'Hello, Mrs Smith. Can I speak to Sally?'
'She's not here,' said Sally's mum.
'Well, where is she?' asked Jake briskly.
'I'm afraid I can't tell you that.' She sounded cagey.
'Why ever not? I'm her boss and I have a right to know why she hasn't turned up for work,' said Jake coldly. There was a click. He looked at the phone in disbelief. She had hung up on him! He dialled again and was asked to leave a message. He stomped back to the kitchen in a furious temper. 'OK, one of you must know where Sally is. Spill – now!'
But everyone looked at him in genuine puzzlement.
'Honestly, Chef, she was here yesterday just like usual – worked away – never said anything – well, she never does, much, does she?' Tess looked around and they all nodded in confirmation.
'Was she sick at all? Upset?'
'Hard to tell. I mean, she seemed perfectly fit and she always looks like a neurotic mouse.'
'Right.' He thought for a minute. 'Kirsty, does your sister still want some waitressing work?'
She nodded.
'Well, ring her. Kate, stop drying all that cutlery – why wasn't it done yesterday? – and put this apron on.'
'Oh, no. Definitely no. I am a waitress, not a cook.'
'I'm not asking you to cook,' said Jake irritably. 'Most of the stuff for dessert is already made. All I need is someone to put it together. Perfectly simple. An idiot could do it, but Godfrey is busy.'
Kate backed away nervously. She had got used to being on the serving side of the pass; beyond it was foreign and hideous territory. It would be like stepping into no-man's land.
Jake's tone softened. 'Honestly, Kate, it will be fine and it will only be for tonight. It will be a doddle, I promise you. We'll all look after you, won't we, guys?'
It was liked being lured by a snake-charmer. Entirely against her will she walked forward and took the apron he was holding out. He had a gentle, friendly smile.
'Good. Now the chocolate and tiramisu parfaits are already made and just need to come out of the moulds; the pan-roasted, cold plum soup just needs to be served with a swirl of yoghurt on the top; the passion fruit and orange tart just needs cutting into wedges; the ravioli of pineapple just has to be sandwiched together with strawberry cream; ditto the puff pastry slice, and we'll forget about the crêpes Suzette tonight.'
Kate noticed he was using the word 'just' a lot. He made it sound so simple and reasonable a blind man with the tremors could do it. So why was Godfrey rolling his eyes in horror and sympathy as she crossed the great divide? Tess had her lips clamped together and refused to meet her gaze. It was going to be a long night.
Kate knew the constituents of the puddings by heart, having given lyrical descriptions of them to customers all week. A quick survey of the fridge showed her that Jake was right. Everything was there in all its different parts, beautifully made up. All it required was a steady hand and a steel nerve. Surely it couldn't be more difficult than laboriously uncovering a Roman artefact with a toothbrush, which she had been allowed to do on the dig, to her enormous pride? It was now behind glass in the museum at Keswick, with her name next to it. It was probably a good thing cooks were an uncultured lot and never visited museums.
Jake couldn't have been nicer at the start. With infinite patience and good humour he went through a trial run with her, showing her how to pipe cream onto a layer of puff pastry so delicate she hardly dared breathe in case it floated away.
'You have to arrange the fruit so it hangs down as if it's still on the bush – no, don't pull the stems of the blueberries and take care not to crush the raspberries. If you run a hot cloth round the moulds, the parfaits will slide out as easily as – well, I'll leave that to your imagination. Excellent – you're doing brilliantly!
'I'm really grateful you're doing this and I know you are probably a bit nervous,' he continued, in an encouraging manner.
A bit? She couldn't remember the last time she had heard such a ridiculous understatement.
'I do know how you feel. I felt the same way at the start of every shift when I was training. I felt even worse the night the restaurant opened. I know you can do it. Tomorrow we'll look back at this and laugh.'
'Yes, but we'll probably be in strait-jackets by then,' put in Godfrey, and received such a scowl from Jake he said no more.
