by R. A. Padmos
Betty nodded. “Such an adventure.”
Molly poured two cups of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
Yes to both, again as from one mouth.
“Shall we go outside? The air is lovely and as cute as this house is, it quickly gets a bit stuffy with more than one or two people. I do pretty much all of my living outside as long as it doesn’t rain.” Molly quickly set up a couple of chairs and a small table on the grass. “Here you go, ladies.”
Michaela sipped her coffee. “Something tells me you might be as good a cook as you are at making coffee.”
“I have my moments.”
“Then you will enjoy eating at the restaurant of the Seatown hotel tonight. I’m not giving away anything more, but this might become one of those nights…” Betty smiled and tapped her wife’s arm. “Come, dear. I’m sure our young guest has much to do.”
“How formally should I dress?”
“It’s not a posh place. Nothing in Seatown is, to be honest. Old folks, a few fisher families, a couple of artists and writers, some leftover hippies, that’s about it. Simply go and experience the food.”
Chapter Three
Molly looked around. The seating area of the restaurant was an intimate affair with places for hardly more than two dozen guests. It looked clean and well taken care of, though she wasn’t quite sure if the decorations were genuine relics going back at least half a century or ironic statements.
“Welcome. Betty said you would be one of our guests tonight. I’m Jill. Together with my husband, Bert, I own this hotel annex restaurant. You are new here,” the owner said. “So I will start with some explaining. On this night the chef has a free hand. There is no menu to choose from. It’s about the experience. Trust. You pay upfront. If you think at the end of the night it wasn’t worth the money, then you are invited to a free meal à la carte on an evening of your choice.”
Molly nodded enthusiastically. “I love this idea. This isn’t the first time you are organizing this, I see no empty tables and that’s impressive, because I know no-shows can be a problem, and guests generally don’t like having nothing to choose from.”
“You work in the industry?”
“Would it make a difference?”
“Not to Chef.”
Molly suddenly noticed something highly unusual. “Is there a reason why every guest has his or her own individual table?”
“You are a sharp observer. Usually this restaurant is known for its rather social atmosphere, but tonight we do things a bit differently. Tonight it’s all about approaching the food without distraction or influence from friends. I won’t tell you anything about the dishes you’re about to eat. You have to find out all on your own.”
Molly smiled when the owner placed the first dish in front of her. It was a spoon filled with a cream-colored foam. She tried to get an impression of the scent, but it was so neutral that she had no real idea if she was going to taste something savory or sweet. What else to do but to open her mouth and let the adventure happen? Sweet, definitely sweet. Not like simple sugar, much richer and more complicated than that, though she could not find the source for that particular sweetness in the catalog of tastes she had acquired in the twenty-six years of her existence.
Suddenly the bitterness hit her for a fraction of a second and she could believe it had been all in her imagination, except for the fact that it must have been there. She heard sounds of surprise, even shock, from the other guests, only to be followed by sighs of pleasure and a not quite successfully suppressed giggle here and there. The final note was as sweet as the first.
“That was quite special,” she said to Jill, who set the next plate on her table.
“I know.”
The simplicity of the dish was almost shocking. A piece of cod placed perfectly in the center of a white plate and surrounded by an equally perfect circle of melted butter. Molly couldn’t quite decide if this was ultimate pride or unpretentiousness in overdrive. There was no way of knowing until she took a bite. She immediately knew. This was brutal honesty. There was nothing to hide behind, no clever trick or amusing detail to distract from any imperfection. The fish and the butter had to be just right or it all came apart. It was enough to either destroy or make the reputation of a cook.
Molly wanted to jump up, run to the kitchen and kiss the hands of the person who had made this dish. This experience might change the direction of her life once again. The first time had been when Aunt Marguerite, herself a chef, had taken her to a restaurant and she had tasted the same fish prepared with the same flawlessness. Molly would have met the chef, if it hadn’t been for the fact that her aunt never announced her presence when she ate at the restaurant of a colleague. Instead, she would wait a few days and send a card with a compliment.
It must have been the same cook. Of course, the almost ten years of life lived and experience gained was obvious for someone focused on the minute details of cooking, but the distinctive style was unmistakable.
Her mind went back to that dinner with Aunt Marguerite, who had said, “Chiara Loss was the best sous-chef who ever worked in my restaurant. She stayed for only a year, but what a year it was.”
Chiara Loss…
She respected the work of this chef too much to bother her while she had to remain at maximum concentration, but she was going to try her hardest to meet her. At worst she could simply say hi from Aunt Marguerite, and at best… Who knew what wonderful things were possible?
Molly ate in slow, silent enjoyment. She knew for certain she had found Chef Loss. Now all she had to do was convince her to teach Molly how to cook at the next level.
The next dish was filled with an exuberance of colors. Orange and red and greens and yellow and purple looked as fresh as if no cooking process had had a chance to influence their color, while the taste of every single vegetable and potato was simply as it should be.
A small bowl filled with rice formed the next course. Molly closed her eyes and again ate with slow dedication, concentrating on every step of the process to get this food for poor and rich alike to her table.
