What on earth is under there? Could be some really outlandish ingredient that I won’t have a clue how to approach. Like some unusual fancy fruit or a rare spice or a controversial exotic meat. Rattlesnake? Beetle larvae? Grass? Something notoriously tricky to get right unless you know exactly what you are doing and are up to date on every single hot new trend on the food scene at the moment?
Oh God, I hope not. I’m finished if that’s what this challenge is all about. Because I don’t particularly enjoy cooking anything that I wouldn’t eat myself. And if I can’t put my heart and soul into it, I know that it won’t be my best and I can’t imagine anyone enjoying the loveless product I’ll have to plate up. My cooking is about taste and about flavours, not so much about dressing the inedible. So if that’s what Jean-Michel is after, I guess it’ll be me first out that door today.
But then I think, this is Jean-Michel Marchand we’re dealing with. That would be way too predictable. And the unpredictable is too predictable. This could be anything.
Okay. Yes. No. He’s going to spring something on us that we’re not expecting. Something that will really make us think, dig deep in our hidden reserves. But what if I don’t know what the hell the thing is underneath that silver dome? What if it is something really obscure that I don’t even recognise, never mind know how to prepare to a level befitting this kitchen?
I dig my fingernails into my palm. This is my worst nightmare. Even though I’m classically trained, I come from an ordinary background; I don’t always have as sophisticated a palate as others who have travelled more and been exposed to a richer breadth of tastes from a young age. This is something I’m acutely aware of. My mother was a great cook, but she was a home cook. She learnt everything she knew from a Celia Sanderson Book called Cooking From the Heart which stayed splayed open, by her side, on the kitchen counter every dinner time until she became ill. Compared to other households, we were no-frills, bare basics. I really started to understand this when Alice moved into our village. Her parents were much older than my parents (older than some people’s grandparents; her half-siblings from their previous marriages were closer the mark) and they were both really posh and well educated. You could tell that by the way they spoke, but mainly by the way they listened – none of the interrupting and eye-rolling and relentless teasing that went on in my house if you tried to say something in more than five syllables. Alice’s parents were always writing and reading, always trying new things, learning languages and instruments, taking her out for adventurous meals, foraging wild leaves and inviting her to taste different wines and then discussing them even when she was just a teenager.
Alice didn’t think it was something to be admired at all. She hated it, felt it was like she lived in a museum and preferred my house because it was ‘less intense’ – that is, more chaotic but no one cared what you did or what you thought or what you drank. I loved her house because it did feel like a museum to me: a hushed, cultured place where you could learn about the past, enquire about the different, listen without the constant clanging of an overused washing machine or a sibling fight breaking out upstairs. And I built up my knowledge. I’m always trying to learn more but still, I guess I’m ashamed of my lack of worldliness and I always feel like I’m lagging behind. Alice doesn’t appreciate that cultural capital that she just absorbed without even noticing. Like last year when we went ice-skating, some music came on and she just knew it was Vivaldi’s something or other. And when I made my own flavoured gin for her birthday, she picked up on the hibiscus straight away, said her mum always put it in her tea. The one time we tried speed dating, which was so tragic we left early, I remember Alice said that the longer she stays in this city, the more her head feels scrambled and frantic and aimless, like a Jackson Pollock painting. I thought pollock was a fish. So these gaps, these voids in my knowledge – I’ve spent my life trying to fill them and rectify them and cover them up.
I look at the mystery platter, my mind racing as to what it could be. I start to panic as I think of all the things it could be that I haven’t even heard of yet. My cheeks flare red. Oh God, this could actually be the end of me. Not only could I be out of the competition, but this could be a real exposure of my own fundamental ignorance. I know what I’ve been taught, what I’ve taught myself, but yeah, hey, got it in one Jean-Michel. I guess my unremarkably common, meat and two veg background is my great insecurity.
My heart starts to race. I could really show myself up here. Humiliate myself. If I stand here blank-faced when that lid goes up, it’s not as if Jean-Michel is going to give me a kindly smile and help me figure it out.
And where is Octavia? At least I thought I’d have her support. After all, Pip didn’t want me at all and Jean-Michel didn’t love what I did before, so what chance do I really have?
To be honest, this is feeling more and more like the Hunger Games rather than a cheffing interview. And I don’t know if I’m going to be standing at this station beyond today. Elimination feels very real.
I glance behind me for the first time. Possibly the last time. And there he is. Looking so strong and confident and tanned and handsome and so Ben. He gives me a smile. Yes, Jean-Michel, you are right on one thing, some stuff happens that breaks your heart so completely you just can’t even believe that you got through it. I nod towards him and turn right back around before he sees my cheeks flush.
‘Server, please reveal.’
I scrunch my eyes shut and swallow hard. Please don’t be something small and soft and pink and weird or large and green and gooey and weird or long and brown and hard and…
I open my eyes and my breath catches in my throat. My hands fly to my face. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Dignity saved for today. I certainly know what to do here, no fear of unfamiliarity. It seems ridiculous now looking at what I’ve got before me that I let myself get so wound up about everything I don’t know. This is where Alice diagnosed me (via a free online quiz) as having acute Impostor Syndrome. I don’t really believe that I know what I’m doing and I’m always waiting for someone to say ‘come now Katie, good try but the gig is up’.
