Yesterday's News

by Kajsa Ingemarsson

  She went into the kitchen to fetch the two “tomato sanies.” As she opened the door she held her breath, but then spotted the plates on the top and exhaled. They looked perfectly normal, bar the little sprigs of parsley that Rolf had stuffed into them in the traditional provincial hotel manner. Discreetly, she removed the sprigs and threw them to one side. As she made a closer inspection of the dishes she noticed that he’d used too much oil, as it was dribbling slightly down the side of the bread. Oh, well, so what; they smelled of garlic at least and the tomato concassé was generously spread.

  Agnes served the guests, but to be on the safe side backed quickly away from the table. As if the distance would make her invulnerable. At the same moment, a new party arrived. There were four of them, and Agnes guessed they were the ones who’d booked a table. And she was right. There were two couples, an older and a younger – probably parents with daughter and boyfriend. At least the younger woman was a copy of the older one, just a little more made up.

  Agnes seated them at a table and attempted to repeat her drink tactic. It failed, as they wanted to wait with their drink order. While the newly arrived guests studied the menu, Agnes cleared the other table. She took the risk of asking if it had tasted all right and received an affirmative reply. It was too early to draw any conclusions from that; screwing up a bruschetta was virtually impossible.

  Agnes returned to the other party. They conferred a while longer before coming to a decision. The father wanted the marinated beef skewer with baked vegetables, the boyfriend likewise. The mother wanted the chicken while the daughter wanted the saffron pasta with scampi. That wasn’t likely to be a problem. Still no real challenges. The skewer had already been marinated and just needed grilling. Agnes had explained which vegetables to roast and hoped that Rolf had started them in good time. The chicken was possibly the trickiest dish. Nothing especially difficult in its preparation, but if it was fried for too long it became dry and boring with a tendency towards stringiness that no thyme gravy in the world could conceal.

  As she entered their orders, the pasta dishes appeared. Agnes took the plates from the top and started removing the sprigs of parsley that, here too, graced the peak of each dish like an American flag on the moon. The pasta looked seriously overcooked and she guessed that he’d boiled it for five or six minutes, easily. Fresh pasta shouldn’t boil for more than two. On top of the pasta, which had been jazzed up with peas, wherever those had come from, lay what she assumed was chopped scampi.

  “The scampi is served whole,” she said as cordially as she could to Rolf. “And don’t boil the pasta for more than two minutes. Max. And no peas.”

  Rolf gave a grunt and took a swig out of a bottle of beer that he’d placed beside the oven. He’d clearly made himself at home in the bar, too. Before going out to serve the overcooked pasta she replaced the parsley. It hid, at least, a little of the decimated scampi.

  It was, to her relief, proving a very quiet evening. Come half past seven, no more than three tables were occupied. The food prepared by Rolf was nowhere near the normal standard of The Yellow Lemon Tree, but no one had complained – except for the mother, who thought that the chicken was a little dry. When the door opened once more Agnes looked up in consternation. She breathed out. Never had she thought she’d have been be so pleased to see David Kummel – but if they were going to have any more guests on this luckless evening, she was glad that it was only her neighbor. She greeted him cheerfully for once and he lit up at the warm reception.

  “Do you work close by?” asked Agnes while showing him to a table. “I mean, given that you’re here so often.”

  “No, I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he said and sat down. Agnes waited for him to continue, but there was nothing else and she was, to be frank, not interested enough to inquire further. She gave him a menu and said as nonchalantly as she could that they had a new chef that day.

  “It’s just temporary,” she added. “But, well, just so you know.…”

  He nodded and studied the menu. It didn’t take long – he’d seen it before. Just when he lifted a finger to indicate that he was ready to order, the restaurant door opened yet again. Agnes, who was serving coffee, almost dropped the tray when she looked up. The couple in the doorway watched as she managed, with a desperate maneuver, to regain her balance at the last second and rescue the contents of her tray. A cappuccino had discharged a little milk froth onto the rim of the cup, but otherwise she’d performed the complicated steps surprisingly well. The woman raised her gloved hands and clapped slowly three times.

