‘Hi, it’s me. What’s your best offer on a La Roche rose gold and marble watch, high-quality French design, one careful owner?’
‘Katie, come on down and I’ll take a look, see what I can do for you.’
I thank him and start my cycle in his direction, knowing already that as long as he offers me enough for a smart, tailor-fitted, gleaming new white chef’s jacket, I’ll be going home with a bare wrist for the first time in years.
Chapter Nine
When I get back to the flat it’s almost dark, so I lock up my bike and carry my brown-paper-wrapped, new-cotton-smelling parcels up the poorly lit stairwell with extreme care. I’ve been dealing with Paul for long enough to know how to strike a good deal, but even I was flabbergasted at how much he coughed up for my watch. It made me realise how much Ben must have spent on it for me in the first place. I had no idea it was so valuable. Paul’s given me four weeks to buy it back, so if all goes well and Jean-Michel takes me on, it’s one of the first things I’m going to reinvest in.
Because I loved that watch and I can’t help but still be a little bit fond of all it represents.
So, with nearly three times as much cash as I was expecting in my pocket, I went shopping. Not that it took me very long; I saw exactly what I wanted in the window and, like a bride at a bridal fitting, the second I slid this baby over my head, I knew it was the one. The sales assistant knew it too, and within fifteen minutes, the little starched white number had gone from the store mannequin to my bike basket. But something was still not quite right. My scruffy trainers looked even more grubby against the gleaming brightness of my new uniform. I decided for the second time today to take Oskar Rosenblatt’s advice and ‘Buy the shoes’. So, new ensemble complete with a new pair of non-slip, sparkling white chef clogs thrown in, I can now put my best foot forward.
Alice is away with a work conference, so I batch-bake banana bread with cinnamon butter so she can feast on that whenever she gets back I shuffle around the living room, knowing that I should try to get an early night. But with all the excitement and nerves, I know I still won’t sleep, so I figure the best thing I can do is spend the rest of the evening swotting up on everything I can find out about Jean-Michel, Pip and Octavia, and this brand new world that I’ll be crashing into tomorrow.
I begin my cyber-stalk with Pip Taylor because a) I don’t know much about him and b) he’s the one who didn’t want me so I’m going to have to try extra hard to get him onside. I start with his professional biography.
Pip Taylor is a renowned American winemaker, restaurateur, author and entrepreneur. Along with his business partners, he owns thirty restaurants worldwide, including Loca in Las Vegas which was recently awarded one Michelin star. Taylor has co-authored two award-winning books on French and Italian wine, and his memoir, Wino, became a New York Times bestseller within a week of its release.
Okay. Pip Taylor. Now that I know who you are, I’m even more embarrassed that I dropped the steak. This guy is big time. I take a deep breath and wonder if I should read anymore. This is getting very real and overwhelming. I got flustered when I didn’t even know Pip was a big deal, so what will I be like the next time, with thoughts of his Michelin-star restaurant sending tremors through my fingers?
I move on to Octavia. She’s my favourite. She backed me. I type in her name and another flurry of results appear. I click on a video that shows an interview with a young and glamorous Octavia, looking like a blonde Joan Collins. The brown-suited, flat-haired interviewer is visibly nervous, somewhat overawed by her beauty, her confidence, her wealth and, no doubt, her shoulder pads. ‘What is the secret to your unparalleled success as an international hotelier?’ he asks her.
She dips her chin, scarcely smiling and widens her pale blue eyes. ‘If it’s simple and done well, people will get it. You don’t have to hit them over the head with marble and gold. And frankly, if you do, it means you are hiding something. I only worry about quality and execution. And then I don’t need to worry about anything else.’
I watch a few more videos of Octavia. I think I’m a bit in love with her. I watch the way she keeps her poise, her posture, the deliberate way she listens and considers her answers. I straighten my back. I slow down my breath. I try to channel my inner Octavia. I repeat the words ‘simple’, ‘done well’. I can do that. I can do simple and I can do it well.
