'It doesn't matter, does it, Uncle Jake?'
'Well, God forbid anyone should hear me say this, but just this once, it doesn't.'
Angel stirred with vigour, shouting 'God forbid' at the top of her voice until he had to beg her to stop.
'Now sit on this stool and don't move. I've got to do the sizzling bit. Then you can do the jam. . . . Angelica, what part of "do not move" do you not understand?'
'All of it?'
'Don't be silly.'
'Are they ready yet?'
'No, they have to sizzle a bit longer.'
'Can Barbie watch?'
'Yes, but not there, she might fall in.'
'She could go for a swim.'
'Not in boiling hot fat, she couldn't. Angel, why has Ken done that?'
'He's died of hunger.'
'Blooming customers – they just can't wait. No, don't bury him, pick him up out of the flour. . . . Yes, it does look a bit like a snowstorm when you shake him so please don't do it . . . attishoo!'
When Jake had stopped sneezing he wiped his streaming eyes to see Angel trying to eat a half-cooked doughnut off the floor and Tess walking in at the same time. Tess's eyes were wide open in shock and horror and she seemed beyond speech, though her arms were waving frantically.
He could see how it must look to her. She had left her daughter in his care, her precious offspring, who was now busily ingesting a number of interesting germs from the floor, just inches away from a vat of boiling fat. He was a tough man, but he quailed. She would probably kill him, after she had handed in her notice.
It was obviously difficult still for her to speak, but she managed an anguished, 'Oh my God!'
'I know, I know, I'm not fit to be left alone with your offspring –'
'No, it's not that!'
Then he realised.
Walking in behind her, clad in a very natty Armani suit (probably not from a charity shop, Jake thought wryly) and making no effort to hide the fact that he considered he was slumming it, was Harry.
Jake stared at him, his mouth suddenly dry. This was the person who had done his best to ruin Jake's career. A number of fantasies whipped through his head. They all involved ritual torture and humiliation. They all involved Harry screaming for mercy. Jake abandoned these with some regret. He had to deal with reality. He wasn't a young student any more and he didn't really want to torture anyone, even Harry. Anyway, he was a successful businessman now and Harry couldn't hurt him.
'Have you taken up child-minding to supplement your paltry income from the restaurant?' asked Harry, and he laughed.
'We're closed, so get out,' Jake said coldly. Not that that ever stopped anyone in this bloody county.
'Now is that any way to treat an old friend? I met your lovely commis chef just now . . .'
'No, you didn't! You stalked me all the way from the dentist's!' said a furious Tess.
'I've never stalked a woman in my life. Never had to, actually,' snapped Harry, his big smile slipping just a little. 'I've been meaning to call on you for the last few days, but what with one thing or another . . .' All the time he talked, his eyes were scanning the kitchen, taking in information, judging and finding fault.
There was plenty to find fault with. The kitchen, which only a short time before had been polished to an immaculate post-shift gloss, was now mostly covered in flour, and the bits which weren't had blobs of jam sticking to them. The doughnuts were frying to a deep shade of burned and Jake was aware that he didn't look his best. But then, compared to Harry, he never did.
Angel advanced, holding something sticky and revolting in her hand.
'Would you like a doughnut?'
Harry retreated in horror, his hands clasped protectively over his suit.
From the safety of the doorway he looked with completely unconcealed pleasure at his rival. As well as a slight dusting of flour, Jake was wearing jeans with holes in them that hadn't been put there by the manufacturer, and his hair had been very inexpertly cut by himself the week before. He looked a bit like Edward Scissorhands. Harry would see all this as a sign of weakness. Maybe it was, thought Jake. Harry was like a leech, sapping away all your self-confidence.
'I just thought I would call in, now that we are going to be neighbours, but I can see you are busy.'
'Bollocks – you've never made a purely friendly gesture in your life!' What did he mean, neighbours?
Harry sighed, saddened but not surprised at the appalling manners of the lower classes.
