Vanilla Salt

by Ada Parellada

  In the afternoons she’ll deal with management matters, mainly promoting the restaurant on the Internet and balancing the books. Her main objective is to pay off all the debts. It will be a heavy cross to bear, but they can’t afford to be labelled as debt dodgers. They must work to gain a good reputation. They’ll stop concentrating on customers from elsewhere, the ones that slavishly follow food guides in their quest to find top-of-the-range restaurants. They must attract local customers, town residents, people with holiday and weekend homes, office staff from the industrial estates and families on a weekend outing. Nevertheless, she’ll still keep trying to spread Antic Món’s fame as widely as she can, because, after all, they are on a main road and should make the most of that to include travellers among their customers.

  Her monologue has been a cross between an economics class and instructions on how to harvest a field of potatoes; between a complicated spit-roasted fillet and the simplicity of bread with olive oil.

  Annette takes a sip of her beer, and Àlex, taking advantage of the pause, can’t resist sarcasm.

  “Is that the end of the speech, Madame?”

  “No, I tell you one thing more.” Annette is now losing her grip and, staring at her shaky hands, realizes that she can’t put it off any longer. “We will have the new name. We call restaurant Roda el Món,” she whispers.

  There is a tense silence. Àlex doesn’t react, as if he’s not affected by such a major change. Now he’s just a simple worker in this rebaptized Round the World restaurant, and that’s how he plans to act.

  “Listen, I don’t care about the bookkeeping, or your philosophy, or anything you decide. Not even about the name you’ve chosen for the restaurant. I’m here to work, cook and do my job well.”

  “But you little bit owner,” she says.

  “Ah, yes? A little bit? What’s my share: that chair and a couple of saucepans? It’s as if you’re telling me you’re a little bit my lover. I want all of you, not just an arm or a finger or just fifteen minutes a day. I want your whole body and your whole soul. You might think I crave too much, but I’m not willing to eat just the lobster’s antennae. I want the whole thing. Today, right now, I am a cook. Just a cook. To begin with, I want a salary and, by the way, you haven’t told me how much it will be yet. Second, I have the right to two days off per week, like any worker in any company. Most of all, I want to get down to the job. So move your arse and go and get some ingredients. I need some raw materials. These fridges are pitiful.”

  His gruff response makes Annette feel more relaxed, because the Àlex she knows is starting to appear. She knows how to cope with this character. His passive, compliant behaviour throws her off balance. She prefers the consistently cantankerous, prickly, cagey Àlex. Ignoring the sentimental part of his outburst, she hands him pen and paper.

  “OK. You put list and I buy things for you start cooking.”

  She waits patiently while Àlex writes a seemingly endless list, then picks up the basket and, walking to the door, says, “I back after half hour.” The excuse of needing to shop is a godsend. She doesn’t know how to continue the conversation, and having to go out is the best way to clear away the soupy mist that is swirling around her brain. There’s no doubt about it: she has an extra, major responsibility, and that is trying to keep their damaged relationship on an even keel.

  It’s impossible to buy everything on Àlex’s list, so Annette makes a selection, a concentrated version of the food he wants. He’s put ten kilos of sugar on the list, so she ignores the zero and drops one kilo of own-brand sugar into the basket. She’ll only be bountiful when the supermarket has a special offer, which is the case with the hake. She buys two of them instead of the red sea bream Àlex has asked for.

  She is sure he’ll receive this cursing, swearing and trying to pick a fight, but things have changed now and she’s just shown who’s in charge. He can’t have everything he wants. Annette will supervise the shopping and all orders must be approved by her, however many rows that causes.

  Meanwhile, Àlex drains his beer. Since Annette’s not around, he opens another, gets a piece of paper to write out the first taster menu he’s going to cook. He stares at the blank sheet and feels like a novelist with writer’s block. No brilliant idea comes to him. He always finds it hard to plan what he’s going to cook. He stares at the piece of paper for quite a while then opens his third beer, which he downs in nervous swigs. He writes down one dish, then another and feels encouraged. It looks as if he’s getting the yen to cook again. The doorbell rings. He hesitates before answering. After all, he’s not the boss now, but just the cook, and it’s not his job to open the door or attend to suppliers or even clients. But he’s never been able to resist the urge to know who’s on the other end of the phone call, or who’s standing outside his door.

