables until his hands were bleeding. Sick of this behaviour, Denis promoted him.

  Jake resigned and got a job at a French restaurant. This was a serious establishment. Everyone carried knives, lots of them. It was wise to get along with these people. It wasn't the sort of place where you could have opinions about things. Only once Jake had forgotten this and offered a tentative view on the chef's choice of herbs for a sauce. He still shuddered when he remembered how chef Bill Mackie had turned on him.

  'Listen, tosser, I want your blood, sweat and tears, not your opinions. You don't move a muscle unless I tell you to – you don't even go for a piss without permission – and the only words I ever want to hear from your fucking gob are "Yes, Chef". Is that clear?' Jake had replied that, yes, it absolutely was. Off duty, he fantasised about throttling Bill, but always forgot this at work, because he was learning so much.

  Bill showed him how to set up a proper mise en place. This was the Houston control centre of a commis's life, his work station, and all hell could break out if it wasn't in order. If Jake didn't have an immaculately laid out line of salts, peppers, oil, wine, cream and herbs set up at the start of his shift, at some point during service he would turn into a gibbering wreck, unable to cook even an egg. Bill could spot stray crumbs from miles away, it seemed, and he always knew when Jake was slicing the cucumber too thickly, without having to turn round. Jake guarded his station like a tiger with cubs and knew he was becoming a pro when he too took to hiding his favourite knife.

  One day Bill came in and said: 'On your knees, sonny, and kiss the toes of my rotting clogs.'

  'Yes, Chef,' said Jake, kneeling down. He knew everyone was laughing. It was always fun when someone else got humiliated.

  'Right, sonny. You've turned into a real pain in the arse. You're always breathing down my neck, getting in my way and I wish I'd never said you could ask questions. Of course, there's nowt you could ask me that I don't know, but I can't be bothered, and anyway, you make my head ache. I'm sick of it and think you should fuck off to catering college. Luckily, a few people owe me favours. Of course you're an idiot, so you're bound to fuck up the interview. It's tomorrow – if you can find the way.'

  The interview was for a place at the most prestigious catering college in the country. It took a few seconds to dawn on Jake that Bill was giving him the chance of a lifetime. Someone actually believed in him. Jake grinned and kissed Bill's smelly, stained clogs, not caring that everyone was roaring with laughter and someone was taking a picture.

  The magazine Eric had mentioned described Jake's career as a meteoric rise through the ranks. Jake had smiled wryly when he read this. It had actually taken years to learn a craft that was as old as the history of man. He had lost weight, gained an enormous overdraft and burned and cut himself so often, all the staff at A & E knew him by name.

  'It's been a hard road and a few bad things happened to me on the way,' was all he now said.

  Eric glanced down at a particularly disgusting-looking stain on the carpet. It seemed to him that bad things were still happening to Jake. 'I still don't understand,' he said plaintively. 'If you were successful and famous in Lond
on, what the hell made you decide to come here, to the back of nowhere?'

  Jake was just about to answer, when they heard a voice.

  'Jake, are you up there?' called a woman from outside, in a tone that suggested that if he was, he really shouldn't be.

  Jake pulled up the sash window gingerly, and stuck his head out of the peeling frame. 'Georgia! I'm here!'

  Eric leaned over and hit his jaw painfully on the window ledge when he saw a staggeringly beautiful blonde was getting out of a taxi and looking round.

  'Oh. My. God,' she said, loud enough for the men to hear her.

  'That's my girlfriend. Funnily enough, I think she feels the same about this hole as you do,' said Jake cheerfully. 'Wait there, darling, and I'll come down. You are not going to believe this place.'

  'You've got that right,' muttered Eric, hurrying after him, clearly desperate for a closer look at the girl. Surely he was hallucinating – her legs couldn't be that long?

  'Hello!' said Jake, giving her a peck on the cheek in a casual 'I can do this any time I want' way that made Eric frown. Georgia was a stunner. Today, dressed in something by Stella McCartney that she'd pinched from a recent photo shoot, she was turning so many heads there would be a collision at the traffic lights soon.