Between them, they got everything as ready as it could be. Being orderly and meticulous herself, Kate enjoyed this and started to relax. Surely it wouldn't be that difficult to put it all together when someone actually ordered something?
This is easy – I can do this! Don't know what they all make such a fuss about. People get so anal about their jobs – think they are the only ones who can do it. All that running around and shouting is just for show . . .
'Shit, first order. Only for two, no problem.' She picked up a mould and promptly dropped it.
'Not to worry,' said Jake, rather too heartily, she thought.
He hovered over her like an anxious father in a delivery room. 'Don't poke at it, woman. It's not something nasty you've just found on the bottom of your shoe. Don't shake it about like that either! And people generally like the sauce in the middle of the plate, not dripping off the edge. There, that's better. What's the point of it tasting nice if it looks like shit? OK, take it away, Kirsty. What the hell are you waiting for – the Second Coming?
'You see, that went quite well, didn't it?'
Overcome by such praise she turned and tripped over Godfrey's enormous feet.
If only the orders would come in like the animals on Noah's Ark, neatly in pairs. But they didn't. How could people be so inconsiderate as to go out and eat in groups of eight? She only had one pair of hands, didn't she? Kate felt as if her face had frozen in a rictus of fear and her nose was so shiny they could probably use it as an emergency light should the power fail. Her thoughts began to flutter around crazily in her head like a flock of startled birds.
Another one – well you'll have to wait, mate. Get out of my way – can't you see I'm in a hurry – now look what's happened – wonder if I can pick the ice cream up with my fingers – crap, no I can't – Jake's looking. Hasn't he got anything else to do?
Fuck! This fucking parfait won't come out of the fucking mould! What did Sally do to it, weld it on? Yes I know there are another two orders – I am not blind, thank you – where's the piping bag, why isn't it clean? Because I didn't have time to clean it, that's why. God, it's coming out like a nasty case of diarrhoea – why is it not piping properly? Where's the fruit? WHERE'S THE FUCKING FRUIT? Oh – it's here. I never put it there – who moved it? Bastards! Oh, yes, I put it there. Christ, I'm hot; feel like I'm working in the oven, not next to it. Why won't the yoghurt swirl like it did when Jake did it? Yes, I know it looks like shit. There was no need to do that with it, Jake, and now I'll have to make up another and, look, the orders are piling up – I've only got one pair of hands and someone has STOLEN those ravioli thingies . . .
Shit – shit – shit – shit!
She was so hot the sweat was dripping down her nose and in danger of falling into the plum soup. Her swirls looked like bird droppings, the puff pastry crumbled into a thousand pieces. Jake was on her back constantly, criticising, complaining, chucking stuff away so she had to start all over again, which meant she was always behind. She developed a passionate hatred of him, of the stupid moulds, of the piping bag, which squirted cream out of the wrong end and into her eyes and on her fingers, which seemed to have turned into overcooked sausages and wouldn't bend properly any more. She was completely oblivious of everyone else and what they were doing except when she bumped into them and they both cursed, fiercely, automatically. She could feel herself turning into a stiff, sweaty pillar of terror. If she stopped for a second, she would simply snap in half.
'Come on! Come on!' yelled Jake, who seemed to be doing about fourteen things all at once, but still had time to notice there were smears of chocolate on the edge of the plate.
> When this was over, she would hit him, very hard; she would knock him to the ground and stamp all over him and squirt that fucking strawberry sauce up his nose, having boiled it up first. What? Someone wanted two puddings? Greedy fucking bastards – she hoped their arteries exploded at the table.
Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!
When the last pudding had gone out, with its usual quota of criticisms, complaints and modifications, she looked at the clock and realised time hadn't stopped – it was after midnight. It was over. She threw her towel in the air and without thinking, grabbed Jake and kissed him. For a split second she could feel him pulling her closer, then he backed off.
'For heaven's sake, woman! Don't put ideas into Godfrey's head. Who knows where this would lead the next time he gets something right!' He bent down to retrieve a spoon from the floor, so no one could see his face.
