Recipe for Disaster

by Miriam Morrison

  Georgia was feeling terribly guilty, but of course Jake wasn't to know this. Harry had been down to London twice and on both occasions managed to bump into her by accident. He had insisted on buying her a drink and the second time, dinner. She had enjoyed herself more than she had for a long time. There was something curiously restful about Harry. He seemed to think she was great company whatever she said. He didn't fall asleep halfway through a conversation and when they talked he gave the impression he had all the time in the world to listen, instead of always glancing at his watch and muttering things about having to get back to work.

  'Must go – a friend is taking me out to dinner,' and she signed off with lots of guilty kisses.

  Jake vaguely wondered who this friend in Paris was then he forgot all about her.

  The letter Kate had brought in was from the Restaurant Club of Great Britain, a small but élite group of food critics, whose main joy in life was to destroy the spirit of every fool who thought he could cook. Only last month one of them had done such a hatchet job on a place in Devon that the chef had run out of the kitchen in his clogs and straight to his therapist. He was currently at the Priory and rumour had it that he was flatly refusing to leave.

  The Club also gave out awards, which were the cooking equivalent of the Oscars. As most of its members were journalists they were horribly articulate in their meanness and they were hated and feared throughout the length and breadth of Britain. Their top award was in the shape of a miniature knife crafted in silver. It was a running joke among chefs that they should give them out to the losers instead, so they could slit their own throats.

  They liked to warn chefs in advance that they might be in line for an award, because it made them sweat and suffer more, and sorted out the men from the puking boys.

  Jake put aside the letter and shivered. It was like spending years in training for an assault on Everest, trekking to Base Camp and then finding out that actually you were too scared to go to the top. Ever since he had read about them, he had coveted one of those little silver knives. Now he was being offered the chance to go for it, he wanted to run away and get a nice, easy, undemanding job in a sandwich bar.

  A few minutes later Kate popped her head round the door to find Jake pacing up and down, muttering: 'Get a grip, you stupid man,' in a quite demented way.

  'I was going to ask if you wanted a coffee, but now I'm thinking it should come with a sedative.'

  Jake stopped pacing, grabbed her and kissed her on both cheeks like a mad Italian. 'I don't need coffee – I need champagne!' he said exultantly, and showed her the letter.

  She took in its meaning instantly. 'That's brilliant! I bet you're torn between dying from terror or going on a three day bender.'

  He looked at her, surprised. 'That's exactly it! How do you know?'

  Oh hell, why couldn't she tell him? It was so unfair. They were cut from the same cloth, she and Jake. They shared the same qualities of driving ambition, punctuated by dizzying self-doubt. They were both, in their way, artists. They should be able to confide in each other. The fact that she was keeping secrets from him was weighing her down, as if she was carrying a massive sack of potatoes on her back. Jake resumed pacing up and down.

  'Christ, there's so much to do! They will be looking for a completely new menu. I wonder if we should redecorate – no, damn, I can't afford it. I wonder how handy Godfrey is with a paintbrush?'

  He went into the kitchen to tell everyone.

  'Woo hoo! Let's all get drunk tonight to celebrate!' said Godfrey.

  Jake looked at him as if he were crazy. 'Are you mad? We're not even halfway there yet. Have you read some of the things they write about people?' He riffled though a pile of papers and found a cutting from a very old copy of the Observer. He had read it so many times it was danger of crumbling away.

  'This is what they wrote about a colleague of mine. Listen.

  For Mr Hudson, grease is obviously the new black. My pasta pomodoro arrived swimming in so much oil, I thought I was eating in a garage rather than a restaurant. The mange tout were limper than a drunken penis after a fourteen-pints-of-lager night out and the roast potatoes looked like they had set sail in a sea of fat.

  The décor is described as minimalist. This evidently means you are expected to eat your dinner without the requisite cutlery. When I pointed this out to the waitress, she looked at me accusingly, as if I had hidden them up my sleeves. I half expected to find we had been charged for them at the end of the meal. To give him his due, the wine waiter had obviously been mugging up, but his method of imparting information was to spew it out like a parrot on speed. When I asked to see Mr Hudson at the end of this ordeal, there was some delay. Apparently he was sitting in the chest freezer, sobbing.