  Her flawless face screwed into a scowl, Georgia pushed Jake away and drummed a tattoo on the pavement with one Manolo Blahnik. 'You. Cannot. Be. Serious.'

  'Oh, come on – we'll be here all day if you are going to talk like that. Look, you're right. It's a dump. But it's definitely a dump with promise. I'll show you.'

  He led her inside, talking quickly.

  'OK, imagine this room empty and clean. Now, we'll have the bar in this corner, tables along here –'

  Georgia jumped. 'Ohmigod, is that a spider? You know about my phobia, Jake,' she wailed.

  'Look – here – I've put it out of the window – relax. Now, I'm thinking –'

  'The doors and the windows are completely in the wrong place! I'm getting terrible vibes and you know how sensitive I am to that sort of thing. It needs to be feng shuied from top to bottom! And fumigated.'

  Like I can afford that, thought Jake, but she was already making for the stairs.

  Anxiously he watched her look round the dingy sitting room, clearly struggling with the best way to convey her utter contempt of this hovel. As far as Georgia was concerned, this wasn't about Jake's dreams for the future – it was about what she was expected to put up with. And she considered herself far too sensitive to put up with very much. 'You're mad!' She turned round and began beating her fists on his chest emphatically, but taking care not to ruin her manicure. 'How dare you even dream that I would live here with you in this unsanitary hellhole! It's disgusting! Oh, no! I feel one of my panic attacks coming on . . .'

  'Well, stop shrieking then and start breathing. Here, sit down on this chair – look I've covered it with my jacket. The place won't look anything like this after I've given it a lick of paint. Anyway, you are away so often working, you'll probably only spend two days a week here. And there's a bonus!' Jake took a deep breath, glad the window was still open. 'Think how good all this fresh air will be for your complexion!'

  Georgia fixed him with an accusing eye. 'Exactly what is wrong with my complexion at the moment?' she asked icily.

  Bugger. He said, 'You know perfectly well I didn't mean it like that!'

  'I'm going back to my hotel. I can feel a migraine coming on.' She stood up. 'Well, are you coming?'

  'Er, I was just going to wait for the next train back to London. You know, save money and all that.'

  'Fine. Absolutely fine. I make a huge effort to meet you here to help you sort out your job. I take the trouble to book us into a nice hotel, but of course that's not right. I've got one of my heads, which of course is going to get worse if I have to sit on the train for six hours and anyway, I thought a hotel would do you good – you look awful, Jake.'

  He winced, but she was right. Hours at work followed by hours hunched over a calculator working out his too meagre finances had left him looking considerably less than shiny. He dredged up what he hoped was a winning smile and gently stroked the back of her neck. She was like a cat – she couldn't resist it. Eric was watching with interest and making mental notes, when a tapping noise suddenly came from downstairs. They all trudged back down to the restaurant, Georgia theatrically holding her forehead.

  'Are you open?' An old man in a flat cap and a tweed jacket was trying to peer in through the grimy window and knocking on the pane rather too firmly for Jake's taste.

  'No. See – there is the closed sign,' explained Jake patiently.

  The old man turned round to his wife and bellowed: 'They're not open, Mabel!'

  'They're what?'

  'THEY'RE NOT OPEN!'

  'But they could do us supper, couldn't they?'

  'I say, could you do us –'

  Jake was now beyond tired and his self-control was evaporating like early morning mist on the fells. 'What part of "this place is closed" do you not understand?' he hissed.

  'There's no need for that tone, sonny. We were just hoping for a nice fish supper.'

  Jake took a deep breath. He might cook like a god, but it would be pointless if he upset the locals before he'd even started. 'When we are open, I will cook you a wonderful supper with a free bottle of wine to thank you for your patience.'

  As soon as they had gone, Georgia turned on him. 'You're not going to do fish suppers, are you?'