Staggering outside, light-headed, as if she hadn't eaten for three days, she smoked three of Kirsty's cigarettes in succession, though she had given up years ago.
'Did you enjoy that?' asked Jake.
Kate ground the cigarette beneath her heel and took a few sweet seconds to collect everything she had to say.
'I hated it. I hate you. I hate puddings. I never want to see a strawberry ever again. I am never setting foot in there again. I don't care if you have to get your desserts from the ice-cream van down by the lake. If you ever, ever ask me to help out again I will . . . I will . . .' She was a journalist, but words had failed her.
'You didn't do that bad for a beginner.'
'Jake, you shouted at me for the whole fucking evening!'
'Of course I did,' he said, genuinely surprised. 'But I was just keeping a friendly eye on you, giving you the odd tip now and again.'
It was dark outside but she could tell he was laughing at her.
'It's good to see things from a different perspective now and again. I bet you thought we just messed around in there, didn't you?'
'No!'
Well, yes, maybe a bit. Shamefully she recalled her and Jonathan's patronising conversation all that time ago, when she had a different life. They were such a pair of goobies – they didn't know the half of it.
Kirsty joined them and took her fags from Kate's nerveless fingers. 'Is there a special name for people who say they've given up smoking and then proceed to smoke everyone else's?'
'Yes – shameless,' grinned Kate, and pinched another.
'By the way, Jake, I found this note outside your office. Someone must have crept in and left it there during service.'
Dear Jake,
I am sorry I couldn't tell you this in person. I am handing in my notice as from now. I have been offered another job. It is better pay, with less hours. It is a good career move. Please don't get angry, but it's at Café Anglais. Mr Hunter says he won't let you in if you try to come round and give me a hard time. I'm sorry if I've dropped you in it.
It was signed 'Sally'.
Jake let out such a bellow of rage that Godfrey dropped a tray of crockery. It was a good thing all the customers had gone or they would have run away in fright.
'I just can't believe she would do that to me! And after all I've done for her. Why do people always say sorry about something they don't give a toss about? How dare she just leave without handing in her notice properly?' He was incandescent with rage because he was powerless to do anything. Sally didn't need a reference because she had already got another job. Harry would probably have bouncers on the door at Café Anglais to stop him from entering and, anyway, he would just love it if Jake went storming round there.
He kicked the wall to vent his feelings and then howled with pain as well as fury. He would have to find another pastry chef, and fast. They had only got through tonight because everything had been made up, and anyway it hadn't been busy. Kate had been great but she wasn't a cook. He would have to stay up all night and make a new batch of puddings, and everyone would have to work twice as hard as they already were working. It could take weeks to find someone new.
It was a waste of time to brood on it, but he felt bitterly let down by Sally. He thought she had been happy here. He had been endlessly kind and patient with her because she had real talent. But she would be squashed to a pulp by Harry. Fewer hours – hah! She wasn't going to know what hit her! He would screw her, then dump her and dock her pay every time she fucked up. It was like sending a tiny kitten into a lion's den and expecting it to come out alive.
Kate wasn't feeling too good, either. In fact she was gibbering with panic, a state she had never before experienced. 'Listen, if you're expecting me to –'
'It's OK – don't worry.' Jake wasn't sure if he had broken a toe when he slammed his foot into the wall, but the pain had cleared his head. 'I meant what I said: you did great, but I'm not expecting you to make a career change.'
Thank God for that. She'd had so many of those recently, she wasn't sure who she was any more.
Chapter Sixteen
Kate sniffed, stirred and tasted. She thought about it for a minute, then steeled herself for a second go. No. She was right the first time. It was impossible to say anything nice about Godfrey's soup. It was just terrible. It had all the flavour you would expect to find at the bottom of a very old sock. The surface of this revolting concoction was speckled with small black spots, which didn't improve the soup's desirability.
'Jake said to use white pepper but I thought it needed a bit of oomph. I also thought I would try to improve on the original,' he floundered on, aware that with his limited experience, this now sounded frankly ludicrous.