I scroll down. Lots of glamorous pictures across the decades of Octavia in backless dresses and sweeping gowns at banquets, charity balls, meetings, events with presidents and prime ministers, sheiks, big-screen royalty – even actual royalty. Then I see a single thumbnail photo of her in black lace dress, long-sleeved, high-neck, veiled face and large dark sunglasses on a grassy verge. The funeral of her husband and ‘soulmate’ three years ago.
And that’s the most recent result the search engine offers up. Despite my best cyber-stalking efforts, I can’t find a single photo or interview or mention of Octavia Timmons since.
I make some tea and slather up a hot slice of banana bread, licking the oozy golden cinnamon butter from the back of my hand. I have a feeling I should steel myself and bite in to some carby-courage before I google Jean-Michel Marchand. I go to take a second warm, sweet bite and type in his name. And in 0.69 seconds, with my mouth still open, I’m presented with 50,900,000 results. Over fifty million returns.
Is that normal?
I type in ‘Ireland’. 896,000 (0.74 seconds)
Jean-Michel is bigger, more famous, than an entire European country. I swallow my hot mouthful and try to get my head around this.
I type in ‘Bananas’. 176,000 (0.76 seconds)
Jean-Michel is more widely searched and documented than food itself.
I type in ‘Christmas’. 1,940,000,000 (0.51 seconds)
Oh, thank god for that. I fling my head back and blow out my cheeks.
But still, with over fifty million starting points, where do I begin? How am I supposed to sniff out the crucial truffle of insight that I need to know in order to win this position? What does he love? Hate? Value? Regret? What drives him? What fuels his passion? What’s his stance on dried mushrooms?
I want to know it all. But I don’t want to spend the entire night chiselling through this data trove to find it.
I type in ‘New restaurant Jean-Michel London’.
A single article appears in La Revue. It is in French, but between my own fairly competent grasp of the language from school and recipe books and a little help from Google Translate, I should be able to work it out.
Opening this year, the restaurant is to include a fine-dining room with only twelve tables, a bar area that can accommodate seventy for dinner, and three flamboyantly large banquet rooms. Forecasters predict the start-up will cost eight million pounds.
Marchand is clearly experienced at this sort of venture – the restaurant, which will be called Marchand at The Rembrandt, will be the fourth business he has named after himself, joining a Marchand in Tokyo, New York and Paris.
Plain sailing? Not exactly.
This will be his first restaurant in a decade.
This will be his first restaurant in London.
This will be his first restaurant since his public disgrace late last year when he was captured on camera very drunk, mid-torrent, profanities flowing in a diatribe directed at a young photographer after an awards ceremony.
Although his fellow Parisians show a tenacious, irrational-seeming loyalty, verging on love, towards Marchand, he may not be regarded or received in the same way by the British.
Is Marchand really in a position to begin something so new, so daring, so fraught?
His friends, few in number, don’t think so.
His enemies, many in number, don’t think so either.
With interest, we shall watch events unfold and see if Jean-Michel still has what it takes to maintain his empire.
Whoa. I snap closed the laptop. Looks like the only person that needs this break more than I do is Jean Michel hi
mself.
* * *
I set my alarm for 5 a.m. but by the time it sounds, I have been lying here, staring at it, for an hour.
There is just so much to think about. So much to take in, so much to imagine that I couldn’t possibly shut down my mind. Soon I’m showered, caffeinated and the sun has come up. I’m ready. New dawn, new day and I’m feeling good.
I get a text message from Alice.
Is it normal to be thinking about wine this early on a Tuesday? Asking for a friend. Ax
* * *
You’re awake early?
* * *
Can’t sleep.
Uh-oh. A sleep-deprived Alice does not bode well for the rest of the day. Most people would dream of staying away in a hotel all expenses paid, but to Alice, it is an anxiety-ridden hell.
How bad?
