Recipe for Disaster

by Miriam Morrison

  'I think our viewers would be very disappointed if they tuned in to a cooking programme that didn't contain beeps.'

  Jake was furious when he found out they all had to line up to hear the result as if it was Pop Idol. He scowled, then winked at Tess in case she was feeling nervous again. It was torture making everyone wait for interminable minutes before the four finalists were announced.

  'Oh, for goodness' sake, get on with it!' He said this out loud, without thinking, and everyone laughed.

  The first finalist was Ali, who ran a hugely successful Indian restaurant in Carlisle, which was reputed to sell the best curry outside India, or at least north of Bradford. Despite refusing to cook chicken tikka masala ever, because it wasn't authentic Indian food, his restaurant was booked up for weeks on end.

  When Harry's name was called he stepped into the spotlight as if he owned it. Jake could practically see the waves of arrogant self-confidence emanating off him.

  Li Wang from the Lotus Garden in Keswick was picked next. His entire staff was made up of his family, including his eighty-year-old mother, who ran the place with ruthless efficiency, allowing Li to produce Chinese food of breathtaking quality.

  Suddenly Jake felt Tess take his hand. He didn't know whether she was trying to give or receive comfort but he was glad, even though her hand was icy cold and shaking violently. Or was that his hand?

  He was so certain he wasn't through that when they announced his name he didn't really believe it and Tess had to shove him forward into the lights and applause.

  Everyone congratulated each other, though the programme editor leaned forward, alert, when Harry and Jake shook hands, 'I think there is a slight frisson of something there, Bob,' he told the sound man.

  'Don't know what a frisson is, mate, but I have a feeling they don't really like each other.'

  'Yes, that's about it,' said the editor thoughtfully.

  'I'm sure it was fixed,' said Jake on the way home, having phoned through the good news and made sure there was champagne in the fridge.

  'Who cares? You're a winner, you got cash and you've got a chance at the final,' said Tess. 'Oh shit, and bloody hell – that means I've got to go through it all again!'

  'Yes, but that will be nice, you'll be able to catch up with your new friend,' said Jake slyly. 'By the way, I happened to overhear what they've got planned for the final. We've all got to cook each other's dishes. So Harry and I will do Indian or Chinese; the other two French or Italian. Don't you think it's very neat that it turned out like that?'

  'Did anyone hear you overhearing?' asked Kirsty.

  'Er, no.'

  'So you are the only person who knows this?'

  'Out of all the chefs, yes.'

  'Woo-hoo! All you have to do between now and then is mug up on Eastern cookery like mad and you'll have a huge advantage over everyone else. I bet that Mr Wang has never made a béchamel sauce in his life.'

  'I couldn't do that,' said Jake firmly. 'That would be cheating.'

  'And what do think Harry would do in your position?' retorted Tess.

  'Cheat, of course! But I am not Harry. No, you can both stop right now and please don't tell anyone else I told you this. I am not going to do anything underhand to win a stupid prize and that's that.'

  'Do you know something, Jake? You are, without doubt, the most aggravating, infuriating, fucking mental, straight-up guy I have ever met.'

  'Well, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Tess!'

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Jake pulled all the carpets up and left them outside, where they rotted gently in the summer sunshine until, after many threats to the council, they were finally taken away.

  'If you don't pick them up today I will personally deposit them inside your chief executive's office and wait until he comes down with some foul disease. I mean, what on earth do I pay my rates for?' he demanded, but everyone was too hot to answer. The weather, which had been so cruel to them, was now being just as unpleasant, but in a different way. Sunshine followed the storm; days of cloudless blue skies and Mediterranean-style temperatures. The Lake District was packed with people, but Jake couldn't feed any of them. His restaurant was a shell to which the faint smell of damp still clung, however many times they cleaned it.

  It was Kate who pointed out that the backyard needed only a coat of whitewash and some potted plants, and then they could at least serve lunches and early suppers.

  'More expense,' groaned Jake, but it was better than sitting around all day looking at his bank balance.

