“I know.…” Agnes reflected for a second, heard Kalle’s heavy breathing down the line. “But, you know, what happens if it’s a bad one?” She didn’t want to rain on his parade, The Yellow Lemon Tree was a good restaurant, and they’d undoubtedly be highly judged – but she wanted to know if Kalle had considered the alternative.
“It won’t be,” he answered self-confidently.
“But what if?” Agnes insisted.
“Then we’re screwed. Those restaurants never recover. You might as well close up shop. Or do what Pernilla said: change your name and start serving steak and fries and a beer for ninety-nine kronor.” He didn’t sound particularly worried. “But that won’t happen. We’re a good restaurant with good staff that serves good food. There’s nothing nasty to write about us. It’s as simple as that!”
Agnes knew he was right. And maybe a review would be the solution. They’d become known and get a reputation. It would be exactly what the place needed.
“OK, so what do we do now?” she said at last.
“We start by going through the menu and making sure we haven’t got any weak cards. Like for instance I think we should change the chèvre-stuffed sweet pepper that accompanies the chicken. Chèvre is a bit too… a bit too ’98, if you know what I mean.”
“But it’s so good. Do you really reckon the guests see it as ’98?”
“Maybe not, but Lola would. I read a review in which she ripped the hell out of a restaurant owner for attempting to serve crossover cuisine in the 21st century.”
“But the important thing is that the food’s good, isn’t it? I mean, a Boeuf Bourguignon and a Coq au vin are hardly ground-breaking either.”
“No, but they’re classics, that’s different. You can always have classics on the menu, but trendy food that’s served a couple of years too late.… That’s a real no-no.”
“OK.”
“We’re unique and we’re original and that’s got to come across on the menu.”
“In which case under no circumstances do we serve chèvre after 1998.… Have I understood it right?”
“Spot on.”
Before ending the call they decided to meet down at the restaurant to go through the menu properly. And everything else for that matter.
Kalle’s enthusiasm had rubbed off onto Agnes. He was right. This could change everything. A review by Lola was important. She was considered the industry’s most influential critic and the acerbity of her pen was feared. In much the same way as her praise was known as the best thing that could happen to a restaurant.
Agnes and Kalle had decided to meet up an hour earlier than usual. To draw up their strategy, as Kalle had put it. They’d inform the others during the evening. It was important that everyone knew what was going on. There was no room for sloppiness. Not that they were sloppy, stressed Kalle, but if they were ever to start, now would be the wrong time.
When Henrik turned up at around five, Agnes and Kalle were still sitting discussing the menu. They’d not made any major changes. Apart from the chèvre-stuffed pepper that they swapped for honey-glazed sweet potato, they’d just removed one of the desserts, a chocolate cake that was actually tasty but rather run-of-the-mill. Instead, they’d serve a mango sorbet with aniseed, with which Kalle was still experimenting.
Henrik thought that the news about Lola was wonderful. He told them about a restaurant he knew of that got a review, which although no better than mediocre, had still doubled the number of guests.
“The problem is just…,” he added, “… that we don’t know who she is.”
Agnes looked up. “But Kalle knows who she is.”
“I’ve got no idea,” said Kalle, shaking his head.
“But you said she’d been at Picnic’s when you were working there.”
“Yes, but there were loads of people there, weren’t there? How would I know who she was? We just have to keep up a consistently high level of quality, that’s all there is to it,” Kalle decided. “She can turn up whenever. And we have to be prepared. A rowdy Saturday night or a Tuesday without a single guest. The food we serve has to be just as good, regardless.”
“And keep the service of an equally high class,” added Henrik. “So how often does she write?”
“Every other week, I think, or maybe it’s once a month. In any case, she’s said to be pretty damn thorough.”