  “Bravo,” she said dryly and stepped down. The man in the beige trench coat followed her. Agnes swallowed. She’d almost developed tunnel vision and a strange, high-pitched whine was ringing in her ears. Now at least she knew that the evening wouldn’t get any worse. Lola had arrived.

  CHAPTER 32

  AGNES HURRIEDLY SERVED the coffees on her tray and then turned towards the couple, who were standing in the middle of the floor. It was the same Frenchman who had been there previously with Lola. This time he was more casually dressed; instead of a tie he had a silk cravat, knotted elegantly at the neck of his open shirt. Agnes nodded and said a muted “bon soir” before offering to take their coats. They sat down at a table without waiting to be shown to one, and each ordered a drink before Agnes had time to ask: he a dry martini again and she a Kir Royal. Agnes couldn’t bring herself to point out that they didn’t have Kir Royal. Instead, she went out to the bar and took a bottle of Pol Roger from the fridge. It would be the most expensive Kir Royal she’d ever served, Agnes reflected as she carefully pried out the cork. A whole bottle of Champagne for one lousy glass, contaminated, what’s more, with blackcurrant liquor. She hoped that Kalle would forgive her; hopefully, it was money well spent.

  On the way back with the drinks, she noticed that David was still sitting waving at her. When she’d served the expensive aperitifs, she excused herself and went over to David’s table.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” she said smiling, although her heart wasn’t much in it. David smiled back. He didn’t seem angry.

  “I think I’ll try the tuna fish today,” he said, shutting the menu.

  “Tuna fish, OK.… Otherwise, I can fully recommend the fresh tagliatelle with saffron and scampi,” she tried. She expected that on his third attempt Rolf would be able to do the pasta so that it was at least a half-decent imitation of the original.

  “I know, it’s good, but… I still think I’ll have the tuna fish. I haven’t eaten it before.” He smiled at her and handed her the menu. Agnes took it from him.

  “Of course,” she said and once again thanked her rather ill-fated star that it was only David Kummel who was the guinea pig this time. Before she made it to the kitchen with his order, she caught Lola out of the corner of her eye trying to attract her attention with a discreet yet elegant gesture of her hand.

  “We are ready to order,” she said with a glance at the Frenchman sitting across from her at the table. “N’est-ce pas?” He nodded. “Monsieur here would like the beef skewers with roasted vegetables. What, incidentally, are the vegetables?”

  “Potatoes, carrots.…” Her mind went blank and she was unable to name a single vegetable more, despite the mix containing quite a few different sorts. “Er.…” She tried to visualize the dish in front of her. “Courgette, aubergine, and beetroot,” she finally managed. A little too quickly, too, so she had to repeat what she’d said. Neither Lola nor the Frenchman asked any further questions.

  “I’ll take the tuna fish myself.”

  Agnes coughed. There she was, thinking that the evening had reached its nadir. But the time of trials was clearly not yet over. “Otherwise, I can recommend.…”

  “Sorry?” The woman raised an eyebrow. That was all it took. Agnes understood the hint. Lola had ordered tuna fish and there was no reason for Agnes to recommend anything else, as if the guest didn’t know what was best for her. Which she probably didn’t. Agnes just nodded s
lowly and on upon request recommended a wine to go with the dishes. Then she went out to the kitchen.

  Rolf was still holding a bottle of beer in his hand, but now there were two empties on the counter top beside him. Agnes gave him the orders.

  “Take the skewers and the tuna fish first,” she said. Actually, David’s order should have been prepared first, but he’d just have to wait. This was an emergency. She couldn’t even be bothered to tell Rolf that it was an important order. She had a feeling that it wouldn’t make any difference.

  She went back to the dining room and received payment from the family, who thanked her for a lovely meal before leaving. Agnes suspected that they just said that out of politeness. Another couple arrived, the ones who had pre-booked. They grew a little embarrassed when they saw how few diners there were. The reservation had hardly been necessary. Agnes didn’t have the energy to worry any more. She tried to be as cordial as she could; the food she could do nothing about and whatever it was that was going on in the kitchen at that moment was beyond her control.

