“What about the other ingredients?”
“I used a little milk from my rations, and for the cooking fat I cut the rind from a rasher of bacon as I’d run out of butter. I think it enhances the taste, though. Don’t you?” She wasn’t a natural speaker. Her tone was a little surly, as if she had better things to do.
Ambrose took another spoonful. “It’s absolutely delicious. Such an extraordinary blend of tastes. It’s truly heartwarming, a cozy dish to have nestled up beside a fire on a chilly night.”
Suddenly aware that the crowd was waiting, Ambrose pulled himself together and moved on to the fourth and final competitor.
“My name is Zelda Dupont.” Her voice was loud and self-assured, her mouth perhaps too close to the microphone as she zealously leaned forward to speak into it. “I am a professional haute cuisine restaurant chef, formerly of the Dartington Hotel.” Her attitude was smug and spirited. “I’ve worked in some of the top hotels in London, and now I’m doing my bit for the war as head chef in a factory.”
As she whisked off the silver dome, there was a gasp from the audience, and Ambrose let out a delighted “Ah!”
It was Coquilles St. Jacques, a bold move. Two shells glistened, inside them a dense pale creamy sauce coated the scallops, the top golden with breadcrumbs.
“My Coquilles St. Jacques are made with fresh scallops, which sit on a bed of mushroom duxelles, beneath a light béchamel sauce, and topped with toasted cheese and breadcrumbs.”
Ambrose tucked into one heartily, taking a good portion of scallop, which was cooked to perfection, sliding apart as he cut it open. He piled on a good portion of the sauce and brought it to his mouth, smelling its buttery bouquet before popping it in.
He worked it around his mouth. “Yes, it’s superb. Is that vermouth I can taste?”
“Yes, I used the traditional French recipe.” She looked to the audience, the newspapermen especially. “I trained in Cordon Bleu cookery.”
It was all getting too much for Lady Gwendoline. “But what about the rationing?” Her clear voice resounded throughout the hall. “Butter is heavily rationed—most people wouldn’t have enough to spare for a sauce like this. Scallops are near to impossible to get. Where did you get them?”
A flush came over Zelda’s face.
“I got them fair and square,” she blurted out with more than a hint of her London cockney. Then she pulled herself together and reverted to her carefully modulated accent. “I dare say that all these things can be found or saved up for with a little local knowledge and some patience with the queues.”
But the die had been cast. Many had a pretty shrewd idea of who Zelda had approached to secure the scallops. As Lady Gwendoline looked with satisfaction around the audience, she could see a few of them mouthing “black market,” the newspapermen busy scribbling notes.
With the professionalism that had kept him employed for decades, Ambrose quickly defused everything with his smooth smile. “Sadly, in this war, not everyone has the time or energy to go hunting for rare or extravagant ingredients.” He shot a parting look of longing at the Coquilles St. Jacques as he made his way back to the side of the stage, where a technician leaped out to restore his microphone to its stand.
“Get on with it, Ambrose!” someone called from the audience—possibly the vicar again, hoping to pop into the pub afterward, no doubt.
“After such a high standard of culinary expertise, it is incredibly difficult to decide on a result. Suffice it to say,” Ambrose continued, “a winner there must be, and so I shall announce the points for tonight’s dishes.”
A murmur started up and then was quickly shushed.
“Lady Gwendoline’s sardine rolls”—he looked at his notebook rather than meeting her eye—“were very well put together, if a little fishy.” He turned to her. “You have clearly demonstrated that resourceful use of available foods can create a very nutritious starter. I have decided to award you a six out of ten.”
Six out of ten! Lady Gwendoline felt blood rushing to her face with humiliation, quickly followed by a jolt of fear. What will my husband say?
But she was far too clever to let her anxiety show, and a gracious smile quickly spread across her lips. A ripple of applause went around the audience.
Ambrose silenced the crowd with a small cough. “Mrs. Quince and Miss Nell Brown, your wild hare was delicious. The elderberries made a superb accompaniment. You get a nine out of ten.”
The pair of them looked like overjoyed schoolgirls, the silly maid jumping in the air a little. Lady Gwendoline bestowed congratulations on them, using the superior air she reserved for the village fete, while inwardly she seethed.
Ambrose moved along to the next contestant.
“Mrs. Audrey Landon, you balanced the different flavors impeccably, and yet the ingredients were so simple and readily available that any home cook could duplicate it. These two components made yours the best dish here tonight, with ten points.”
Frustration seized Lady Gwendoline like a grip around her heart. How can Audrey’s paltry soup win! She’s just a scruffy housewife, not fit for the radio.
The audience erupted into a round of applause, a few cheers coming from the back. A flash from a camera flickered as newspapermen stood to get a photograph, even though Audrey looked utterly ramshackle. It was hard to see how anyone would want to put her on the front page.
Audrey looked around the room solemnly. A tear appearing in one eye was hastily wiped away with the back of her hand, leaving a small smear of dirt on her cheek. Her eyes looked hollow, as if she didn’t want to win at all. Feeling deeply into her trouser pocket—Who wears slacks to a contest?—she pulled out a large, dirty, man’s handkerchief, and proceeded to blow her nose loudly.