Dish after dish followed, and everything was just enough to leave a good impression of the hand of the cook without taking up so much space that there would be nothing left for the next course. A small mother-of-pearl spoon of high-quality caviar complemented with a glass of very dry champagne. A piece of fried chicken. Fresh-from-the boat clams, eelgrass, scallops, cockles, lobster and crab served with aioli. Smoked sausage with mustard. A single bite of apple pie served with a spoon of divine vanilla ice cream. Pieces of fruit in a rich abundance of color and taste.
Molly put down her spoon with a sigh of pure satisfaction. This had been a meal to remember for the rest of her life.
“You had a good evening?” Jill asked.
“Can I speak to the chef?” She had to give it a try, even though she could guess the answer.
“I’m truly sorry, but Chef prefers not to meet with our guests. But I’m more than happy to convey any compliments or complaints.”
“I have nothing but compliments for the chef. It was wonderful.”
“She’ll appreciate that.”
* * * *
Molly looked once more into the storage to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. Her chef coat and toque to show she was at least familiar with the basic rules, and her own knives, because why would a self-respecting chef use anything else but her own set? It should be enough for now.
The next problem, a serious one, was how to get into the kitchen. She wasn’t worried that Chef Loss wouldn’t be there, but what if she wouldn’t even be allowed inside to say hello and goodbye? She respected any woman’s right to be left alone, but it would break her heart to be this close and yet so far that the distance between them might just as well be a thousand miles instead of a single door.
Molly soon discovered luck was on her side. The reception area of the hotel was empty and so she gathered all her courage, walked through the door to the restaurant, and
finally she entered the kitchen.
“Excuse me, Chef Loss, I’m Molly Knowles and I’m here to introduce myself. I’m a young chef on a journey through the country. Please allow me into your kitchen,” Molly intended to say to the white-clothed back of a tall woman with short, almost black hair, but all that came out of her mouth was, “I am Molly Knowles. Please, marry me.”
Chapter Four
Wanting equally to run away to the safety of the Tiny Blue House, as to stay and battle it out, Molly forced herself to look around to see the environment in which Chiara Loss had hidden herself. Because it was no question to Molly that the other woman was hiding. The kitchen was a purely functional space, filled with the telltale signs that some serious cooking happened there day after day. It could be any professional kitchen.
“You are Marguerite Dubois’ niece.”
Molly nodded.
“Then you should be able to fry an egg.”
Chef Dubois was old-school in the best meaning of the word. Molly couldn’t help but smile because she understood that Chef Loss was referring to an anecdote about French chef Fernand Point, who asked his potential students to fry an egg to see if they had any talent.
“Well, can you? Fry an egg?”
She realized all too well that what Chiara Loss expected of her wasn’t a product of acceptable quality that could be sold without shame at any breakfast place, but something of sheer scientific and artistic beauty, something that would have brought Fernand Point himself to accept her as an assistant. But here she was, and if she were to fail, it would be in the knowledge that she had tried her best. She had no intention, however, of being sent away now that she had found the one she’d been looking for.
Strictly speaking she wasn’t seeking a job, but if Chiara wanted proof of the level of Molly’s skills, she would fry that egg as she had never fried an egg before.
“I brought my own toque, coat and knives. Am I allowed to make use of any other material in the kitchen, Chef?” she asked to be absolutely sure she didn’t touch anything that was off limits to anyone but the maître de cuisine.
“Well, at the very worst your aunt has done a fine job teaching you manners.” For not more than a split second Chiara’s face lost a little of its closed sternness, but Molly knew what she had seen. The looks in her eyes, the almost-smile around her lips were enough to make an army of butterflies dance in Molly’s belly. She had landed in the place where she wanted to be for more than one reason, but would she be allowed to stay?
Okay, concentrate. She put on her white coat and hat. “Where can I wash my hands?”
Chiara pointed.
Okay, her hands were clean. Mise en place next. Skillet, spatula, knife, plate, egg, butter, peppermill. She had prepared to cook so many times she could do it blindfolded. The biggest danger was letting her mind wander too much to the woman she had just met and who she didn’t want to lose before she had a chance of getting to know her.
She turned one of the stoves on to a low flame and put the skillet on the fire. When it was warm, but not so hot that she couldn’t touch it with her fingers, she put a knob of butter in the skillet and waited until it had melted. There were no sizzling sounds, which was a good thing because it meant less risk of burning the egg. Now she had to pay attention since the melted butter was close to bubbling. She cracked the shell of the egg with her knife above the skillet, then used the spatula to make sure the yellow was as perfectly in the middle of the white as she could manage by just using her eyes. Usually she enjoyed the calm, almost Zen-like activity of seeing the egg white solidify into perfection with the still-runny yellow yolk temptingly waiting for that crust of freshly baked bread. A twist with the peppermill, slide the egg carefully on to the plate and voilà.
“Here you are, Chef. One fried egg as Maître Point would have wanted it.” Or at least as close as she could get to the ideal.
