Vanilla Salt

by Ada Parellada

  Certainly, that was the main reason: wanting to be cherished. The anxiety of not knowing whether she’s capable of running the restaurant, her tense relationship with Àlex, the feeling of helplessness in a country she doesn’t know, the harrowing story of Àlex’s son and the threat that keeps her constantly alert have undermined her capacity for resistance. OK, maybe she’s got an iron will, which is how she likes to be seen, but her outside covering is tissue paper, which tears easily. That’s when water gets in and rusts the metal. Carol’s caresses were balm for her wounds, a delightful hot bath after a hard day’s work in the snow.

  “Hey, boss, you’re turning into a dormouse! Wake up! I’m going to make champignon soufflé for your menu today as the cuisine d’auteur dish. I hope we don’t get any customers with the slightest idea of good food, because they’ll piss themselves laughing,” Àlex says too loudly. He’s trying to snap her out of her reverie.

  “Champignon soufflé? Good idea!” she responds.

  For Àlex, a mushroom soufflé is painfully, insultingly simple. Once the champignons are cooked, he mixes them into a béchamel sauce and adds the egg yolks. He beats the egg whites until they’re stiff and gently folds them into the mixture he’s prepared. He carefully butters a few individual ramekins, fills them with his concoction, ready to be kept in the fridge until some customer asks for the dish. He’ll then cook them in a very hot oven until the beaten egg whites take effect and puff up the soufflé. One serving of this dish doesn’t cost more than fifty cents to produce, and they can charge ten times more on the menu. Good business. If they have customers.

  This is the Roda el Món’s first day and they’re not expecting anyone. Annette has covered the door with blackboards and signs announcing a ten-euro menu, a special offer on the occasion of the “reopening”. Customers can choose from ten dishes. The culinary range is diverse and, in Àlex’s view, incoherent. It’s a potpourri menu to please all tastes, with everything from cuisine d’auteur to ethnic dishes and grilled meat. There’s no clear line, as Annette’s main aim is to listen to the customer, after which she’ll work out which are the most popular dishes. Then they’ll only cook what sells.

  Naturally, Àlex doesn’t agree with this jumble, but he’s resolutely promised himself that he won’t interfere in the “philosophy” of Roda el Món. Let them do what they like and fuck it up all by themselves. He’s just a cook. He doesn’t have to offer an opinion and nobody cares what he thinks anyway.

  “You look tired, Annette. Haven’t you slept well?” His tone is spiteful. He heard snippets of the intimate party in Annette’s room. His was a long night of insomnia mixed with unspeakable nightmares in which he was the main ingredient in a dish smothered in tomato sauce. Hordes of carnivorous insects were nibbling at him. This nightmare was mixed up with another one in which some freckled redheads tied him hand and foot and, holding his nose, made him eat red and green peppers, whole and still covered with dirt from the garden.

  Discovering that his beloved Annette is involved with his “partner in crime” has only heightened the effects of the nightmare, tormenting him with a feeling of irrecoverable loss. He thought, was convinced, that Annette fancied him, that he’d sown in her a tender seed that, with care and attention, would keep growing until it flowered into brilliant love. That’s what he thought and now he’s wounded at having been as naive as a secondary-school kid. It’s not so much that he’s lost the woman he desires, but he’s fallen into the trap of the illusion of love. He tries to mask his disappointment in irony.

  “Yes, I feel tired. I sleep little,” Annette says laconically.

  “And Carol? I suppose she hardly slept either,” he insinuates. “She must have left very late.”

  “Yes, little bit late.” Annette is serious. “You listen, Àlex. My life it for me. You, your life for you.” She tries to bring the conversation to an end. “Yesterday night you no eat blueberry crumble.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t feel like it yesterday. Is there any left? I’ll try some now. It’s not a very beautiful dessert. The colours are too dark and it looks clunky. Do you plan to serve it in the restaurant?”

  “Yes, of course. This my favourite dessert. It very gorgeous. You try. Plenty remain.”