  'Of course, we will do all this and then it will start raining,' he pointed out, but they all told him to shut up. 'We're bored with our enforced holiday and Godfrey will get into trouble if he's not kept occupied,' said Tess.

  Godfrey had found himself a girlfriend and turned up each morning with a neck covered in love bites and a dazed expression on his face. She was called Anne and she must have been a saint because Godfrey spent half his time lecturing her on the poor quality of food served at the hotel where she worked. When Kirsty asked him if they were sleeping together yet he turned so red Jake took pity on him and sent him into the yard with a paint pot where he could be heard warbling in a tuneless imitation of Kylie that he should be so lucky.

  Kate found some cheap red-checked tablecloths in a shop down the road, which Jake said would make the place look like a comedy French bistro and if anyone dared suggest candles in wine bottles they would be sacked on the spot. But secretly he was pleased to get the chance to do some real cooking again.

  He also took the opportunity to change the menu, which Godfrey said was typical of the nasty way he behaved – he was only just starting to get the hang of the first one.

  'We need to keep the theme simple, redolent of sunshine and summer. I'll explain what that means later, and don't bring that paint pot in my kitchen without a lid on, you silly boy!'

  Jake wanted salads full of colour, lightly grilled fish, seared tuna, olives and lots of the herbs that were growing in pots outside. 'If you want them, you'll have to go out in front of the customers to get 'em. They'll love it – they will feel part of the cooking process. It will be casual, informal, but superlatively good. Only remember to watch your language.'

  He put signs up in the window saying: 'Open for al fresco dining', which he thought was a bit naff, but he didn't want people to think they were just walking past a builder's yard. The restaurant doors were opened wide and he made sure that Mozart or Vivaldi was playing to help entice people in.

  He was busy saying gloomily to anyone who would listen that this was bound not to work, when Frank Briggs turned up, with his wife. 'I thought you'd be out on the fells, sabotaging our pest control,' he said with a grin when he saw Jake.

  'Nah, I only do that part-time,' said Jake. 'Come in – it's nice to see you again.'

  'To be honest, lad, I'm more a pie-and-chips sort of a man, but the wife is on a health kick, so we thought we'd give the pub a miss for once.'

  'You won't be disappointed,' said Jake. He knew he sounded confident, but he knew these were people with eating habits so ingrained they would be very hard to shift. But if they did . . . well, Frank knew a lot of people round here and his word had clout.

  Later – 'I don't mind saying that I wasn't really expecting to like that broccoli and stilton soup, but it was bloody good,' said Frank.

  'I think that's partly because all the ingredients are from round here.'

  'Aye – that's the way to do business,' said Frank, nodding his approval.

  There was only room to feed about twenty people at a time, but soon, and to Jake's surprise, they were packed out every lunchtime. Jake got Tess and Godfrey and Emma baking like mad, and they served homemade, mouthwatering cakes and pastries and ice cream during the afternoon, and then simple, but delicious suppers in the early evening. It was keeping the financial wolf from the door, just.

  'I'm telling everyone that you're the chef from the television – it reall
y brings them in,' said Hans helpfully one day. Jake was trying to make cherry ice cream but Godfrey kept leaving the stones in. He frowned and took a deep breath. Everyone took a step back.

  'They come because the food is fucking brilliant, not because we've been on some silly television programme – get it? Really, I don't know why I bother trying to run a restaurant in the first place. I would probably be better off buying some plastic tables and chairs, a portable barbecue and setting up stall on the beach by the lake. There would be no overheads, no washing up if we used disposable plates – I'd probably make a fortune,' he grumbled. In the winter he could do soup and home-made burgers and hot roasted chestnuts, and go home with Kate every night. It wouldn't matter if he was as poor as a church mouse, as long as they had a bed. It was a happy dream.

  It was a brief, but golden time, if one could forget there was a business to run, or in Kate's case, secrets to keep. Jonathan was getting impatient and she knew she didn't have a lot of time left. The good weather would definitely break soon. When it did, she would sort it all out, she promised herself. Until then . . .