'I'll leave you to it. Oh, by the way, please pass on my regards to your lovely girlfriend. We got on so well when we met recently. What must she make of all this? Here, I've brought you something to read – it might interest you.' He flung a magazine down on the table as if it were a gauntlet, and left.
Tess covered Angel's ears for a minute while Jake gave free rein to his feelings.
When he had finished she read out the article in the magazine before he could chuck it into the hot oil.
Do London's chefs know something about the capital that we don't? Hot on the heels of Jake Goldman's defection comes the news that his one-time colleague Harry Hunter is 'going home'.
He has just bought a very swish little place in the Lake District. It's in a fabulous location on the edge of the lake and very near the station so you will be able to hop on a train at Euston and join him for dinner.
'I spent a very happy boyhood in what has to be one of the most beautiful parts of the world and now I want to give something back,' explained Mr Hunter. 'At the moment it has everything going for it but good cuisine.' (Ouch, Jake – what is it with you two guys?) 'My ambitions are simple: I intend to put Easedale on the food map.'
Jake knew the place he was referring to. It was so out of his price range he hadn't even considered looking at it, let alone buying it. He banged his fist so hard on the table Ken fell off it into the flour again.
'What's wrong with this guy? Why can't he just leave me alone? What have I ever done to him?'
'I think he hates the fact that you exist, Boss.'
'Well, surely this bloody country is big enough for the both of us! If I emigrated to Alaska, he'd follow me. I didn't know that he had grown up round here. I was never part of the pack that followed him round at college, lapping up his every word! Tell me, what the hell were the odds of me deciding to open a restaurant here, when it could have been anywhere – the Highlands of Scotland –'
'Too cold, for you. You're a lily-livered Londoner!'
'Well then, some peat bog in Ireland –'
'You know you loathe Guinness!'
'OK, Alaska! Now there's a place big enough –'
'Er, see Scotland – ditto too cold. Also, it's full of sex-starved fur trappers, I think. You are too good-looking – you'd be eaten alive.'
'Anyway, it wouldn't matter which country I picked, he'd find some excuse to follow me there too,' said Jake morosely.
'Look, it's just competition. You can handle that. You thrive on it!'
'Yeah, if that was all it was. But this is different. Nastier. It's a vendetta. You don't know this guy. I don't think he can let a grudge go, ever. He's got his teeth into me and he's going to carry on chewing until I'm just little bits!'
'I don't want anyone to eat you up!' wailed Angel.
'Great, that'll be the theme for this month's batch of nightmares, then,' muttered Tess.
'Sorry.' He picked Angel up. 'No one is going to eat me. I was just being silly.'
'If they tried, I would stomp on their toes and kick them –'
'Well, I don't think –'
'And then, I think I would hit them in their tummy, like this!'
'Ow!'
'Sorry about that, Boss. Angelica, come here. Now look what you've done!'
'No, I'm all right really – nothing a bit of surgery won't fix. Anyway, maybe I need to toughen up.' He thought about Alaska. 'It would almost be worth going there if it meant that I didn't have to see Harry again. But it wouldn't make any d
ifference. He'd follow me – I know he would – and we end up slugging it out on some frozen tundra.'
'Er, I think you are over-reacting.'
'No. I'm not. I seriously think if there was only one other person left in the world apart from me and him, we'd have a fight over who would give him his last bloody meal!'
Chapter Eleven
The people employed to transform the establishment formerly known as Lakeside into a top-notch, swanky restaurant soon discovered there were a number of words that simply weren't part of Harry's vocabulary. Words like tea break, accident and – the builder's favourite – delay. Mention these words to Harry and he just stared with all the comprehension of an extremely large iceberg, but without its patience.
Since they constituted the major part of a workman's language, this might have posed a problem, so Harry cleared things up.
'Basically, my family is one of the most influential in this county. If you fuck up, you'll be lucky to find work even changing a tap washer,' he said, wishing he still lived in the days when the lower classes called people like himself 'sir', and touched their forelocks.