  Àlex takes a mouthful, savours it, ponders it and finally pronounces, “Your desserts are very good, Madame. They have a certain appeal, so authentic, so rustic. If you’ll let me, we could add some walnut ice cream. Mint sauce would go well with it too. Your style would look very English.”

  His tongue has run away with him. He had no intention of showing any interest in the desserts and still less in suggesting any improvements. But he’s blurted it out. He thinks the recipe is very interesting, different, fun, with its juicy base of tart blueberries and the sweet crunchy topping, which holds out so many possibilities. Realizing that he’s been too nice, he finishes with one of his crasser outbursts. “Be careful. I might just throw myself at you any minute. I’m sure you mixed aphrodisiacs into the flour and blueberries and Carol innocently wolfed them down. You’re very cunning.”

  Àlex is having a great time shooting his poison arrows. He wants war, which Annette knows all too well, but she’s not going to give him the pleasure. She wants mutual respect and achieving it is an extremely arduous task.

  “I very tired. You no sing now when you cook.”

  That’s true. Àlex has made his soufflés in silence, which means that for all his sarcasm, something’s bothering him. Annette’s words are now being replayed in an endless loop in his head: “You no sing now when you cook.” He doesn’t want to be so easy to read, and she’s seen through him thanks to one small detail. He’ll have to make an effort to sing so the boss won’t be able to diagnose his state of mind. He thinks about it, concentrates on the problem, as if working out an equation with three factors dancing round: Laiex, restaurant and Annette. Now he’s got to identify the hidden element, namely what’s bugging him.

  He’s upset because, since the restaurant has reopened, he hasn’t been able to visit his son as regularly as he’s become accustomed to. There’s no way that Laiex is aware of his visits, and still less of the fact that Àlex is his father. Laiex doesn’t recognize anyone. Neither does he respond to his carer’s shows of affection, which she doles out more as routine than because she really cares about Laiex. Nevertheless, Àlex is comforted by his visits to his son and feels more at peace with the world because he can help the nuns who so generously took in his little monster without asking any questions about where the poor child came from, or who he was.

  Leaving the convent, Àlex drives back to Bigues i Riells in silence. He doesn’t turn on the radio or even put on music. This is a time for thinking, meditating but also for praying and crying. He loves his son and that’s all he can do. He feels immense sadness, endless yearning and infinite gratitude towards the people who took in the baby, when he, the real monster, abandoned him at the convent door.

  He’s also worried about the restaurant. Of course he is. Despite his struggle not to show it outwardly and to erase any possible sentimental bond with Roda el Món, he can’t help feeling partly involved. He has to make a gigantic effort not to start cleaning, not to help the poor exhausted girl and, in particular, not to cook any more than necessary.

  He’d gladly cook up miracles out of nothing, from almost no ingredients. He can do it. He has the gift. He dreams up a fantastic garlic sauce to go with the shepherd’s dish of golden pan-friend breadcrumbs, migas, which is now a popular first course with extraordinary personality and flavour, and it costs almost nothing. But he doesn’t want to fall into the trap. He has a plan and his plan is to sink Annette. He has to be strong and make sure it works.

  But Annette, she’s so deliciously Annette…

  He’s bothered by Annette. Well, not exactly. It’s not Annette herself that’s getting to him, but the fact that he’s so attracted to her. He’s thrown off balance by the battle his heart is waging against his reason. Reason is
urging him to destroy her and his heart is plotting to wreck the plan and is protecting his beloved Annette, this lively, laughing, sweet, strong girl. Of all her virtues, the one Àlex most admires springs from the same soil as the great quality of the Cottolengo nuns: unconditional generosity with no questions asked. Clear, white, pure, unblemished generosity.