  The moment of truth eventually arrived, and the dishes stood ready in the hatch. The plate with the skewers didn’t look at all bad, if you ignored the parsley. Rolf had remembered to roll them in sesame seeds, which he’d forgotten to do the first time, and the vegetables looked reasonably fresh. Agnes lifted the skewers a little so that they rested on the vegetables instead of lying flat on the plate, a layout that was much more modern-looking. And then she inspected the other plate. It was only because she knew it was meant to be tuna fish that she was able to identify the gray, so-called cutlet swimming around in a pool of surplus frying fat. The asparagus risotto accompanying it was an oversized pile of brownish rice pudding with peas instead of asparagus.

  “I couldn’t find the asparagus,” said Rolf curtly, as if he suspected Agnes of not being completely pleased with his choice of replacement.

  “And what have you done to the fish, may I ask?”

  “Grilled it. Chucked a little barbecue spice on it and then five minutes on each side. I tasted a bit. You’d never even believe it was fish,” he said, pleased with himself.

  “But it is fish, and it’s meant to be fish!” Agnes almost screamed. “Have you already started on the other one?”

  “Nope.”

  Agnes made a quick appraisal. “OK, lemon and sea salt and then you rub in the rosemary oil in that bottle there. And then grill it, quickly, no more than three minutes each side. Tuna fish is very sensitive, it dries out straight away if you fry it for too long.” Rolf started to sulk. “Now!” shouted Agnes. “They’re waiting. Their skewers are getting cold.” Rolf got going on the fish. Agnes sampled the risotto, which tasted like brown rice pudding with peas. “You’ll have to serve the fish with the roasted vegetables, too,” she said brusquely. “We can’t use this gunk.” She didn’t care any longer about whatever chef’s honor Rolf might possess. When he was ready with the fish, he laid it out on a plate with the vegetables. “Lemon, too,” pointed out Agnes, who’d remained in the kitchen to supervise the process. Rolf cut a thin slice, halved it, and lay it on the fish with the ends pointing in opposite directions as if it was a tea room prawn sandwich he was garnishing. “Not like that,” hissed Agnes. “It’s got to be a thick slice. And it’s not meant to lie on the fish but to one side of it.” Rolf replaced the segment and Agnes snatched the plate with the skewers, too. It had been sitting under the infrared light and she hoped that it hadn’t gotten too cold.

  As she served the food, Lola looked up enquiringly at her.

  “I thought it came with asparagus risotto.”

  “I do apologize, there must have been a misunderstanding in the kitchen. I can ask chef to prepare the risotto, but it will take a little time.” Agnes crossed her fingers as the woman in the herringbone jacket looked disapprovingly at the plate in front of her.

  “Well, I guess this will have to do,” she said at last. As if she’d just agreed to swallow a live grasshopper. Agnes wished them bon appétit and removed herself from the table. Then she noticed David Kummel sitting at his table waving a little cautiously. Agnes had forgotten all about him. She walked briskly over to his table.

  “Just one moment, your food is on its way,” she said apologetically and hurried out to the kitchen. “Have you got any more tuna fish?” she asked Rolf, who was now on his fourth beer.

  “No, that’s all I thawed.”

  Agnes looked at the plate with the first tuna fish that was lying under the infra red. It didn’t look appetizing. “Put a few more roasted vegetables on a plate and cut another huge slice of lemon,” she ordered. Rolf did as she said. Gently, she lifted the tuna fish onto a sheet of paper towels to absorb a bit of the grease, and then she laid it on the new plate and carefully poured on a few coils of the rosemary oil. Finally, she added the lemon segment and carried out the lightly disguised fish to the waiting guest. Yet again she had to apologize for the lack of risotto. David wasn’t as hard to please as Lola, and just nodded and said it was OK.