'And what do you call this creation?' Kate asked, genuinely curious.
'Er, cream of pea,' he said, desperately trying to remember what he had chucked into it.
'Hmm,' said Kate, wondering if she should try to be kind, but knowing this was impossible. 'The trouble is, I would call it a lot of things, but none of them would actually include the word edible.'
'Oh dear, you sound just like Jake.'
They both thought about Jake. Emma, the new pastry chef, had been recruited after turning up at the back door, bearing a lemon mousse that Jake said was the best he had ever tasted.
'I am going to train to become a teacher, but I want to take some time out before going back to class – you know, to clear my head.'
'Hmm. I'm not sure that working here will actually do that, but start anyway,' said Jake.
She was talented but inexperienced, which meant that Jake was spending extra time training her. He didn't mind, but it was tiring. Now he was out, having a meeting with his bank manager. He had left Godfrey to make soup. He would expect soup when he got back. A good soup would restore his frayed nerves after a trying afternoon. This was so not a good soup.
Kate and Godfrey were alone in the kitchen. Everyone else had long gone and Godfrey was itching to do the same. 'The thing is, I've absolutely promised my dad to go and find some sheep this afternoon. About a hundred and forty of them. He'll be a bit peeved if I don't turn up.' This was a massive understatement. On a good day, when Godfrey's dad was shouting at his animals he could be heard in three counties.
Godfrey could either stay behind and make a soup someone would like to eat, but be bollocked by his dad, or he could race up and down the fell for a few hours, while looking forward to being bollocked by Jake when he got back. 'Either way, I'm screwed.'
Kate was secretly very proud of her stint in the kitchen, especially now that the horror had receded. Like a new mother, she had forgotten about the agonising birth pangs and could only remember the bliss of delivery.
A couple of hours on her own in the kitchen, and she could make a perfectly acceptable soup. All the ingredients were there for the soup Jake had wanted Godfrey to make, before he had got ideas above his station. She also wanted to impress Jake, for reasons she wasn't prepared to admit to herself.
'Go on, get up that fell. I'll make some more soup,' she said, trying to make it sound like a massive favour, reluctantly granted.
'Can you?' asked Godfrey, doubtfully.
'Could it be any worse than this?'
'Well . . .'
'Go on, then, I dare you to eat a bowl of that . . . that stuff.'
'I'll be back before six.'
Left on her own, Kate sauntered off to the fridge, humming. Soupe aux moules. Albert Roux had described it as a dish that would tempt even non-soup-eaters. Kate reckoned it would also be dead easy to make as it contained only a few ingredients and the instructions only covered a few lines. Any recipe method that had you turning over several pages of tightly written script was not worth doing, in her opinion. Also, she had to admit, that sort of stuff was probably best left to the professionals. Superbly talented and versatile she might be, but she was not a pro.
She was also well on her way to a winning soup, because Jake had thoughtfully provided the stock. It had taken hours to make but as she heated it up and its delicate fragrance hit her nose, she realised it was going to be a lot better than chucking a ready-made stock cube into some hot water.
She got out a chopping board and sliced onions, leaks, carrots and celery. How on earth did you sweat vegetables? Tell them they had to do a week's work with Jake? That could send anything into a lather of fear. Trial and error gave her the answer. She cooked the first batch on a high heat for about ten minutes, after which they were shrivelled to a very unappetising shade of burned. OK, maybe 'sweat' meant cook gently, in which case why didn't they bloody say so? It was as if cooking were some sort of arcane club into which only a select few were admitted.
'Debeard the mussels.'
This was a kitchen, not a barber's shop. Did they mean that funny bit hanging off the end that probably no one would want to eat? After a few false goes she eventually got into her stride. Crushing the garlic and chopping the tomatoes was easy and then all you had to do was leave it to simmer. She went out and sat in the sun for a few minutes, enjoying the fact that she was not sitting in a stuffy, noisy reporters' room.
Recipe for Disaster Page 17