  “Hi, Carol. What are you doing here? I can tell you right now that there’s nothing to eat.”

  “No probs. Calm down. I’m interested in other things beyond your cooking, for example a gorgeous redhead. I miss that cute little round bottom.”

  “Don’t even think about it. Keep away from her. Remember, we have a plan.”

  “Let me do things my way. This woman’s really attractive, but don’t worry, I’m not going to let her pull the wool over my eyes. I’m a big girl now and very experienced. I never mix love and business. In this case, there’s no room for love. I want to have my way with her, even if only a little, and it might even make our plan work better. I’ll soften her up till she’s nice and tame and trusting. What are you doing?”

  “Working out a kind of tasting menu. My boss is very demanding, but also very ingenuous, a combination that’s even more horrible than vodka with gin and pepper. She wants to make lentils taste like caviar. She’s crazy. There’s no need to apply our plan. She’s going to make a hash of this all by herself.”

  “Well, you certainly seem very perky. So where is your gorgeous boss?”

  “She’s trotted off to buy victuals with her little wicker basket,” he says caustically. “Our little airhead is environmentally aware.”

  “Can I help you to plan the menu? I know the latest trends, what customers want. Don’t forget: in most cases I’m the one who creates the fashions. I’ll sort you out a winner’s menu in two shakes of a lamb’s tail: fresh food, lots of veggies, traditional dishes with an ethnic touch and simple desserts. You have to make it profitable, easy to cook, appealing for old folk, trendies and pimply adolescents who have barely been weaned off McDonald’s.”

  “I’m not sure that I can.”

  “Of course you can. We need the place to work so you can earn a bit, keep Annette happy and, more importantly, make her think she’s got it right – and then we’ll hit her with your plan.”

  “You’re a diabolical strategist. OK then, let’s work out this crap menu. The fact is I’m lost. Sad, you know? I feel let down, I don’t give a damn about anything and I might as well start pushing up daisies now.”

  “Needless to say, you’ve got a massive depression, my lad. Anyone can see that a mile off. Just remember that this situation won’t last long. If we play our cards well, you’ll have the restaurant all to yourself again, plus your dignity.”

  “Carol, I want to ask you something. My aim here is understandable. I’m the hurt boss, the devastated chef who wants to get back what he believes is his, and by any means possible. But you… why do you want to get mixed up in this? You keep saying you’re crazy about this woman and you want her for yourself… and yet you want to destroy her, see her on her hands and knees, grovelling in the mud. It’s very contradictory.”

  “Let’s see if I can put my feelings into words. They’re very intense and run deep. She treated me badly. I can’t stand it when people don’t answer my calls. It’s not elegant. I just wanted to help her. She has to learn that I’m very important and that nobody messes around with me. In addition, I admire you and consider myself your friend. I want to support you,” Carol explains haltingly. “An
yway, I certainly understand my own position and consider it much more reasonable than yours. You’re in love with this woman, so it’s difficult to grasp why you want to ruin her. In fact, I’m sure you don’t know why either. You’ve got a great big mess of opposing feelings in your head. You really fancy Annette and would love to share your life with her, right now, if she agreed. You’d be the perfect couple, the kind clients love to see working together.”

  “Where did you get this bizarre idea that I’m in love with her?”

  “From your eyes. The way you look at her gives you away. And you’re such a wreck, a walking melodrama. You’re carrying on like a lovelorn loser.”

  The door of Antic Món opens and Annette appears carrying her basket with such a meagre amount of shopping it wouldn’t be enough to feed a childless widow. Carol greets her effusively, like a long-lost daughter who’s just returned from a gruelling voyage across many seas. While they chat, Àlex observes the scene. He’s shocked to see how unscrupulous Carol is. Less than a minute ago she was talking about how to ruin Annette’s life, and now she’s having a lively conversation with her. Annette’s explaining how she wants to manage the restaurant, the change of name, the new offers and the philosophy behind it all. Carol’s all ears. They’re both laughing as if they’re the best of friends. Are they?