  He isn’t generous – on the contrary. Knowing that he’s driven by infinite jealousy disturbs him, because it unequivocally betrays his selfishness. He wants Annette all to himself. He’d thought that it would be a matter of days, an adolescent flirtation that would lead them through stormy waters to arrive safe and sound in a safe port of sweetly drifting breezes. He’d been led to believe this by Annette’s gestures, her laughter, her mild rebukes, her intentionally subtle comments and, more than anything else, because she’d forgiven all his boorish outbursts. He was completely wrong. He hadn’t foreseen that she’d prefer Carol. He’s been a fool. However, despite his unrequited love, he’s happy about one thing: he’s still able to love. He’d thought that the years had destroyed any capacity for reaction in his shrivelled heart. He’s comforted by the knowledge that he’s still someone who can love and not just hate, and yet he’s suffering too. He regrets having let Annette go without trying to win her. But maybe he never had a chance with her. His head’s all over the place, full of contradictions and conflicting feelings. The only thing he’s sure about is that he’s been rejected, but he never imagined betrayal would come in the form of Annette’s getting together with Carol.

  Àlex checks the time. He’s been lost in thought for quite a while and it’s getting late. They should have some lunch. The restaurant has to open in forty-five minutes and Annette’s gone shopping. It seems there was no mineral water for the customers! The truth is that when the restaurant closed it had a very bad name. He has debts. A lot of debts. The suppliers don’t want to come back until he’s paid off what he owes them. Poor Annette’s got a big pile of shit to clean up. Someone rings the doorbell.

  “Hey, Albert! Great to see you! How are you?” Àlex asks happily.

  Albert is a ponytailed farmer with a social and environmental conscience, as reflected in his products. He supplied the Antic Món’s vegetables until just before Àlex closed it, when he realized that he hadn’t been paid for six months. It went very much against the grain to stop. He’s hopeless at keeping the books and absent-minded in general, but he’s also a true, highly perfectionist farmer who loves growing things and driving round in his van full of potatoes, tomatoes and silver beet. He’s so passionate about his work that anyone would think he’s holding a work by Picasso in his hand instead of a bunch of spinach.

  “Hello, chef. I was just passing by and saw the new sign. Well, man, that’s a big change, but you know what I think? It’s a good idea. People will be curious and want to try it. We were all a bit tired of all that swanky stuff you were doing.”

  “Swanky, me?” Àlex is annoyed. “I didn’t cook posh stuff. I did cuisine d’auteur. The problem is that the people round here have ignorant palates.”

  “Àlex, listen, man, you live off the people round here. Look at Can Bret. They’re full every day and weekends too. The people in the new estates love going there to eat their grilled meat, calçots and trinxat. That’s proper Catalan cooking and that’s what people like.”

  “They haven’t got a clue what proper Catalan cooking is. But never mind. Right now I’m not in the mood for any debate about the fine points of food in this country.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. We all know that calçots have only been around for no more than a hundred years and that trinxat is like what they call bubble and squeak in England, but here we charge for it as if it’s made of truffles, because that’s what people want.”

  “Right, lad, but if we all cooked the same, there’d be no point in going from one restaurant to another.”

  “OK, that’s true, but you don’t have to go to the other extreme. One of the problems of Antic Món was the price. You made clients pay for a steak as if the animal had a PhD, or was a doctor in medicine even. And your French omelette was priced as though the eggs were made of gold.”

  “Look here, I was cooking—” Àlex starts.

  “Listen man, cut this arrogant shit. You did what you wanted and you had to close down. By the way, you owe me money. You’re in debt to half the town.”

  “The restaurant’s not mine any more.” Àlex doesn’t want to know about debts. “It belongs to that redhead who used to be my kitchen hand.”

  “What! You mean I have to run after her to get my money? Maybe she can pay me in kind. I mean very kindly…” Albert chuckles loudly and winks at Àlex.

  “Don’t even think about it. Go to bed with her and you’ll end up looking like beetroot juice. Watch it!”

  “Wow! I can see you fancy her yourself. OK then, I’ll have to keep finding my fun with the little red-light ladies in Barcelona. That one of yours, Gladys, has done me the odd favour. We should plan one of our luscious little outings like we used to. What about it?”

  “That’d be good. Haven’t been for a while.” Àlex thinks aloud.

  “While you’re thinking about it, I’ll leave you a box of cabbages that one of the restaurants doesn’t want. I don’t know what to do with it, but I’m sure you’ll find a use for them.”