  'I know John Hudson well. He is a really good chef. Apparently he's on so much Valium now, he just stares glassy-eyed at the checks when they come in.

  'If they like what you do, people are falling over themselves to get a table at your restaurant. If they don't, you spend the rest of your career wondering if your restaurant has a "Keep away – we've got the plague" sign on the door and you are the only one who can't see it.'

  'Oh my, what a nice treat we've got to look forward to,' said Godfrey faintly.

  Jake and Tess put their heads together and for the next few days everyone went into cooking overdrive.

  It took Jake three goes to make a poulet sauté Marengo he was happy with, and then he decided, at three thirty in the morning, that actually he wasn't.

  'This is boring and predictable and we are scrapping it. You can have it for lunch,' he told Godfrey.

  'That's the third time I've had to eat chicken this week and it's only Wednesday,' complained Godfrey.

  'You'll be having it for the next ten meals unless I come up with something I like,' snapped Jake.

  'I am now thinking of poulet de Bresse aux morilles,' he continued, getting out the ingredients.

  'I wish he would move on to lamb or beef. I've eaten so much bloody chicken, I feel like I'm about to lay an egg,' muttered Godfrey.

  He was in luck. The next day they put their minds to fish. First they tried salmon with puy lentils; then moved on to salmon with watercress, toyed with a salmon en croûte, flirted with the notion of sweet and sour salmon, considered searing it with pancetta, pine nuts and balsamic vinegar, and then, just when everyone was losing the will to live, Jake decided to go with fricassee of turbot with spinach parcels. No one wanted supper after work because they all felt as if they had ingested food through their pores.

  Kate went to bed that night and dreamed that she was a small sardine being chased by a dolphin.

  The evening service started off by pretending it was going to be a dream shift. The customers were coming at sensible intervals, in nice easy groups of four or six. Most of them had been before and were passionate fans of Jake's cooking. He hoped they would have a great meal, obviously, but then have to hurry home. He was longing for his bed. He was desperate for sleep – eight hours, unbroken, no dreams.

  A party of ten tourists came in, unbooked, which meant there had to be a swift and polished moving together of tables, never easy in a crowded restaurant, but they managed. When Kirsty brought the order down to the kitchen, it was apparent they didn't know what a menu was actually for.

  'They fancy salmon fishcakes,' repeated Jake slowly.

  'I know they're not on the menu, but they bullied me into asking. They said you could probably do some anyway, if you are that good a chef.'

  'I am a good chef,' he agreed, watching Godfrey sidle out of the kitchen, but not so far away that he couldn't enjoy the explosion. 'I am to food what Michelangelo was to art. But no one asked him to take a quick break from painting the Sistine Chapel so he could do a sketch of their pet poodle, did they?'

  'Er, I don't know. I've never heard of a restaurant called the Sistine –'

  'Quiet, woman! I have assembled a dazzling array of mouth-watering dishes on this menu. I am offering t
hem some of the classics of haute cuisine and if that's not good enough for them –'

  Here Jake described graphically where they could put the fishcakes, supposing he had any.

  'I think you'll find that's against the law,' said Kirsty, quite unmoved. 'I'll tell them fishcakes are off, shall I?'

  When she next came back to the kitchen, it was to hiss to Kate that there was a punter in the restaurant who fancied her.

  'It's the one in the corner, sitting on his own. He was definitely looking at you when you took his starter away.'

  'Are you sure he had finished?' asked Jake coldly. He had heard what Kirsty had said. Of course, it was no business of his if a customer wanted to take Kate out for a drink. Absent-mindedly, he began sharpening his most lethal knife.

  'Forget it – I'm not interested,' Kate hissed back at Kirsty, with perfect truth.