Once this simple message got through, the conversion proceeded with unprecedented efficiency. He was called Mr Stalin behind his back but everyone soon realised that the quicker they got the job done, the quicker they could return to normal life.
Kitchen equipment was delivered, installed and thoroughly tested by a team who arrived at the crack of dawn and left after the streetlights were on. Painters and decorators wielded brushes until their fingers were blue, and not just with paint, because Harry refused to put any heating on until there were customers to pay for it.
When the van delivering the glassware crashed into a ditch to avoid a sheep, Harry rushed to the hospital, not to enquire after the driver's broken leg, but to find out how much crystal had smashed.
He went through job applications like a scythe through corn, weeding out idiots, liars and incompetents with brutal thoroughness. He fully intended to poach such members of Jake's kitchen as were deemed worthy of his own, but not just yet.
His waitresses, Tara and Annabelle, were friends of the family. Fresh from a season chalet-maiding in Val d'Isère, they were toned, tanned, fluent in French and stony-broke. Having been respectively Head Girl and Captain of Games at school, they were used to dealing with people. They both agreed Harry was a complete bastard, but as sexy as hell and planned to sleep with him to pass the time until they could get back to the Alps. Harry knew all this, but didn't care. There were plenty more fish from that particular pool.
Ronnie, his second in command in the kitchen, was a young man with superb cooking skills and zero social skills. Short and fat, with a complexion like mud, insults bounced off him like they were ping-pong balls. Ronnie wouldn't cultivate ideas above his station, because he didn't have any. But that was fine, because Harry had plenty of his own. His restaurant was going to be so good it would blow Jake's crappy place right out of the water.
Having assured himself that all his minions were working at back-breaking speed, Harry settled himself in his freshly painted and carpeted office, in front of his state-of-the-art computer, and began to plan. He had pinched a copy of Jake's menu and now he scanned it, snorting with derision. Tournedos Choron – fillet of beef garnished with artichoke hearts and filled with asparagus tips – how many times had that been done, he wondered, but ground his teeth because it was one of his favourite dishes.
He would sauté his fillets and arrange them in little tartlet shells filled with a purée of fresh peas.
His chicken dish would be stuffed with a mixture of lambs' sweetbreads, truffles and mushrooms, bound with a velouté sauce.
His puddings would include fruit-based soufflés with hazelnut praline or fresh apricot purée. They were a fucking pain to make and left staff sweating with terror in case they didn't rise, but they were very impressive when served.
Looking at a menu wasn't a very good way of sussing out competition, though. The real test was to eat there yourself. Jake probably couldn't afford to turn any customers away, even ones he hated. What could he do if Harry turned up as a customer? Rush out and start slashing away at him with a bread knife? No, he would have to grin and bear it, but his blood pressure would rise to boiling point. And what a marvellous opportunity for Harry to do a little PR for his own place at the same time.
He then spent a pleasurable hour walking round with a face like granite, checking on the progress of the work. Everyone held their breath and wished they were somewhere else. This was what Judgment Day would feel like. Finally, his face cracked into a smile; he opened a bottle of very cheap wine, passed it round, and they all decided he was a great guy really.
Another day, another group of bloody customers to be nice to, thought Kate as she walked into the restaurant. Another ton of bread to slice and serve, another round of insults to grin and bear and a fresh set of blisters on her feet. She had already set up a standing order for plasters at her local chemist. The life of an undercover waitress was not an easy one. She should have applied for that reporting job in Baghdad. She bloody would, when this was over.
Jake looked even grumpier than she felt. He was busy slicing an onion like he wished it was someone's head and his happy mood had filtered over to everyone else. Tess was stirring a sauce and frowning so hard her eyebrows had met in the middle. Sally was muttering what sounded like a prayer under her breath as she made raspberry coulis.
Jake had got up early that morning so he could spend some precious, solitary time thinking about salmon. Would it be better to serve it impaled on skewers, coated in breadcrumbs or à la Florentine – with spinach leaves and grated parmesan? In the middle of this Georgia had rung from Milan.