  Àlex picks up the basket. He wants to start cooking, despite the wretched stock of ingredients. He puts things away in the cold room and his hair stands up on end to find, in the bottom of the basket, a bag of bright-red, explosive-red, blood-red tomatoes, the colour of horror. He’d love to hurl them out the window, so fuelled by his rage that they’d end up smashed against the front wall of Can Bret, staining it with the scarlet of shame, the crimson of insult. But he doesn’t touch them, as if they were bearers of some contagious disease. He leaves them in the basket and tries to forget about them. He’s got his work cut out in the kitchen. He lights the burners and the oven, gets out the chopping board and starts the ritual: he chops up all the onions, fast and expertly. He tips them into the casserole with a splash of oil and on a slow fire… It’s a metaphor for the gestation of his new life. The sofregit – the base for his sauces – is the beginning.

  Annette rushes into the kitchen, encouraged by her conversation with Carol.

  “Carol say she help us very much. She love new concept of restaurant. She say name also, Roda el Món, very good. What you cook?”

  “Nothing special. I’m starting with the basics. So she’s going to help us?” He changes the subject. “Wonderful. I’m sure she will. When do you want to open?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “And the new sign, when will you put it up?” Àlex asks bitterly.

  “Òscar he bring it today afternoon. He help clean also. You cook for us? I very hungry!”

  “No. Chefs never cook for the staff. You’ll have to do it yourself or get me an assistant to do it. Sorry.”

  “OK. I cook the lunch.” Annette understands that Àlex isn’t going to make it easy for her, but she’s determined not to let this stop her. Cooking lunch for two is not exactly difficult. She makes a salad and two bits of grilled pork fillet. She’s making a statement because, if she has to cook the staff lunches, they’re going to be on the lean side and extremely simple. It will be home cooking, which Àlex hates so much he almost starts dry-retching when he hears the words.

  They sit down to lunch. Annette’s not sure what to say. Àlex remains silent and seems relaxed, as if he’s eating alone. Annette would love to read the newspaper, so as not to have to deal with his muteness, but they don’t get the newspaper at Roda el Món, and they don’t even have something boring like a medical brochure to pass the time. She has only two options: either look at her salad or look at Àlex. In an attempt at relieving the tension, she asks Àlex what he’s been doing while the restaurant’s been closed, though she knows that he’s hardly likely to tell her. Much to her amazement, as he broodingly chews on his pork fillet, he starts to tell her a long, harrowing story. About his son. He tells it very naturally, without the slightest hint of drama or self-pity, as if he were describing how to make the meatball for the ancient Catalan soup escudella i carn d’olla.

  Àlex was very young, still living with his parents in Vielha, in Vall d’Aran. He wasn’t a very sociable kid. He had few friends and wasn’t much given to going to the disco with other boys of his age. He spent hours locked away in his room, reading.

  The next-door neighbours sold their house to a big family, nine altogether: the parents, four girls and three boys. The constant hustle and bustle of the newcomers fascinated the shy, tongue-tied adolescent, who watched them and even spied on them through his bedroom window, seeing how the girls laughed, sang, studied, bickered and immediately afterwards hugged each other. This house was full of life, a place where everyone seemed happy. It was so different from the drab, leaden atmosphere at Àlex’s place.

  Laura, one of the two middle sisters, had long straight hair falling like a mantle to cover her whole back. She parted it in the middle and held it off her face with clips on either side, showing a wide, clear forehead without the slightest line to betray past worries. It was a forehead with all the power of a fearless, certain future. It was her job to go and buy the bread every day.