  “You’re a good guy, Albert. Thanks. Look, the new boss of… Roda el Món’s arriving. That’s what the place is called now, I believe,” Àlex says sourly.

  Annette walks in with a basket full of vegetables.

  “Hello Albert.”

  “Hi Annette. What are you doing laden down with all that stuff? Those vegetables are horrible, tasteless and full of pesticide! You should have asked me. I’ll deliver them at the door.”

  “We owe you money so no can ask vegetables. We pay, but little bit time.” Annette looks embarrassed and hurries into the dining room, so as not to have to think about debts.

  “What did she say?” Albert asks Àlex.

  “She doesn’t want to ask you for anything, because we owe you money. She said she wants to pay you but she needs a bit of time,” Àlex translates. “That girl will never learn Catalan, though she’s a lot better now than she was!”

  “Do what you think best. If you need anything, you know where I am. Àlex, think about my idea about getting away for some fun and games, OK?”

  “I’m not in the mood right now. But of course, if I go to see Gladys, I’ll let you know. We used to have fun, eh? Bye, Albert, I have to get to work. Yeah man, plenty of work. No one’s going to turn up.”

  “Bye, Àlex. Take care and phone me, right? Oh yes, and cook up those cabbages!”

  Annette’s waiting for him at the table. She’s reheated the lentils left over from yesterday, as she’s determined not to waste a crumb.

  “At this rate we won’t need to spend a cent on gas. We can run the place on farts. How many more days do we have to eat lentils?”

  “They good and the good health.”

  “Actually they’re very good. What did you put in them?”

  “Tomato sofregit.” Freckles shimmying and waiting for him to start swearing, Annette meets his gaze.

  “How revolting. I saw you had some in your basket. Listen to me, girl, do whatever you like. Stuff as many tomatoes and potatoes as you can fit into your ill-treated American stomach. Feed your customers with that shit but leave me out of it. From now on I’m not going to eat anything you cook. I have no desire to die of food poisoning. You make your own lunch and I’ll have whatever I fancy. And you don’t have to worry about tallying up because I’ll pay for my lunch out of my pocket. I’d rather eat eggshells than your perfidious bloody food. As for that unspeakable red ball that looks like a clown’s nose, the illustrious Josep Pla said it all: it’s befouled the fine food of this country and spread its stench through all its traditional dishes.” Àlex has worked himself up into one of his rages. His face is crimson.

  “Your fa
ce it go like tomato,” Annette whispers, trying to stifle an attack of giggles.

  Àlex stands up, throws all the lentils on his plate into the rubbish bin and sets about chopping a kilo of onions without another word.

  Annette, unflustered and apparently serene, savours her hefty serving of lentils as she tells Àlex a story. “The conquistador Hernán Cortés had obsession to bring king and queen many exotic products because they no have spices. He look indigenous people eat but he no taste. He afraid allergic problem and he think he be superior for to eat this, but he must to take to Castile and Aragon Crown new things, because they pay lot of money, big investment. He feel shame only take Aztec plant with yellow fruit they call tomatl. He lucky too, because he rob gold from big chief and he take to Spain. This the sixteen century and they total reject the tomato, strange plant, the exotic leaves and it from same poison family belladonna. In Italy they call it pomodoro, like apple of gold for form and colour. But they no like it in Peninsula of Iberia till nineteen century when Jesuits they bring it in colour red, beautiful like now. If it travel so much even with many obstacles it no can be barbaric plant.”

  “And how come you’ve got all this vocabulary in Catalan all of a sudden?” Àlex is surprised.

  “I speak good when I know what I say. I study food anthropology for Catalonia in Quebec, so books I read they Catalan. I learn some paragraphs par cœur. Many things I know in history of food I know in this language. And you, why you cry last night?” She stares searchingly at him.

  “Those lentils really moved me, because they taste just like the ones my mother made. They took me back to my childhood, the kitchen table where my brother and I had lunch. I still miss them…”

  10

  POTATO FLOWERS

  All melancholy things, which may cause sadness, ought to be avoided [at the table].

  ERASMUS OF ROTTERDAM