* * *
80%. Met new clients last night for dinner. The human resource guy is very cute. I’m supposed to be whipping his ass later today re: his client, but he’s just too sexy. May have to wait here a few days for this to wrap up. writing on my name tag ‘I’m not a bitch, I’m just jet-lagged’.
* * *
But you didn’t fly anywhere, you’re in Manchester!
* * *
Whatever. Good luck today. When you get this job we are going out! If Jean-Michel gives you trouble, just imagine him rubbing Nutella on his nipples. Blow them away today, sending all the love and luck, you beautiful culinary wizard-ess x
I stand in front of the mirror, combing back my hair into a slick, tight bun. I straighten as I button up my new tunic. It’s tight-fitting, almost military, a French design of heavy-duty but breathable cotton to keep me cool in the heat of the kitchen. It is snug at my chest, tapered around the waist, with unconventionally high-capped sleeves that I just fell in love with. I have no watch, but I don’t care because I know the time.
It’s now.
Chapter Ten
‘Good morning. You’ve all made it. Welcome to your new kitchen,’ says a very dapper Pip in a blue checked suit.
Together, our small band of round-two candidates, competitors and jittery hopefuls enter the enormous bright galley kitchen of the new London Marchand.
‘Please sign the confidentiality contract on your left and then take the station with your name on it. We will then give you a chance to prepare yourselves; wash your hands, don hats and aprons, place your knives on the block and then we will introduce ourselves.’
I look around and take in the shining steel reflections that surround me; brand new sparkling ovens, fridges, pots, pans, mixers and countertops. This high-design, ultra-modern kitchen is the perfect marriage of form and function. Clean lines, sleek surfaces, floor-to-ceiling unglazed white brick tiles with open shelving on every wall. It is gorgeous, every spotless, dazzling inch of it. Ten food stations are arranged perpendicular to the pass, which is where our dishes will be handed over for service. I turn on my heel to take in all the latest and greatest equipment, hopping slightly with excitement; there is everything you could ever dream of in here to smoke, freeze-dry, dehydrate or deep-fat-fry for the rest of your days. Wow, imagine working in here. Commanding this light, airy contemporary space. This is a far cry from the industrial kitchen at Parklands with its plastic plates and tinned soup. Just imagine walking across this sparkling chequered tile floor every day. This is the most impressive kitchen I’ve ever seen in my life; it looks like it belongs on a spaceship. I can see where a big chunk of the eight million quid has been spent.
‘Please. Take a look round. Familiarise yourself with your surroundings.’
I draw my hand over the brushed-steel pass at the front, almost altar-like. Here we’ll offer up our best work, our souls, to be carried off by the servers to the palates of the gods. The gods being, of course, anyone with a purse big enough to afford to grace these tables in the first place. I move towards the back, to the pantry; it is palatial. Walls of shelves laden with clearly marked tubs and baskets of fresh food, fruit, vegetables and herbs on one side, along with dried staples, liquors and oils on the other. The equipment room is fully furnished with every top-of-the-range appliance a chef could wish for, I spot a spanking new sous vide in the corner. Just one of those costs the same as a small flat in some parts of the city. This kitchen really is every chef’s dream come true, everything you’d ever wish to use, to play with, to experiment with.
Pip claps his hands together to summon us back to our stations. ‘One of you will become the grand chef of this kitchen. One of you will have your name in lights. One of you will be chosen. One of you will win the ultimate culinary prize and live the dream of working with and learning from the most iconic chef on the planet, Monsieur Jean-Michel himself.’
At this, Jean-Michel walks through the swinging doors to our applause. He clasps his hands together, surveying all ten of us.
‘I am not a monster. But by the look on your faces, I think you do not believe it.’
Jean-Michel places his finger on his bottom lip thoughtfully and blinks his eyes as if in conversation with himself.
‘Many people have condemned me for being controversial. I am never controversial. I am never contradictory. I am pure.’ He raises his chin skyward. ‘I do not pretend to be that which I am not. Most of my reputation is founded on ignorance and exaggeration. Hypersensitivity by those who have been offended by their lack of appreciation for what I do, for what we do.’
