Octavia nods and gives me a very curt smile. This could mean that she understands exactly what I mean. Or that she thinks I’m a babbling idiot.
I turn up the gas. I need the pan smoking hot. The clock is ticking; I need to get my sauce off and my steak on.
Octavia leaves my side and moves on to another chef. Jean-Michel has not said one word to me. He’s paced by me a few times but not even made eye contact. Maybe the admin guy was right; maybe my steak is too simple, maybe Jean-Michel has already dismissed me as someone plain and dull and below average.
My hand starts to quiver and then the real shakes take over. I get it sometimes with nerves. Always during exams, my pen would quiver like a jaunty polygraph across the page, spilling the truth of my anxiety. Once I got to catering college, I thought I’d have more control over it as I’d be moving away from Maths and English and into my comfort zone of food, but it appears any time I feel under scrutiny, any time I feel like I’m being judged, the trembling and shaking returns, near impossible to control and even harder to hide. Far from ideal when I’ve only got this one shot to cook something extraordinary to secure my future.
I have no idea where I am here; I can’t work out what they are thinking, what it is they are looking for. Am I in first place? Last place? Token laughing stock? In the bin with Georgia’s venison? Oh dear God, what if Jean-Michel rips me to shreds in here in front of all these people just like he did to Georgia? My hand is now quaking so much it looks like I’m holding an invisible vibrating wand. I have no choice but to stop, lay down my knife and breathe in deeply and slowly, try and steady myself before I lose any more precious time.
‘Five minutes remaining,’ calls the maître d’.
Great. No pressure then.
My plate is warm and ready, my garnish is set, my steak is now cooked beautifully, the right side of rare, and will be rested to perfection for service, my Alice-approved brandy sauce is silken. I taste it with my pinkie… Seasoning spot on, texture just right. I grab the handle of my skillet pan and raise it off the heat; I’ve just got to get it on the plate and I’m done. I’m proud. It’s good, I know it is. I get what Pip is talking about, but I’ve selected the finest ingredients and I’ve done them justice. He’s right that too simple is risky, because if I don’t get this perfect there is nowhere to hide; my technical ability is thoroughly transparent here. If I get steak wrong, then I don’t belong here – and it’s back to Bernie and her gravy granules with Pedigree Chum.
I’ve got this. I can feel it. I’ve just got to let my hand know so it stops shaking.
Hang on… It can’t be. It can’t be him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man who looks exactly like my ex-boyfriend Ben walk through the swinging kitchen doors and straight up to the maître d’, and for a split second I do a double take. The heat, the pressure, the sleeplessness, the desperation: it’s all clearly getting to me. From my trembling fingertips to my visions of Ben’s gobsmacked face, this process is already pushing me to the edge. Because this can’t be right… I can’t be seeing this properly; it just can’t be, because the person I think I see in front of me is sailing around the world. This doesn’t make any sense… There is no way that Ben Cole has just walked through those doors. My Ben. Those doors. Well, my ex-Ben. But still those doors.
I blink my eyes shut and when I reopen them it’s even worse. Because it is, without a doubt: the same soft black hair, same olive skin, same beautiful full lips always resting in a side-smile. It’s the same Ben all right, right here, right now, smack bang in this very kitchen. And he is staring straight back at me, a stunned, disbelieving look in his eyes too. I take a deep breath, grab the tongs and lift my steak over to the plate and then, from nowhere, my hand jolts upward of its own accord. Then the steak isn’t there anymore. It is not in the tongs, it is not on the plate.
It is on the floor.
I dropped my steak. I dropped my freaking perfectly cooked filet mignon on to the floor.
This is all it takes for everything to change. For my world to stop dead. For it all to be over. Just a split-second flickering lapse in concentration, an unexpected vision and a quivering hand and my absolute worst nightmare has occurred.
This cannot be happening. Oh, too late. It already has.
I look up to the sky, choking on the curses in my throat, and then down to the floor again just to make sure this isn’t a stress-induced hallucinatory nightmare. Then I dart a glance over to Jean-Michel. Maybe he didn’t see? Maybe I can just start again and he’ll never know?