  'Well, I think he would be just right for you,' continued Kirsty, who had chosen that day to be oblivious to tact. 'He's reading a book while he's eating, so that means he is clever like you, and he could afford to take you somewhere nice 'cos he's wearing an expensive jacket.'

  'Fascinating,' said Jake icily. 'Let's all discuss the private lives of our customers, shall we? Oh, hang on, we are in the middle of service! So sorry to interrupt, but would one of you mind just popping out and actually doing your job?' His voice had risen to the level that is known in catering as 'chef reaching boiling point'.

  Kate stomped out, also in a bad mood. She was furious with Kirsty and furious with herself for wanting to reassure Jake she wasn't remotely interested in anyone but him.

  Hans was on the phone. He was looking upset and beckoned her over. 'Can you do the bar for me for a sec? I need to speak to Jake.'

  She took a quick glance round to check everyone was happy and nodded.

  Jake looked up in surprise as Hans thrust his head round the door. He shouldn't have to come down to the kitchen during service.

  'Boss, can I have a quick word?'

  'What's happened?' It had to be some disaster in the restaurant. He could taste the sour flavour of dread rising in his throat.

  'It's nothing to do with the restaurant,' said Hans quickly, seeing his face.

  'Well, it had better be good then,' he snapped, then he shook himself. Hans was looking really upset. He shouldn't take his own fears out on his staff, and he had to stop behaving as if there was a crisis round ever corner.

  Inside the office Jake sat down. 'I really must get some of those herbal stress remedies the next time I'm at the chemist,' he said to himself, but Hans heard.

  'Yes, you are too sensible to try anything else. Unfortunately, a friend of mine is not.'

  Jake sighed. He sort of knew what was coming next.

  'A friend of mine is in big trouble.'

  'Uh-huh. Go on.'

  Hans sighed. 'He is a decent bloke, but under a lot of pressure at work. Sometimes we smoke a bit of dope together. But for him, it has got worse. He has started taking cocaine. He says it helps him to cope at work, you know – gives him confidence and energy. But then he smokes more dope to take him down, help him relax.'

  'Yeah, I saw plenty of this in London. One place I worked at, briefly, the entire kitchen were taking drugs. I am sorry for your friend, but I can't do anything, you know. It's up to him to deal with it, or not.'

  'Yes, I know that, but . . .'

  'There's more, isn't there? Come on, spit it out.'

  'It's Ronnie, over at the Café Anglais. I am really worried, Jake. He has been left in charge for the last couple of days – Harry is away. Things were already really getting to him and he'd started smoking some really strong weed. It must have made him paranoid, because now he has locked himself in the larder room and no one can get him out and everything is in uproar. When Harry gets back and finds out, he will crucify him. It will be the end of his career and he is in a bad enough way already. I know it is probably the last place you wish to go to, to help someone out, but I have only been here a few months – I don't know who else to ask.'

  Jake was silent for a minute.

  'So, Harry's going to find himself in a spot of bother, is he? Well, that makes a change. God, I can't wait to send him a short note of sympathy when word gets out, and round here, it will! Well, this is sweet. The gods must have decided that it's my turn to have some fun.'

  Then he slammed a fist onto the table. 'Bloody hell! What's come over me? I sounded just like Harry then, didn't I?'

  'It's all right, boss, I understand,' Hans reassured him. 'This is not your problem. It is just . . . well I thought . . . Ronnie . . . he is one of us, isn't he? He just wants to cook, like you do.'

  'I know. I'm sorry. Of course, you are right.' Jake groaned. 'How could I be such a shit?'

  'You're not. Really, it is nothing to do with you –'

  'But that's not the point! I can't just stand by and watch while a fellow chef is pushed to breaking point. Ronnie has been a complete idiot, but, believe me, I understand just how stressed he had to be to go there.' He stood up.

  'Mind you – I am not exactly sure what I can do to help, but I'll give it a go.' He stood up and then hesitated. This was an excursion into enemy territory and there might well be reprisals. But Hans was looking at him, all hopeful and trusting. 'Come on, then.'