Shortly afterwards Filip arrived, and Kalle gave him a quick briefing. He too came up with a few happily-ever-afters, and a few tales of restaurants that had gone under after a panning by Lola. Including one at which he’d been working, so he knew what he was talking about. Agnes wondered what that could mean, that he’d worked at a restaurant that had been panned, but decided that it could hardly have been Filip’s fault. She’d worked at Pasta King, and if that place had been reviewed it would hardly have been in glowing terms. The right man, or woman, in the wrong place, that was all.
Out on the restaurant floor it was evident that something was up. As soon as the door to the restaurant opened, their antennae popped up. Was it her? The food, which had been good before, became that little bit better. Kalle scrutinized every dish before it was sent out to the guest. Nothing less than perfect was good enough.
Agnes and Henrik also tightened up their act. This was nothing that Kalle had asked them to do, but their own idea. The informal tone, the personal chit-chat with the guests made way for a more discreet style of service. For Agnes, the adjustment came easily as it was how she worked at Le Bateau Bleu. Personal only if solicited and fully cognizant that the restaurant guests had not come to chat to her. Henrik, who’d worked for a number of years at a minor provincial hotel, had no difficulties either. He was classically trained in the restaurant business.
It was worse for Pernilla. She found it harder to take a step back. Charmingly personal was her style, and anyway, her appearance made it virtually impossible for her to be discreet. To start with, this irked Agnes: now when she and Henrik were trying to make the restaurant a little classier, couldn’t Pernilla also step up? After a few days, however, Agnes loosened up. Pernilla had her own style, it was part of who she was. If she tried to be anything different it’d just be a charade. And charades, suspected Agnes, didn’t go down too well with critics.
The only time Agnes allowed herself to drop slightly her new, professional role was when Lussan looked in. But it was only after having carefully studied the evening’s clientele and ruled out any of them being Lola that she ventured to sit for a while with Lussan at the bar.
And in truth it must be said that her neighbor didn’t get a particularly professional reception either. Agnes seriously started to wonder when he turned up at the restaurant for the third time if he was stalking her. But if he was a psychopath, he hid it well. Sure, there might have been something about David Kummel that grated horribly, but he didn’t seem mad.
Agnes couldn’t really put her finger on what it was that she found irritating. He was like a castrated cat: kind and sweet and harmless. It was as if she could say whatever she wanted, and he’d never get worked up or offended. An unmanly quality. Agnes was convinced that he was the type to fall hopelessly in love with girls who just saw him as a shoulder to cry on, someone anodyne. Or he was gay, although that seemed doubtful. Gay guys didn’t listen to Bruce Springsteen and Pink Floyd. But who knows, with the odd taste in music that he seemed to have it wouldn’t surprise her if he started getting into Judy Garland and Cher. The other evening he’d played Led Zeppelin. Stairway to Heaven four times in a row. Agnes had been on the verge of going down to his apartment and knocking on his door. Even if, to be fair, he didn’t play his music so loudly, surely there was still a limit to what he subjected his neighbors to? However, he’d stopped before she made it down. It was almost as if Agnes felt disappointed. She’d already formulated some sarcastic comments about the repeat button and the Smash Hit of the Week.
Now in the restaurant he was unobtrusive and still alone. This time he skipped the starter and wen
t straight on to the chicken. When he received the perfectly grilled fillet he looked down at his plate. Agnes acidulously wished him bon appétit and was walking away from the table when with a delicate clearing of his throat and a quiet “excuse me” he tried to catch her attention.
“Erm, excuse me,” he said again. Agnes looked inquiringly at him. “Shouldn’t this come with chèvre-stuffed pepper?”
“No, that was before.” Agnes cursed herself; she’d forgotten to inform him about the menu change. “It’s now accompanied by honey-glazed sweet potato instead.”
“Pity.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just said it was a pity, the chèvre would have gone well with it.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Agnes shrugged.
“But I’m sure the sweet potato is good, too,” he added hurriedly, quickly picking up his knife and fork to prove how favorably disposed he was to the glazed root vegetable that lay on the plate in front of him. Agnes left him and returned to Lussan who was sitting at the bar eating grilled scallops.