  They tended to finish earlier in the evening because the nights could get quite chilly. It was fine for walking hand in hand down to the lake, though. They would take any leftover wine and some stale bread and sit on the jetty trying to wake the ducks up by lobbing bits of bread roll at them. They would take it in turns to swig from the bottle and try to guess what it was because it was too dark to see the label. Then they would go home and make love in the dark with the window open to blow a cooling breeze over their hot limbs. Later, Kate would look back on this time and think it was like the best holiday she'd ever had.

  Even Jake felt a Monday-morning, back-to-school dread creep over him, when, glancing at the calendar, he realised that the final of Great Grub was upon him. Matters weren't helped when Kirsty rang up full of sorrow and sickness.

  'It must have been something I ate,' she wailed.

  'Well, it wasn't at my restaurant!'

  'Of course it wasn't! I think it was some chicken I found in the fridge at home last night, but I feel so sick, I don't really care. I'm terribly sorry, but you really don't want to watch me serving food while trying not to puke in it.'

  'I certainly don't – it sounds most revolting. Look, don't worry –'

  'But I feel awful about letting you down!'

  'You're not,' he said firmly. 'You've been an absolute tower of strength and we will manage without you. After all, Kate has come a long way as a waitress, though she'll never be as good as you. Just concentrate on getting better and if you feel up to it, you can watch us on the telly.'

  'She must be really bad, poor girl,' he told the others. 'She didn't even try to tell a story about her second cousin twice removed whom none of us has ever met! It's an ill wind, I suppose, because it's now your turn to become a star, Kate!'

  'It's just like those films where the understudy has to take over at the last minute,' said Godfrey, who was planning to watch the programme with Anne, from the depths of a large sofa. He was hoping to be so occupied he would miss most of it.

  Kate pretended to look pleased and then spent most of the day furtively ringing everyone at the station that she knew and begging them to keep shtum. Of course, a lot of them thought it was a great joke and made various lewd suggestions about what it might take to keep them quiet. It was all very unfunny and she felt quite worn out when she came off the phone. She wasn't even sure she had got round all of them, and seriously considered going out and buying a wig. She could always tell Jake she would feel less nervous in a disguise. Oh dear, more lies. There was going to be a terrible reckoning soon. She had put it off for so long, it was bound to all come spilling out at the wrong moment. Right. That was it. Today, on the way back from the studio, it was going to be truth time. She felt better already, because she knew that this time she really would go through with it.

  'What on earth is the matter with you? You look like you're auditioning for The Hunchback of Notre Dame.' demanded Jake.

  They were walking into the studio and Kate was doing her best to be small and inconspicuous. She guessed she'd overdone it a bit.

  Of course they walked slap-bang into Harry and Georgia, who was making no effort to fend off all the men who were swarming round her. It didn't seem to be annoying Harry, who was enjoying the attention. He lip was curling in a particularly aggravating way. It was obvious he was thinking: look, but don't touch, you sad bastards, because she's mine.

  Georgia stopped preening and her mouth took on its famous pout when she saw Jake. She was wearing a fabulous frock, dark green and shiny.

  I don't know why she's looking so cross – she dumped me, thought Jake as he walked past, giving her the stiff, entirely false smile that is customary when greeting a newly ex-partner.

  Georgia was pouting because although she was obviously much happier with Harry, it would have been nice if Jake had looked a little more grief-stricken. There hadn't even been a slightly sorrowful phone call and now here he was, looking positively cheerful, bouncy even. It was really annoying.

  Jake was right – they all had to cook each other's cuisine. He got Chinese and Harry got Indian, which, by the look on his face didn't please him at all. Harry would never set foot inside an Indian restaurant, deeming them to be full of lager louts demanding impossibly hot vindaloo. He had never visited India, considering it to be hot, smelly and noisy, but then the same could be said of London.