“And let’s not forget our final contestant, Miss Zelda Dupont,” Ambrose said walking down to her. “Although your Coquilles St. Jacques were flawless, the dish wouldn’t be easy for housewives to make at home. Therefore, I am awarding you seven points.”
“Seven points!” Zelda was outraged by the score, pouting menacingly even as the audience clapped.
Spreading his arms wide, gesturing to all those on the stage, Ambrose drew the evening to an end. “I’d like to thank all the contestants, the BBC technicians, the members of the press, and the audience, and remind you all that the next round will be the main course. It will take place next month.”
The sound of shuffling and chattering grew as people made their way to the front to congratulate the competitors.
Journalists had begun to mount the stage, eager for words of wisdom from the winner. “Where did you get the idea?” and “Could you jot down the recipe for me?” came from all directions.
Audrey appeared indifferent. She began tidying her soup bowl and the spoon as if the contest had been just another chore to be done.
Does she even want to win?
A photographer pulled the contestants together for a picture, Lady Gwendoline elbowing her way to be in the middle until Ambrose came along and politely asked her to stand aside.
All in all, the evening had not been the success that Lady Gwendoline had been expecting. As she got into her waiting car outside the village hall, her polite smile fell like lead into a hardened grimace.
“Fourth place,” she muttered. “I even came in behind my own cook!”
Her husband would force her to abandon the contest if he heard. She’d be put back in her place, an ornament. It struck her that, not unlike Mrs. Quince and the daft maid, she, too, was nothing but a servant to him, one who said and did the right things for him, gave him her loyalty.
A lump of disappointment formed in her throat. How much she’d needed this victory for the capable and dignified woman inside her, desperate for recognition, desperate for some kind of small triumph.
Desperate for a life of her own.
Lady Gwend
oline’s Sardine Rolls
Serves 2 to 4
1 can sardines in oil
4 tablespoons flour for every 1 tablespoon oil
1 tablespoon water for every 1 tablespoon oil
Salt
2 tablespoons chopped cooked vegetables
Preheat oven to 400°F/200°C. Drain the sardines, reserving and measuring the oil. Work out how much flour and water you need to use with the oil to make the pastry. Sieve the flour and salt, add the oil, and mix well. Add the water and blend into a pastry.
Roll out the pastry and cut it into oblongs, each long and wide enough to cover a sardine. Make sure you have enough oblongs to cover the number of sardines. Down the long side of each piece of pastry, place a sardine, and then alongside it, spoon some chopped cooked vegetables for extra flavor. Roll each one, sealing it with a little water, and then decorating the top with a few strokes of a sharp knife.
Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until golden. Serve hot or cold with salad.
“It is to you, the housewives of Britain, that I want to talk tonight…We have a job to do, together you and I, an immensely important war job. No uniforms, no parades, no drills, but a job wanting a lot of thinking and a lot of knowledge, too. We are the army that guards the Kitchen Front in this war.”
—Lord Woolton, Minister of Food
Source: Ministry of Food printed materials
Nell
As Nell ran up to the crest of the hill, the July sky was as wide and as blue as the eternal heavens. Her arms spread open wide to capture the breeze, the ecstasy of the day. The sun at its highest peak, nature’s midday, beamed majestically over the fertile green and gold countryside.
“What a joy it is to be alive!” she exclaimed, racing on through the honey-scented pasture.
A bird of prey circled above her, bringing her to a halt to stare in wonderment. How free it looked, how magnificent. It was a hawk, perhaps. Nell didn’t have much of an education. The orphanage had taught them to read and write so that they could find ready employment as soon as they turned fourteen. But there hadn’t been lessons about nature: The birds and the bees were deemed self-explanatory. Politics and the way society was run were among the array of topics never covered. The only thing the orphans needed to know was that their place within the world was a very low one, and that they should be grateful, always grateful.
Nell knew a little about the war, especially now that it was on the wireless every hour of every day. And there was one thing about which she was well aware.
Italians were the enemy.
The farmyard was empty, so she set down her basket without fear of being seen. She had an excuse to see the farm manager: two ducks needed for Sir Strickland’s dinner party. The farm bred ducks in a large pond for precisely this purpose. Tonight’s ducks were to be served roasted dark and crispy with a honey glaze, accompanied by a sauce made from cherries and red wine. Wine was difficult for most people to get, especially with France taken over by the Nazis. Sir Strickland, however, had premier crus ordered in from, well, somewhere.
Perching on a low wall in the farmyard, she lifted her face toward the sun, closing her eyes, feeling her worries slip away as she soaked up the heat. A lone fighter plane zoomed low through the air, the little plane banking to one side, soaring like a seagull toward the coastline.
A few minutes later, the rumble of the tractor carried through from the field, a stream of Italian POWs coming behind.
Among them was Paolo. Through the crowded farmyard, their eyes met, and she bit her lip to stop the smile spreading across her face.
Barlow switched off the engine. “Back again? I thought we sent down everything on Mrs. Quince’s list. What do you want this time?”