She was having a terrible time. She'd had to model a dress covered with ostrich feathers, which had made her sneeze on the runway and brought her out in a rash; her period was late (oh, please God, no, thought Jake) and she couldn't find a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich anywhere and Jake knew it was the only thing she could eat to calm her nerves before a show.
'I hope you remembered to tape Nip/Tuck for me?' Blast! I knew there was something I had to do to the telly! 'You don't sound very cheerful – are you missing me?' I know I should be – but actually I haven't given you a thought for days. 'I want us to have a weekend away when I get back.' Are you mad, woman? I'm like a mother with a new baby at the moment – I don't want to take my eyes off this place for a minute.
Then he felt guilty for always putting his work before his relationship, though he couldn't think of a single successful chef who didn't.
He was so tired he'd put on his boxer shorts back to front that morning and hadn't even noticed until after lunch. He'd knocked a cup of cold coffee over the keyboard of his computer, which then developed a demented clicking noise. He was just debating whether to give in to temper and throw it out of the window, when he noticed a smell of burning. This was traced to a batch of bread that Godfrey had left in the oven. When he took the loaves out they were still perfectly formed but completely carbonised, like a relic from the ruins of Pompeii.
When he discovered that Harry had booked a table, he felt that he would quite like to erupt himself. In theory, all customers were good and it would be a pleasure to take money from this one, but Harry was just a slug. Wherever he went, he left a trail of something sticky and unpleasant.
Godfrey was used to being shouted it – for him it was just another working day. Tess knew it wasn't personal, but Jake was aware that Sally trod a fine line between creativity and collapse. He didn't want to be the one who tipped her over the edge. His bad mood wasn't her fault. It was his problem and he should keep it to himself. This was a nice thought, but his heavy silence was making her more nervous than a tantrum would.
Kate was pretending she wasn't enjoying watching him prowl round the kitchen like a hunting panther. He was far too arrogant to deserve admiration, she decided, when he looked up and caught her eye.
'Fo
r God's sake, tie your hair back. My customers aren't paying to find it in their dinner,' he snarled.
'What's up with him tonight?' she whispered to Kirsty.
'A man by the name of Harry Hunter. He's reserved a table for this evening. He's opening a restaurant down by the lake. Jake hates him.'
'Why?'
'Well, apparently . . .' and Kirsty filled her in.
Kate's eyes widened in shock and, it has to be said, pleasure. Poor Jake, obviously, but what a great story, and now here they both were, in the same town, still slugging it out like a couple of Wild West cowboys, though with cooking knives instead of guns. With a bit of luck Harry would be as photogenic as Jake. Good pictures did round off a story nicely.
Two hours later Harry swaggered into Cuisine like a prizefighter before a big bout. Of course he was late, a nicely judged fifteen minutes, just to give Jake a bit more time to work himself up into a stew.
Jake was wound up like a demented spinning top, and Kate and Kirsty found it was catching. They also had to pretend to listen quietly to advice Jake should have been giving himself.
'No matter how much this guy winds you up – and he will – do not rise to the bait. You will be courteous and helpful, however much he provokes you. He is going to have the best eating experience in his unpleasant and undeserving little life – whether he likes it or not.'
'So, we're not going to spit in his dinner then?' asked Godfrey, smirking, and was given a look so black he retreated to the safety of the dishwasher.
'Listen to me very carefully,' said Jake, through gritted teeth. 'We are professionals, not half-wits, and this is a restaurant, not a football terrace. We NEVER, whatever the provocation, stoop to the level of third-rate canteens. It is exactly what this idiot is looking for and it is exactly what he will not get. He is going to be hideously surprised by the total brilliance of his eating experience here – do you all get that?'
'Yes, Chef,' they all chorused, though as soon as they were out of earshot, Kate hissed: 'Blimey, I thought this was just a restaurant, not a bloody scene out of Gladiator.'
Recipe for Disaster Page 11