But I hear him snort from right behind me. Oh, he’s looking at me now all right. And I can read very clearly by his sneer that there’s no extra time for accidents or mishaps or excuses in this kitchen.
I spin on my heel, but where this brings me is even worse. Because now I’m facing Ben head-on, and he is staring at me, a stunned, worried look in his eyes. I shut my eyes tight and raise my hands to my temples. What the hell have I done? Blown it! And this is always the problem, this is always what happens to me… My dad calls it Icarus Syndrome: wanting to go too far, too fast, too soon and then fireballing. What I can actually do falls short of what I want and what I think I can do. Every. Single. Time.
My breath starts to quicken and I can feel a hot panic creep up my neck as I turn back to my smoking skillet pan. It’s over. I came close, so close, but that’s the story of my life. Always just falling short, always prioritising the wrong thing, running when I should stand still, standing still when I should be running, always just missing the mark and falling flat.
Whatever happens with Jean-Michel now, which I imagine will be a torturous public tongue-lashing, I can’t let Ben see this happening to me. He hasn’t seen me in nearly three years, I can’t let this be the impression he has of me. Flustered, flailing, failing. I need to fix this.
My trusty skillet is still smoking hot. I’ve got four and a half minutes left. So I need to claw this back right this second and sear this steak to perfection. It’s not over yet; I’m still in with a sliver of a chance. I look at both Ben and Jean-Michel and give them an Academy-award-winning I know exactly what I’m doing smile as, courtesy of my lovely butcher, I throw my second steak onto the red-hot skillet with an extra heavy splash of brandy and watch it flame while I speed-chop my onions and mushrooms to make a brand new sauce.
Under intense scrutiny, I tilt my pan and dress my sizzling filet in hot, golden butter, working at an astonishing speed, spoon after spoon, like a cartoon on fast-forward – anything to keep me from having to look up. I just focus everything I have on what’s in front of me, until the rest of the world fades into insignificance. Just like always when I cook. Just the way I like it.
Can a brand new express take of a classic French preparation be executed in less than four minutes?
I’m about to find out.
Chapter Six
‘Five, four, three, two, time’s up! Hands in the air. Please bring your dishes down to the front for inspection.’
It is what it is.
I step around my station, Ben just visible out of the corner of my eye. I can’t stop to figure out why he’s here, whether he’s part of the panel or a candidate like the rest of us. My time is now and I need to gather every ounce of focus. Taking my plate, I join the other three chefs who are tentatively walking towards the service bench, ready for the judges’ inspection.
They begin with the tall, bearded chef on my far left.
‘Sebastian, talk me though the dish, please,’ says Pip.
‘Saffron risotto with scallops wrapped in burdock root.’
Shit. That sounds incredible. Skilled, ambitious, delicious, inventive. How on earth did he manage to cook and plate up a perfect risotto in just fifteen minutes? This dish does make my steak sound like a Big Mac.
Jean-Michel presses his fingers to his temples. ‘Visually, if you can still see the centre of that bright grain of rice, what does that mean?’
‘That it is perhaps undercooked.
’ I watch as he blinks rapidly, almost batting away the confrontation. ‘But considering the time restraint—’
‘Perhaps… PERHAPS undercooked?’ Jean grabs his fork and stabs the scallop, holding it under Sebastian’s nose. ‘It’s not “perhaps undercooked”, it is all definitely RAW. You should know that it is impossible to cook this dish to my exacting standards in such little time. You have no grasp on basics. You have wasted everyone’s attention and, worse still, wasted ingredients. It is not time that restrained you, it is your own idiocy…’
Pip sighs heavily. ‘I mean, do you understand why we are even here? What we are looking for? Instinct. Expertise. Invention. Excellence. Do you know how many applications we had? Over a thousand. So don’t you dare come here and patronise us. This is not a game. We’re not fooling around.’ He flings down the fork and moves on, dismissing the second chef even more quickly.