I watch the other candidates. They are nodding, so I start to nod too.
‘Do I shout?’ he whispers. ‘Mais, oui. I shout because I lead from the front,’ he booms, lifting his fist high up into the air. ‘I nail my colours to the mast and I fight for my profession, for our profession. For our most noble quest. If you are going to be a revolutionary, you must fight, fight, fight for what you believe in. And that is all I ever do.’
His arm lowers and he takes a deep breath, fingers on both hands fluttering in front of his chest.
‘What made me a fighter?’ A trace of a half-smile graces his lips. ‘The same thing that makes everyone a fighter. Fear of our own insecurities. Insecurities make victims or victors of us all. My inadequacies – reading, writing, struggling in school. It gave me that fight to prove myself. Because they believed me to be nothing. Worthless. Destined for failure. I’d been belittled. I knew I could do more, be more, but they did not believe me. This was my fuel.’
He pauses a moment. And then raises his gaze to us, an angry, defiant tone to his voice.
‘I did not waste time snivelling, pointing fingers and waiting for apologies. I fought. I showed what I knew inside to be true.’
The great hush that has descended upon us feels heavy, yet we are bound by it. Nobody is even breathing out of sync.
‘We have all faced moments in our lives when the pressure mounts beyond what we feel we can handle, and we find ourselves thinking that we do not have the strength to carry on. Sometimes we have just gotten through a major obstacle or illness only to find another one waiting for us the moment we finally catch our breath. Sometimes we endure one loss after another, wondering when we will get a break from life’s travails. It does not seem fair or right that life should demand more of us when we feel we have given all we can, but sometimes this is the way life works.’
I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me. I don’t need to turn around. I know it’s Ben. My senses lead me right back to him. That scent. His scent. I can’t help but smell him for feck’s sake.
He still wears the same cologne. My favourite. I can picture the dark red bottle in the medicine cabinet of our shared little bathroom. I still can’t pronounce the name, even though I bought it for him every Christmas. It smells sweet and warm, a musky mix of coffee, chocolate, salt and leather. Yum.
Ben is the only person I know who wears this. Well, the only one I’ve ever noticed anyway.
Jean-Michel stops and stares at me. I hold my breath.
‘When we look back on our lives, we see that we have survived
many trials and surmounted many obstacles, often to our own amazement. In each of those instances, we had to break through our ideas about how much we can handle and go deeper into our hidden reserves. So here, you will be belittled. Here, I will shout, I will swear, I will scream until you decide to reach into those hidden reserves. To what you know deep inside to be true. Let the battle commence.’
Hidden reserves? Silly me, thinking I was here to cook up some great-tasting food. I attempt to breathe again.
Pip clicks his tongue and makes a steeple of his hands. ‘The competition starts now. This restaurant will only be as great as the chef in charge of this kitchen. I am a businessman. I’m investing in a great restaurant and a great chef. I need to be absolutely sure that we have the right person in place or else the whole thing could fall apart. We will present you all with a task each day over the next three days to determine your competencies in different areas. We are looking for the best, and after each task we shall eliminate the worst. We have no desire to retain dead wood.’
We stand behind our stations. I look around. Where is Octavia? She’s the hotelier, so maybe she’s not going to be here every step of the way? My stomach flips. Dear God, me against Pip and Jean-Michel and all these other guys. Against Ben. Please tell me Octavia is involved today, I need all the support I can get.
Pip continues. ‘Your first challenge. During pre-selection, you were able to choose your own dish. Now let’s see what you can do when that choice is taken away. How creative are you? How well do you respond to pressure? What skills can you showcase that will blow our minds?’
A waiter arrives at each of our stations carrying a silver platter covered with a serving dome. They stand to attention.
One Way or Another: An absolutely hilarious laugh-out-loud romantic comedy Page 7