  Lola and the Frenchman had finished their meals. When it was time to clear the table, Agnes forced herself to ask if it tasted all right. The Frenchman nodded appreciatively, Lola said nothing. Agnes detected that she was still in a mood about not getting the risotto, but that couldn’t be helped. Under the circumstances she’d have to consider herself lucky to have had anything to eat at all. But of course that was something she couldn’t say: one didn’t talk about vomiting chefs with one’s restaurant critics. Or about beer-swilling vagrants in the kitchen. Instead, she took their orders for tiramisu and espresso, and left their table with slightly trembling knees. It’d soon all be over.

  When the door slammed shut behind Lola and her French companion, Agnes sighed so loudly that the remaining guests turned to see what had happened. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The restaurant visit hadn’t been a successful one. By way of comfort, she tried to convince herself that it hadn’t been a disaster either. But that was, to be honest, a matter of definition.

  Still at his table in the corner sat David Kummel. He hadn’t complained about his fish, although Agnes saw that less as a compliment to the fish than as a result of her neighbor’s reserved personality. She was suddenly overcome with a tremendous sense of gratitude towards the lonely figure at the table. She walked over to him.

  “I’m sorry the service hasn’t been so good this evening,” she said, although mentioning nothing about the food. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed anything, in which case it was unnecessary to bring it up. “Can I offer you a dessert by way of compensation? Or a coffee? Or both, perhaps?”

  David lit up. “Why, how nice of you. Yes, please.”

  “Would you like to see the menu?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll have the tiramisu. And an espresso, if I may?”

  “Of course.” Agnes went into the kitchen, where she found Rolf sitting on a stool. He was quite red in the face and was sweating profusely. The number of bottles on the counter top had risen considerably since she’d last been there. She plucked an individual bowl of Kalle’s tiramisu from the fridge, sprinkled a little cocoa over it and placed it on a dish. Then she went out to the bar and made a double espresso. After serving David, she took payment from the last remaining couple. Then she went back and told Rolf that he could go. She’d deal with the kitchen herself, once she was finally rid of that malodorous drunkard who’d abused both their ingredients and their reputation that evening.

  She handed him two hundred kronor. He protested. He wanted at least five. Agnes hesitated a moment and then added another hundred. She pointed at the colony of empty bottles on the top. “There’s your other two hundred,” she said as firmly as she could. She wasn’t used to being the one handing out the money. However, her argument seemed to work; Rolf grunted sourly, but removed Kalle’s chef’s jacket and threw it over the chair. He then fetched his own scruffy leather jacket and left the kitchen. Agnes followed him and locked the door behind him when he’d gone.


  “Jesus Christ…,” she said half aloud to herself. It was only then that she remembered David Kummel, who was still sitting at his place in the corner, and following her with his eyes.

  “Who was that?” he asked, pointing at the door through which Rolf, surname unknown, had just passed.

  “You don’t want to know,” answered Agnes wearily.

  “OK.” David nodded. “But may I ask if he had anything to do with the fact that my tuna fish tasted of Knorr All Purpose Seasoning?” He looked gravely at her, and then broke into a smile. Agnes, who was trying to keep a straight face, couldn’t help smiling, too. And then she started to giggle.

  “Knorr All Purpose Seasoning, is that what you said?”

  “Yes. Or possibly barbecue spice mix.” He laughed. Agnes, too.

  “I’ve no idea,” she managed at last. “But I’ll ask him next time I bump into him on a park bench.” Agnes was laughing so much that she had started to hiccup. At what, she didn’t actually know. The whole thing was just so insane. Chefs with the runs, an alcoholic in the kitchen, a critic in the dining room, and then she, who had to try to piece everything together. The laughter died down, and she sat herself down on a chair beside David’s table. “Was it that bad?” she finally asked and looked in dejection at David.

  “I mean, it.…” He tried to worm his way out but gave up. “Yes, sort of…,” he answered at last. “It was lucky at least that you didn’t have many guests this evening,” he said in an attempt to comfort her.

  Agnes sighed. “It’s not how many guests that were here that counts, but which… Did you see those two there?” she asked after a moment’s silence, pointing to the empty table where Lola and her companion had sat. David nodded. “Do you know who that was?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Sweden’s most influential food critic.”