“Sir Strickland has a minister coming to dinner, and we need two ducks for the main course.”
He huffed, tugged up his trousers, then went in search of someone else who could do it for him, as per usual.
Paolo stepped forward. “I can get them,” he said. “There are some hanging in the old shooting hut in the woods.”
Barlow eyed him, then Nell. He shrugged. “All right, but be quick.”
Together, they walked briskly out of the farmyard, neither daring to speak until they were out of sight.
Paolo looked around, checking that no one was watching, and picked up her hand, kissing the back of it. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not!” She was surprised. No one had ever wanted to kiss her—even if it was just the back of her hand—let alone asked if it was all right. “I like it.”
The words came out clumsily, more forthright than she meant.
“I didn’t mean—no one’s ever kissed me before, well, my hand.”
“No? I hope I don’t embarrass you if I say that you are beautiful.”
Blood rushed to her face. For her entire life, people always said that she was plain—almost immemorable in her blandness. She felt the heat of his hand through hers, the softness of his skin, the strange feeling of togetherness, and she felt herself walking a little taller, feeling more at peace with the world.
As if she had a right to be there.
“Come.” Paolo pulled her into a slow trot. “The old shooting hut is just inside the wood. This way.”
Sunlight sparkled through the tall elm trees as they scampered through the wheat field, plunging into the wood, darting in and out of the trees, until he drew to a halt in a clearing beside an old wooden hut. He unbolted the door, and she paused momentarily before going inside, remembering that he was the enemy.
“It is all right,” he said, sensing her hesitation. “I am not here to hurt you. I hope we can become friends.” He grinned. “In any case, you must know that I don’t want to make trouble here.”
The air was sweet with woody fragrance, birdsong the only sound, and she suddenly knew that this was what it was all about. Life was about taking chances, stepping outside the ordinary and throwing dice to see the outcome: good or bad.
She took a deep breath and followed him inside.
The smell of gamey meat lingered in the cool darkness, as row upon row of dead birds hung from a series of hooks, golden pheasants, white Aylesbury ducks, small brown pigeons.
“But it’s not the gaming season,” Nell whispered. “Where did these come from?”
“The ducks we can kill because we farm them, but the rest…Barlow, he don’t worry about rules. He says, ‘Sir Strickland wants this or that,’ so we get it.”
“That’s illegal, and terrible for the stocks of wild birds,” she muttered, puzzled. “Mrs. Quince would have a thing or two to say if we got pheasant out of season.”
Paolo leaned forward. “They are given to Sir Strickland’s friends, or Barlow sells them on the black market.” He gestured toward the birds on the wall. “I catch these myself. I have to use traps as we are not allowed guns,” Paolo said. “But I am used to trapping. It is our way of life.”
He took down a brace of ducks, bringing them over and folding them into her basket. “Your ducks, madam.” He grinned.
“Thank you.” She felt blood rush to her face again with the closeness of him in the small space, and a shot of fear went through her.
But he opened the door for her. “We should go back.”
She passed through, watching him make a small bow. “You have very good manners.”
“You need them to work at our restaurant.” He led her back out of the wood, down to the path.
“How did you become a prisoner?”
“Mussolini, he made us go to fight the British in Egypt. But we don’t have enough men or tanks, and there are not enough of us to cover so much land. One day we are cut off from the others and suddenly we are surrounded by the British. We surrendered, and they took us here.” He looked around at the scenery. “We are lucky to be here. The work is not
hard, and there is always food—what we can’t get we can catch or fish. I never break even a small rule because I know many places are not as good as this. Barlow, he is nice. He knows we don’t want trouble, that we want to do our work and stay here. We are given some freedom. And the food is much better here than on the front.” He laughed softly, taking her hand and swinging it gently as they walked. “But you have to taste Italian food. You will love it. I know.” He took a deep breath, as if smelling it cooking right there in front of him. “But I talk too much. What happened to your contest? How was my hare?”
She grinned. “We came in second—nine points out of ten. Your hare was delicious, such a depth of flavor.”
“But it is not my hare that won. It is your excellent cooking. How did you cook it?”
The story began slowly, but as she went on, Paolo began to ask questions, and before she knew it, she was giving him a blow-by-blow account of the entire event, ending with an ecstatic rendition of Ambrose Hart’s final results.
“Who could believe that I—a kitchen maid—could come in second place in a cooking competition?”
“I believe it.” He stepped toward her and took her hands between his fingers, pressing them for emphasis. “Will you be on the radio now?”
“Not yet. We have two more rounds to go.” Her smile fell as uncertainty once again reared its head. “In any case, my radio voice isn’t very good. I had to speak into the microphone, and I felt as if I might faint with fear. I-I get so scared I can’t help stumbling over my words.”
He raised her chin so that he could look into her eyes. “You need to have faith in yourself. Think of all the useful things you know about cooking—how everyone can learn from you.” He pressed her fingers. “Promise me you will try to speak out. No one minds if you stumble a little.”
“If you put it like that”—she laughed gently—“I’ll promise to try.”
He grinned. “Now when is the next round?”
The Kitchen Front Page 15