  That day is engraved in Àlex’s memory, the day he saw her leaving the house, immediately after which he ran to the bakery, although they didn’t need bread. He introduced himself. “I live next door to you. My name’s Àlex.” The girl looked at him, picked up her five baguettes and the change and turned away from him without saying a word. But she did give him the merest suggestion of a smile. In Àlex’s imagination, that skimpy smile widened, turned into a burst of laughter and fuelled desire. Thereafter, he sought every possible opportunity to see the slim girl with clear green eyes and long straight hair held off her face with two clips. In summer she wore floral dresses, and in winter a three-quarter-length coat. He never bought anything at the bakery, but just burbled a few awkward words. She thought he was strange but, precisely because of his elusive character, furrowed forehead and apparent austerity, she was increasingly drawn to him.

  One day he plucked up the courage to invite her to have a beer with him. She accepted! In the bar, Àlex gazed at her in wonderment and adoration and, listening to her zestful, vivacious voice, instantly fell in love. Having a beer together after she bought the bread became a ritual. They drank a lot of beer, always watched over by five baguettes.

  Laura talked non-stop. She told him how much she hated the subjects she was taking at the high school. She often failed and, when her father punished her, retorted that she didn’t need to know how to work out stupid equations in order to be a painter. Maths could never tease out the mass of enigmatic colours of the landscape. Her world was blue when it was fine and red when it snowed, and her dream was to fly higher than the clouds crowning the mountains, go to faraway places and discover new colours. She’d never left the mountains, except for once when she was small and had an operation in the Lleida Hospital. Her imagination leapt over all barriers and that journey became a story in which she was the heroine. The hospital was the home of the White Knight who saw and struggled against the real evil: fetters on freedom. She endowed the doctor and all the nurses with magic powers, and a gang of elves and fairies set up house under her bed to defend her against all the germs that floated around looking for bodies to infect. In a little box under her pillow she kept the key, the one to open every door, the key of freedom. After her trip to Lleida, Laura wanted to stretch her wings, shake off the dingy dust and fly a long, long way away from the Vall d’Aran and its mists.

  Àlex was bewitched. He wanted to give her everything: a place where she could paint, a landscape full of colours, his heart, his soul and his body. Everything, for her and her alone.

  The months rolled by. They met in the bar, drank beer and dreamt of a faraway world. One day Laura asked him to meet her in the park. “I’ve got a joint. Let’s get ston
ed.” Àlex had never smoked hash before. He liked it and, as they clung together, he burned all his bridges.

  “Laura, let’s get away. We’ll go to some place a long way from here. We’ll live somewhere that’s yellow, green and purple, in a world that’s beyond blue and red, where there’s no mist to drain out the colour, where we’re not ringed in by mountains, where we’re not imprisoned by them as if they’re jailers holding us under lock and key.”

  Thus it was that Àlex went off to look for work in Barcelona, where he took the first job he was offered, as a kitchen hand in a good restaurant. He didn’t have a clue about cooking. So what? What really mattered was that if they scraped and saved, refrained from buying anything that wasn’t strictly necessary, his wages should be enough to rent a flat.

  Laura announced that she wanted to study Fine Arts at the University of Barcelona. She had to work hard to persuade her parents to let her go, and they only agreed when she promised them they wouldn’t have to pay anything except for the bus fare and her enrolment fees. Hers was a humble, working-class family with a lot of kids; if Laura’s desires didn’t represent too much of a financial drain, they’d let her go. In fact, her parents were more than busy trying to feed their family, so they didn’t ask too many questions, except to make sure that she had a roof over her head that they wouldn’t have to pay for.

  They lived in a tiny flat in the seaside neighbourhood of Barceloneta, and Laura soon got pregnant. Àlex paid the rent and nicked a bit of food from the restaurant, which he bore off home like a treasure. Laura painted grey mountains and green lakes and, when Àlex got home, they got stoned. They kept telling their parents that the city was a long way from Vall d’Aran, so they wouldn’t have to go back with the evidence of Laura’s growing belly.

  The baby was a boy, Laiex. They invented the name, because they were different from other people and not subject to social conventions or regulations. They didn’t want to get married, or register the child, or baptize him, or give him a saint’s name, as was expected of them. They wanted to be free and they became slaves: Laiex was born severely malformed and mentally disabled.