Paolo was working in the bar and since the seven guests, three couples plus David Kummel, were hardly keeping him busy, he popped out now and again to the bar. Agnes noticed how Lussan changed every time Paolo appeared. Agnes had seen her flirt so many times that she thought she knew the pattern, but this was like nothing she’d seen before.
Lussan’s normal tactic was to get the men to think about sex. It wasn’t a particularly complex plan, and was just about as hard making yourself popular with children by offering them sweets. Lewd comments, a lot of gloss on pouted lips, and leaning forward slightly with the breasts. She almost did it without thinking, regardless of whether or not she was interested. Well, well, well, who do we have sitting here? – Me, on my pert little bottom.… Glance furtively, pout and stick out the tits. The man who didn’t think about sex hadn’t been born. Or listened to a lot of Barbara Streisand. The unfortunate thing was that the tactic worked best on men who were already taken and after the sexual act itself were interested in little else. Like Torben, the Dane, who called every time he was in Stockholm. Loyal as a dog, in his own way. His little kone back home in Odense would no doubt see things differently. Anyway, the key point of the whole system was that it happened on Lussan’s terms; it was she who made the first move, she who selected the target. At least that’s how things had worked before.
Now here she was, sitting talking to Paolo. And although she was being playful, there was no mention of sex and most of her lip gloss had ended up as a greasy smudge on her glass of water. She was laughing, too, but not in that dangerous Sharon Stone way that she sometimes adopted.
Their conversation changed whenever Agnes was nearby. Became more restrained. Or maybe she was imagining it. But she found it hard not to feel like a third wheel in their company.
Agnes made a tour of the dining room. David Kummel motioned tentatively as she scanned the restaurant. She pretended not to see him. Instead, she topped up the wine glasses on another table and nodded amiably at a couple who asked for their bill. It wasn’t until she’d brought it to them that she went over to her neighbor at his solitary table. Poor guy: not only did he have a crap taste in music, he didn’t seem to have any friends either. Maybe he was a stalker after all, she thought with a shudder. What if he saw her as his best friend, or even worse, as his girlfriend? Maybe he lived in his own fantasy world in which these visits to her restaurant were actually love trysts. She’d seen that kind of thing at the movies. In his head they could be sitting at a romantic table for two looking deep into each other’s eyes. She shivered. Maybe he’d whip out a box with a ring in it and propose to her. And if she said no, he’d kill her and keep her body in his apartment until it started to smell and the neighbors called the police and everything came to light.
Agnes had reached the table.
“Yes?” It was an effort to sound impersonal. You never knew.
“Could I have the dessert menu, please?”
“Of course.” Agnes fetched a menu and waited to one side while he studied his options. “Which one would you say was the best?”
“They’re all good,” replied Agnes after a moment’s hesitation. The question sounded innocent, but maybe he was making note of every little thing she said. And then, when he’d lured her away to an abandoned cottage in the woods, or whatever it was he’d do, he’d force-feed her mocha broulee with candied pecan nuts until she returned his love. Or died a horrible death.
“OK, then I’ll have this,” he said at last, pointing at the menu. Agnes nodded. No, David Kummel was not a psychopath. And besides, he’d made a good choice. It was their first day with mango sorbet on the menu and it had proved a great success. Fresh but sweet and with a distinct aniseed kick. Kalle had done a good job.
Paolo took the order in the kitchen, and after a few minutes it was ready to serve. The egg-shaped ball of sorbet lay in a little white porcelain bowl, itself placed on a yellow plate on which a heart-shaped toffee snap had been inserted in a conical dab of vanilla crème fraiche. It was extremely eye-catching and very tasty, too. Agnes had sampled one.
David lit up when Agnes placed the dish in front of him.
“How lovely!” he said. Agnes smiled. She could see nothing on the table resembling a box with an engagement ring. Maybe he wasn’t nuts after all.