Octavia moves on to the next chef, a short red-haired chef a little younger than me. I recognise her from a Good Food article about exciting rising stars. I used to be one of them. Before my star crashed and burnt.
‘Elle, talk me though your dish,’ says Octavia to the smiling redhead.
‘I’ve got lamb ravioli with bell pepper and jalapeno salsa spiced with a little cumin.’
Lamb ravioli, great choice; in the tight time frame too, that’s smart. Super smart. It’s going to be hard to top this. All my steak salvaging may have been in vain based on the standard of this competition.
Octavia slides her knife and fork into a ravioli pillow and tastes, taking a moment to chew, then licking her top lip, squinting slightly and placing her fork back down on the table.
‘Cumin is not a spice that is used often in pasta. And for good reason. All I’m getting here is a mouthful of peppers with a really nasty, bitter aftertaste… This doesn’t work. This doesn’t work at all.’
So clearly Octavia isn’t the nice one like I imagined.
From where I’m standing, I can see Elle squeezing her fists. She doesn’t agree and I can tell that she is itching to tell them. This isn’t the kind of forum for open dialogue; I think of Zoe and Mel, just keep your mouth shut and suck it up.
Pip steps forward and takes a bite. He grabs a napkin and spits it straight out again.
‘Classics are classics for a reason. They are appreciated time and time again, through centuries, across generations. There are universal food laws. If you don’t understand them, if you don’t respect them, then you have no place in the kitchen. Certainly not this kitchen.’
Elle juts out her chin and shakes her head, eyes blinking in outrage. ‘I’m sorry but that’s not true… You said you want inventive, but then when you are served something bold, something daring and fresh and original, something truly different, you slam it for not being classic.’
A heavy stillness descends as Jean-Michel raises his gaze to her. I see her shrink back. Her bottom lip starts to tremble as he approaches her.
‘Whoever you are. Whatever you think you are. You are exactly what I don’t want. You are here, making your own vulgar additions to classics without any regard for provenance or craft, just to show us how cutesy and clever you are. Well, congratulations, you have just got yourself a one-way ticket to wherever you came from. And so now you can go back to your cutesy friends and the six people who told you that you were talented. You are not fit to peel potatoes. You know the only thing worse than a cook with no taste buds is a narcissistic little snowflake like you. You will never learn because you refuse to listen. Thank you for nothing.’ Jean-Michel takes her plate and throws it in the bin. ‘Next.’
Oh sweet Jesus. That’s me. I am next.
Octavia does not ask me a single question. She takes her knife and cuts straight through the middle of the fillet. She raises it to her lips. Puts it in her mouth, closes her eyes.
And she smiles. An actual upward-turning smile.
‘This is cooked exactly as I like it. It’s as much a chef’s skill to know when to stop, when to stand back and let the food speak for itself, not to overcomplicate or overwork something. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s high-quality, it’s well-presented. The risk paid off, Katie, well done.’ She turns to Pip and Jean. ‘This is the best I’ve had all day.’
Now both the other judges step up and try my steak. Both nod as they eat, dissecting and inspecting every morsel on my plate. So far no faces are being pulled, there are no choking sounds, no crashing porcelain.
Pip sighs. ‘I agree with Octavia. It is good, very good, excellent even. But, for me, I can’t excuse the clumsiness. I mean dropping food on the floor. Seriously? At this stage of your professionalism, we should not be seeing this. To me, it’s messy, it’s careless, it’s dangerous, and it’s expensive… Next time, at a critical moment, in a high-pressured kitchen, it may not be so easy to turn it around. For me, it’s a no.’
I nod graciously even though my cheeks are burning red. I take my hands behind my back to try to conceal my returning shakes. So far, I have one yes, one no. My future hangs in the balance. I can’t call which way it’s going to go.
Jean-Michel considers me carefully, looking from my face right down to my shoes. Right now, I really wish I had better shoes, not these cheap, work-worn black pumps. It is up to him now. It depends on whatever potential he sees or doesn’t see in me. He turns to Ben who has been standing quietly by the door all this time.