  He popped his head round the kitchen door and, without even looking up, Tess said: 'Everyone is eating happily and there's no one else looking and Godfrey and me can help Emma with puddings.'

  'How did you know I was going to ask that?'

  'I'm psychic – didn't I tell you that at the interview? No, seriously, Boss, you have a one-track mind and it's easy to read.'

  He had to check up on Godfrey and Emma, who were busy building a little tower of white, dark and milk chocolate mousses. They were doing fine, except that Godfrey had a very soppy look on his face as he handed Emma the garnishes.

  'That's good, but stop there. Any more and it will look tacky. Listen – I have to pop out. Are you sure you will be OK without me?'

  'Of course! Though we'll sulk like mad if you don't tell us what's going on,' said Kirsty.

  'Fat chance I've got of keeping anything secret from you lot. I'll call you later. Listen, you're to ring me if there's any sort of problem at all. Kirsty, tell Kate she'll have to do the bar; Hans had better come with me.'

  He wasn't too happy about this, but he didn't really have a choice. He didn't want to leave Kate on the bar, probably being chatted up by that guy. But then, what business was it of his? If she wanted to go out with a smart guy in a posh jacket, she could. She was single, after all. She could go out with anyone she fancied. But you can't, Jake, because you are not free, he told himself, firmly.

  When they were in the car, he made a determined effort to put her out of his mind and said: 'OK, fill me in on whatever else you know.'

  'Ronnie is a good bloke, you know. OK, he doesn't have a lot to say for himself, because, well, there's no point – Harry wouldn't listen. Ronnie loves – no – he loved cooking. He told me once it was all he ever wanted to do. He was so pleased at first when he got this job. But Harry – well, you know what he's like. He doesn't talk to people, he shouts – and he doesn't listen to any of their ideas. He tells them it's his way or they can fuck off. He is nothing like you.'

  'So when did things start to slide downhill for Ronnie?' asked Jake, ignoring the compliment.

  'Almost straight away,' said Hans, gloomily. 'He said he couldn't cope without a line of coke – it made him feel sharp and focused. But then he needed more and more, to get him through a shift. It gives you a high, but it doesn't last long. And then, of course, after a while, he needed something to bring him down, so he would have a few joints.'

  'So he took stuff to speed him up, then stuff to slow him down and now of course, his head is all over the place,' said Jake.

  'Yeah, that's pretty much it.'

  When they walked in to the kitchen at Café Anglais, all he could see was a huddle of w
hite jackets and hats and a babble of voices. There was a line of checks on the table but everyone seemed to be too occupied talking and arguing among themselves to do any actual cooking. It was clear no one was in charge and none of them knew what to do.

  'Where's Ronnie?' asked Jake curtly.

  They sprang apart and one of them pointed to a door. Jake went over and tapped on it.

  'Fuck off and leave me alone!'

  'Well, he's still alive, at any rate. Is there anything in there he could do himself harm with?'

  'It's just dry goods – tins and packets.'

  'OK. Well, I think we should just leave him in there, at least until you've got the punters out of the way. You need to make a start with those checks – oh, hello, Sally.'

  She was staring at him like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He could tell, even from a distance that her nervous eczema had flared up again. It was creeping up her arms in a fiery red rash and it contrasted horribly with the pallor of her face. Come to think of it, everyone here looked washed out, as if they were never allowed out into the sunshine. They were also all staring at him in a bewildered but rather hopeful way and he realised they had all been so cowed by Harry that they didn't have the faintest idea what to do when there was no one there to shout orders at them. It was a good thing he still had his jacket and apron on. He grinned suddenly, because it was quite funny. This was probably the only chance he would ever get to watch Harry's boat sinking and here he was, busily chucking out lifebelts.

  'OK, guys, who's on starters? You? Right. You've got two soups and two lobster salads, followed by three steaks and a duck. What the hell are you all looking at?'

  'Er, what are you doing?' asked one of the commis chefs.

  Jake sighed. Terror had turned this kitchen into idiots.

  'I am helping you out, because you so obviously need it.'

  'But what will Chef Hunter say?'