At half past eleven, Agnes was locking the door behind the last of the guests. As far as she could make out, it had been a successful evening. For their eleven guests, at least. But they were still waiting for Lola. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after.
CHAPTER 25
AGNES KNEW THE MOMENT she stepped in. The apparition would have been no more obvious if Jesus Christ Himself had come wandering along the desert. The woman descending into the restaurant was in her fifties, possibly nudging sixty. The short gray hair was well groomed and heavily sprayed. Her eye shadow was steel blue and her lips bright red, as were her nails. Her suit was tastefully pinstriped, the jacket tailored to the waist and the skirt knee-length. Her heels were high and her black patent leather handbag dangled on a gold chain from her shoulder.
She looked around. It was a Friday evening, so fortunately the restaurant wasn’t empty. Agnes hurried up to welcome her and to ask her if she was expecting company. She wasn’t. Agnes showed her to a table, centrally placed but by a wall, not too exposed. Agnes drew a chair out for her and she sat down without a word. She declined, a little curtly, an aperitif, but nodded appreciatively when Agnes served her a glass of iced water as she handed her the menu.
When she assured herself that the woman wasn’t looking, she pulled Pernilla, who was standing joking with some guests at another table, to one side.
“She’s here,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Ssh! Lola, of course.” Agnes nodded inconspicuously towards the table where the woman was sitting perusing the menu. Pernilla’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Come on, look at her! Do you think she looks like some trendy local who’s popped in for a bite after work?”
“No, that’s true.”
“A hundred says that she’ll order a three-courser and that we’ll see her here again.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because she can’t eat everything on the menu at once, of course. If she’s going to give a thorough appraisal, she’ll have to come back.” Suddenly the woman looked up and Agnes gave a start. “Warn the kitchen,” she whispered hastily to Pernilla before returning to her VIP guest and taking her order.
She had a lot of questions to ask about the food. Where the angler fish had been caught, if the vegetables were organic, which wine went best with the chicken. Most of them Agnes was able to answer; since they’d found out that the critic was heading their way, Kalle had been especially careful to make sure that they could account for all the ingredients. On top of this, each evening before opening they went through any changes that had been made to the menu. They’d fine-tuned the wine
list and Agnes, Pernilla, and Henrik all had a good idea of what went with what; still, though, the questions made her nervous. She had chronic performance anxiety. Like when she was taking her driving test that time in Länninge.
She’d practiced every day for six months. She could reverse around corners, carry out a safety check, drive on the public highway, on the motorway and in town – yes, even Länninge’s one and only roundabout she had mastered to perfection. Yet her mind still went completely blank when her examiner asked her, during a pause, which pedal the clutch was. The one in the middle, she’d said at last. She’d passed anyway, but the examiner had said that it was lucky for her that she’d already passed the written test, otherwise she’d still have a little studying to do.
The woman cleared her throat. She’d picked the fish soup and was now wondering which wine Agnes could recommend to accompany it. Again, her mind went blank for a moment. Fish soup? An Anjou Blanc perhaps? No, of course not. Anjou Blanc was a dessert wine. A recommendation like that would hardly have impressed Lola. It’d have to be a Sancerre Les Belles Dames instead. Her guest seemed pleased with the suggestion. Danger averted.
For the starter she ordered scallops and a noodle salad with chili and coriander. Would the Sancerre go with that, too? Agnes swallowed.
“I’d recommend something medium dry instead, to offset the strength of the chili. This one, for example.” She pointed at a wine on the list. “Kloster Eberbach, a Reisling.” The woman smiled at her for the first time. Her teeth were even, but quite yellow.
“That sounds fine,” she said, closing the list before finishing her order. “For dessert I’ll have the raspberry panna cotta.” She handed back the menu and the wine list to Agnes, who smiled, said thank you, and left the table.
She was shaking all over as she entered her order and informed the kitchen, to which her edginess had spread. Kalle was pacing nervously around between the oven and the fryer and Paolo was whisking something in a bowl so vigorously that it was spattering against his apron.
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