Chiara picked up the fork and took a bite.
Then realization hit Molly like a slap in the face. She had forgotten the salt…
How could she have forgotten the salt?
It was such a small thing and such a big thing at the same time and there was no way to make up for it.
“I’m so sorry.” What more could she do than apologize for such a stupid mistake? What was she, a beginner?
“You should be,” Chiara said, with a twinkle in her eyes. She took the salt container and added a pinch of salt to the fried egg. “Disaster avoided.”
“I made a fool of myself. The way I burst into this kitchen, forgetting the salt…”
“Self-knowledge is an admirable trait in any human being. To be honest, if I had been looking for a sous-chef, you would have had a chance. But officially this is not my kitchen, I’m just borrowing it from time to time.” Chiara smiled. “Long story.”
Molly closed her eyes for a second. Chef Loss would send her away. And she didn’t want to be sent away. Not like this. Not at all.
“Why are you here?” Chiara poured two cups of coffee and pointed to a table. “Sit. Talk.”
“In Seatown, you mean? I flicked a quarter on a map. Betty found me and she and Michaela offered me a camping place for the Tiny Blue House. Betty also told me about a restaurant. And that I should simply experience whatever would happen.” Molly drank from her coffee. “The meal I ate yesterday… Have you any idea what you did to me? It was… I ate the food you prepared and I felt I knew you. I knew your secrets and the kind of humor that makes you laugh and everything you want to communicate through your food and almost no one really understands. Now I feel lost because I know I found what I didn’t know I was looking for.”
“What if I don’t want to be found?”
“Are you hiding?”
“That’s a question I’ve been asking myself lately.”
“What happened?” Perhaps Molly shouldn’t ask such a direct question to someone she practically didn’t know. But how could she pretend she didn’t know the woman who had shown the center of her soul with her cooking?
“The banality of the woman I loved being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I don’t understand…”
“You think I do? One moment you have a bit of a quarrel about some stupid thing you know you will have forgotten the next day, but before the morning comes, there are two officers at your door, asking if you’re so-and-so’s next of kin. There had been a one-car accident. I knew exactly on which road. The people had been complaining about that situation for years.” Chiara’s voice became all but unintelligible. “She died right away and hadn’t suffered. I became filled with ugly, dirty envy when I heard someone had lost a partner after a long illness. They got to say goodbye, while I stood there with empty hands.”
“How did you meet?”
“I had my first restaurant and one day she walked into the kitchen and asked for a job. She couldn’t cook to save her own life or that of her cats, but she knew how to make guests feel welcome. I was an expert at hiding, even then, but she found me.”
“And now I too have found you.”
“You walked into the kitchen and I knew right away…”
“What?” Molly had to ask, because she actually wanted to hear the answer instead of trusting she had made the right guess.
“What I knew when she and I met. The feeling I thought I had lost forever almost two years ago.”
“You believe in love at first sight?”
“No, but the heart knows what the heart knows, even though I consider that a silly way to talk about a pump.”
“Is it such a bad thing to fall in love?” Molly wanted to touch Chiara so much that she kept her coffee cup firmly in her hands.
“I discovered the painful way that I have no talent for telling myself pretty lies. I tried, but every time I was almost at the point where I convinced myself that there is an afterlife, that she’s an angel watching over me, there was that small voice in my head asking me, ‘Do you really believe that?’” Chiara smiled ruefully. “T
he answer was no, and that was it.”
“Better a truth that hurt like hell than a beautiful fantasy?”
Ciara shrugged. “I don’t know about truth, but if I can’t find any evidence other than my need to believe, is that any better than make-believe?”
“She’s dead.”
“Yes, and she has been for almost two years.”
“And now you wonder if you have fallen in love again.”
Molly saw in Chiara’s eyes her almost panicky search for a way out, before she sighed and nodded. “Yes.”
“You do understand we can simply let whatever we feel exist until we know what to do with it?” Molly gently touched Chiara’s hand. “Want to laugh?”
“Try me.”
“I can’t decide if I want to cook with you right now, or make love.” Molly blushed. “I’ve always been straightforward when I saw a woman who interested me. But now I feel I’m going too fast.”
“What was the fastest you ever landed in another woman’s arms after you met for the first time?”
“Ten minutes.” Molly suddenly was worried about how that sounded, so she hastened to add, “I’m still not sure how that happened. Usually I’m more of a traditional lesbian. You know, have a good talk, preferably in front of a bookcase with Tegan & Sara playing in the background…”
Chiara laughed. “I’m not judging you. But I also don’t want to hurt you.”
“I promise I won’t burst into tears when you have some critical remarks about the sauce I made or the bread I baked.”
“You bake bread?” The enthusiasm in Chiara’s voice was unmistakable.
“It’s my form of meditation.”
“What about you get a dough going…”
“And while it proofs I’ll show you the Tiny Blue House?” Molly finished Chiara’s sentence. “That’s what I call my house on a trailer that I use to travel the country.”