‘My wife recommended you. She dined at your table and called me from somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean. “I have found him!” she told me, “I have found your grand chef.”’
Ben bows his head modestly.
‘So, by the way my wife has raved about you, I can take it that you can cook. But still, your suitability? That is yet to be revealed.’ Jean hands Ben a knife and fork. ‘Try the steak.’
Ben does as he is told, approaching my plate. I wait. He tastes the food and nods his head. ‘Delicious.’
Jean-Michel looks back to Octavia. ‘According to my wife, I should appoint Ben as grand chef immediately. Perhaps Pip has a point and that’s exactly what I should do? We could cancel the rest of the competition now. Do we really want to waste more time and effort wiping up after inferior applicants? We need people at the top of their game, not dropping high-quality ingredients on the floor.’
Octavia looks at me and back to Jean-Michel. ‘We have seen over forty chefs today already. Most were nervous, most made a mistake. Most served substandard dishes. Katie is different. Something went wrong but she adapted and recovered. We asked her to produce a high-quality dish within fifteen minutes, and she did. She came up with the goods. The success of this dish began before she even entered the kitchen. Her steak choice is very smart. It demonstrates that this chef understands food and the industry very well; I think she’s come here well prepared and working to her strengths. She plates ingredients that show well. And I admire that. But what I admire even more is that she hit an obstacle and instinctively adapted. This shows strength and resilience and determination. With a new restaurant, there will be challenges and obstacles and we need a chef that has proven capacity in overcoming them. So, do I think she deserves a shot? Yes. I do.’
Jean-Michel raises his fingers to his mouth, and then takes a deep breath.
‘Okay, I am executive chef; I will make an executive decision. I don’t love it what you did. But I hate it less than the others. You have a lot to prove based on today. Do you think you have what it takes?’
‘Yes, chef.’
‘You are ready to sacrifice everything I ask of you and give me your all?’
‘Yes, chef.’
‘You understand that this will not be easy, that if you want easy you should leave the process now?’
‘Yes, chef.’
‘You are through. Not because what you did was perfect. But I think, with time, it could be.’
‘Thank you, chef.’ I wring my cold, clammy, quivering hands behind my back. I am through.
‘D’accord. Buy
yourself some good grip gloves because you drop one more thing, Katie, and I drop you, tu comprends?’
‘Yes, chef.’ I bow my thanks to Jean-Michel Marchand. And notice that now we are the only two left in the room. Octavia and Pip have already turned out through the swing doors and all the other candidates, including Ben, thankfully, have been ushered out the back entrance.
I bow my gratitude a second time and he nods to indicate that I am dismissed.
And all I can think of as I untie my apron and gather my things is that Martha was absolutely right. Jean-Michel is such a small man, for a giant.
Chapter Seven
‘Hi Dad! You won’t believe this; I have the most amazing news.’
Once he answers the phone I hop off my bike and duck into a high-street doorway, cupping my hand over my other ear so that I can hear him over the crackling line.
‘You’ve won the lottery so you are coming home for good to keep your ol’ man company.’
‘Oh much better that that!’ I tell him, still breathless from the adrenalin of the process and all the uphill pedalling I’ve done cycling home from The Rembrandt. ‘I’ve got an interview with Jean-Michel!’
‘Jean who?’
‘The famous French chef? Only the one I’ve been obsessed with since forever,’ I tell him.
‘I thought you were always obsessed with a woman chef, what’s her face, Celia Someone?’
‘Yes, well, I do love Celia Sanderson and always will, but this is completely different, this isn’t hotpots and fairy cakes. This is fine dining, Dad. This is like the premier division; the highest level chefs can go. If I get this, it’s like being signed by one of the top managers in the country – in the world. This is my big, big chance.’
‘Right, I see, if you say so.’ He exhales into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s hard to keep up with you, Katie. We went through all this with the restaurant, now here we go again and it’s gung-ho about something else entirely…’
One Way or Another: An absolutely hilarious laugh-out-loud romantic comedy Page 4