  Jake explained to Tess: 'The secret here will be in the preparation. We get everything ready first and then spend about half a minute cooking like lunatics.' He looked sternly at the audience.

  'Have your chopsticks at the ready – this meal will wait for no one!'

  The audience grinned in greedy anticipation. Ali also got a laugh by producing from somewhere a beret and a rope of garlic but Harry's commis chef, Ken, was in an awful state. He was a regular at one of the local Indian restaurants because it was the only place that was still open after he finished work. The stress of working for Harry meant he usually drank four or five pints of lager before the meal arrived, by which time he was so drunk he couldn't taste it anyway. He gazed at the bowls of garam masala, cumin and chillies with a sort of dull despair and wished he was at home.

  The audience continued to laugh when Tess dropped a bowl on Jake's foot and he hopped about in agony.

  'Sorry, Chef, but you are wearing steel-toed boots. You could drop the Empire State Building on them and you probably wouldn't feel it.'

  'That's hardly the point!'

  'Oh, don't be such a wuss,' she muttered, pushing past him. She had found out that if she concentrated on her work it was fairly easy to pretend she was just doing her normal job in a normal kitchen, which was exactly what the show's producers were hoping for.

  Everyone's meals were coming together quite nicely when Ken forgot what he was doing and wiped his sweating face with a hand that had just been in contact with red-hot chillies. He yelled in agony as some of the chilli went into his eye and they had to stop filming while he went off to first aid.

  It couldn't have happened at a worse time for Jake because his meal was just ready to be served. Everyone else was glad of the unexpected break and raced off for coffees and fags.

  'Will you be able to keep that hot?' asked the presenter.

  Jake gave her a withering glance. 'Of course I can keep it hot,' he explained with laboured patience. 'I just can't keep it edible – it's not a bloody casserole!' He threw off his chef's hat and swore. 'We will have to do it again from scratch.'

  'Oh, blimey! I hope we've got enough ingredients.'

  'Well, you'd better find some,' said Jake, and went off to join the others.

  Harry was loitering with intent near two of the crew who were discussing the state of play.

  'It's neck and neck so far between the Indian guy and the Englishman.'

  Harry smirked.

  'They are both good but it would be good novelty value having a
Jewish chef win. We could film him later on cooking some kosher food.'

  'What exactly is that?'

  'Dunno.'

  They wandered off, leaving Harry quite rigid with shock and fury. He wasn't about to lose this, surely? Bile rose in his throat and he tasted the sour and almost unfamiliar flavour of possible failure. He even started to have flashbacks. No. This couldn't be happening again. Never mind that he had the girl and a much posher restaurant – there was no way he was going to come second to Jake again! His eyes slewed round, desperately searching for a way to sabotage this outcome to end in his favour, but even he had to concede that this might be difficult, given that the eyes of the whole county would be on him.

  He went to his work station to reassure himself that his dishes were as good as they could be. They were good, if you liked that sort of thing and he didn't, and they would only get better in the waiting, unlike Jake's.

  Two of the cameramen were jabbering away to each other and he looked up in irritation, wanting them to fuck off and leave him in peace.

  'I didn't expect to see Kate here tonight.'

  'That's why she's such a good journalist – she's always popping up in unexpected places. She's going to have to be quick to get her "Chefs Uncovered" story out before her cover's blown and she gets the sack. That Jake has got a hell of a temper. He's not going to be happy when he finds out he's been taken for a ride.'

  At first Harry was furious. The little bitch! Pretending to be a waitress while all the time she was snooping around looking for shit to besmirch his profession! Of course, if she'd tried to get a job in his restaurant he would have smelled a rat instantly. Then he realised exactly what had happened and a wide and unpleasant smile spread across his face. She wasn't working for him – she was pretending to work for Jake and he'd already picked up a few signs that they were more pally than they should be. His nose twitched like a fox that had just caught the scent of a nearby henhouse. But there wasn't a moment to lose. He had to find Jake and impart this interesting information just before he had to go in front of the cameras and cook again.