  'No, of course not. I will call this place Cuisine, because that is what it will be all about – stupendously tasty but simple and sensible.'

  Eric was bubbling over with excitement. It sounded like this fool – oops – client was going to buy. 'Maybe you should have cooked them something now to show them what you are made of!'

  'If you think I'm waiting here while you –' began Georgia in outrage.

  'Oh don't be so silly the pair of you!' said Jake in exasperation. 'I am a chef, not a bloody magician. I can't produce a fabulous meal out of thin air, like a bloody rabbit out of a hat! The actual meal is really only the tip of the iceberg. Underneath that . . .' No, he could see he had lost them both. Lay people didn't have an inkling of the huge amount of effort it took to present a perfectly prepared meal. 'Look at it this way, darling, you wouldn't set off down the catwalk before they'd finished making your dress, would you? You wouldn't go down naked?'

  'Well . . . I would have to take laxatives for at least a week beforehand and book a top-class exfoliation and then a spray tan with Amy – she's the only one at the salon that knows how to do it – and of course the lighting would all have to be angled towards the right because of that awful, unsightly dimple in my left thigh – I really will have to think again about surgery – but, yeah, I don't have any real hangups about my body.'

  Jake looked at her in disbelief, then turned to Eric, who was leaning against the wall with a faraway look on his face, quite obviously picturing Georgia on the catwalk. 'So, how much are they asking for this place?' he said, though he knew perfectly well.

  Eric hastily stood to attention and named the price.

  'Tell the vendor I'll give them five thousand pounds less. This will be my only offer so they needn't waste their time trying to squeeze any more out of me. As you can see, I have a very expensive girlfriend.'

  'Yeah, but I bet she's worth every penny,' said Eric with a wink. As he turned to go, Jake could see that some more of the window paintwork had peeled off and stuck to his jacket.

  *

  Their hotel room had a view over the lake, which was a pointless extra expense, because it was now dark. Peering out of the window, Jake could see nothing but a few stars. Georgia was prowling round the room, taking stock of all the mirrors. 'I don't see the point of having a lovely complexion like mine if there's no one there to take a picture of it,' she complained. She secretly kept a tally of how many times she was featured in the press each week.

  'Come to bed,' sai
d Jake, patting the duvet invitingly. 'We might as well get our money's worth out of it.'

  'I still don't know why you want to stop being head chef at Brie. It's one of the best restaurants in London – everybody says so – and loads of famous people go there.'

  'I worked there because my boss is a genius, pure and simple, but now it's time to spread my wings. I want my own place. It's the only way I can put my mark on the cooking world.'

  'Yes, but why here, in the middle of nowhere?'

  'It's beautiful up here. And it's cheap, at least compared to London.'

  'Oh, don't talk to me about money! That's all it ever is with you. By the way, do you know you look like a tramp in those jeans?'

  Jake shrugged. He wasn't a conceited man – he couldn't afford to be. 'Basically, I can either dress well or buy my own business, but I can't do both. If I want to make it in this game, I have to give up shopping, sleeping, having any sort of hobby –'

  'You mean you have to give up having a life! I wish you had told me that before I fell in love with you!' Georgia glared, albeit in such a way that would have had any photographer salivating for a camera. But then she always looked hot.

  Her lover, however, was a mess. Georgia sighed. The trouble was, Jake was an irresistible mess. He was tall, with dark eyes, and a lean and hungry look because he often was, always tasting food but never having time to sit down to a decent meal. He had trendily ruffled dark hair, though less by design than because he was always running his fingers through it in desperation at the stupidity of commis chefs. Even his hands were sexy, despite looking like they had done ten years' hard labour in Siberia. They were covered with the scars of burning encounters with hot stoves and were living proof that knives were sharp and saucepans heavy. When they first became a couple, Georgia would kiss each wounded finger tenderly, before guiding them inside her with a moan of pleasure.

  They had met at a party Jake had been pushed to attend. Prowling crossly round the room, clutching a beer, he found things began to look up when he laid eyes on Georgia.