Well, even so, that’s not happened to me today. And I can’t help it. I just laugh, right out loud.
‘The humble potato,’ announces Jean-Michel, a mischievous glint in his eye.
There’s a little mound of different coloured, random varieties of potatoes on the silver serving plate in front of me. Nothing out of my depth. Nothing weird. I pick one up in my hand, rubbing the gritty, waxy texture. I raise it to my nose and breathe in the earthy, starchy scent. It reminds me of standing by the sink helping my mother wash and peel until our hands were red, raw and wrinkly and we had set the world to rights.
‘We shall do more than scratch the surface,’ says Jean-Michel. ‘We shall start with what is deep down, under the earth, buried in the dirt. Balance is everything. Use whatever you like from the pantry, from the equipment room, whatever you wish, to lift up this humble ingredient and make it shine. You have one hour; your time starts now.’
Chapter Eleven
I dash to the pantry and go straight to the fresh section, deciding that this is my chance to show them that I know what’s locally sourced and I know what’s in season. I spot a nice leafy head of lamb’s lettuce and think that could be a way forward. Light, fragrant, its long spoon-shaped dark leaves and distinctive, tangy flavour could be a great balancing partner for my friend the potato. I eye up the rest of the stock. Thinking all the time about balance, balance… How will I achieve balance in colour, flavour, texture, temperature – all on one plate in an hour? Balance. It’s so hard to get it right, not only with food, but in every other area of life as well.
I wonder what Ben’s thinking of? This is one of the things I miss most – missed most about us when he left. Our brainstorming, our chats about what would work with this, what could work with that. I’d love to slide up right now and ask him, What do you think? Potato blinis with crème-fraiche and smoked salmon? Or perhaps swee
t-potato gnocchi? Or a classic galette? Or maybe something radical and loud with shock value, like a dark chocolate fondant with potato foam?
I bite the inside of my lip. I could really use Ben right now. He wouldn’t even have to say anything, just the slightest shift in his left eyebrow, or rising of the corner of his mouth would tell me everything I need to know. Because yes, we’re in competition, but we’re not directly in competition as yet; we’re both just trying to survive these elimination rounds, right? What harm can it do? I don’t need him to give me ideas, I just need a sounding board; I just need to someone to share my ideas with… Unlike most chefs, I am less of the control freak and more of the taste-this-and-tell-me-what-you-think-team-player variety. My dad says this is where my restaurant probably fell down. I should have been ‘more commanding’. Should have made the hierarchy clear. Made sure I was perched at the top of said hierarchy rather than slogging away at the bottom. But I know that I’m better when I’m working with other people. I like to get out of my own head and communicate and talk and laugh and cry and taste and spit and swear and get excited with everyone else.
I take a deep breath and turn towards Ben. This is the first time I’ve properly taken him in since we’ve been here. He looks just the same. His hair is a little shorter, a little lighter just around the front, and he’s a lot more tanned – probably all the Mediterranean sun on the deck.
‘Excuse me! I need to get through.’ A very agitated, bearded chef scowls directly into my eyes as if to say, get out of the freaking way, and reaches across me to the basket of fresh spinach.
I feel a shiver. There’s something about him which gives me the chills. I step aside as he roughly snatches everything he can get his hands on and shoves it into his overflowing basket. There’s no way he’ll be using all those ingredients; it looks like he’s poaching stuff so other people can’t use it. The battle is on and it’s every chef for himself.
I straighten up and look into my empty basket. C’mon Katie, time is running out. Forget asking Ben. He owes me nothing. We’re virtual strangers now; we’ve had no contact in ages. That little smile he gave me earlier was clearly just his way of being civil. Of putting past differences behind us and moving on. He’s probably smiled at everyone here in exactly the same way. Even the bad-tempered beardy guy seems to be hanging around Ben, maybe they are mates? Maybe he knows him from his new life? As in the life that happened after us?
I take a deep breath and glance one last time to my right. I can see that Ben’s ready; he throws a final handful of parsley into his full basket and strides back to his station.
I’m on my own. Time is ticking by and I need to make a decision and get started. I need to come up with something. Something really bloody good.
I grip the handle of my basket harder and look around at everyone else. Half are standing around, squinting at the range of stock crippled with agonising indecision just like me. The other half, like Ben, have already grabbed their ingredients and are well underway.
I shake my head and try to refocus myself. I have a solid idea. I look again at the lamb’s lettuce. It’s a good idea. No one else seems to be thinking in this direction; most are over in the dairy and meat sections. I’m thinking rose-lipped parmesan and rosemary stacks with a lightly dressed lamb’s lettuce salad. I can make the presentation impressive too – if I get cracking now. I have less than an hour. I want to showcase my knowledge, my skills and I want to make it to service on time.
Another indecisive contender is eyeing up my lamb’s lettuce. I dart him a look and then grab the last fistful along with all the fresh herbs, seasonings, salad, veg, cream, cheeses and butters that I need. As I head out of the pantry, I realise there’s already sizzling and hissing, clanging and banging coming from the other stations. I need to get a wiggle on.
I rock back up to my oven with my basket full, light my rings and start peeling at lightning speed. I’ve got to credit Parklands for that particular skill. I peel more than I need and stick a back-up saucepan of potatoes on the back ring. Just in case. If dropping my pre-selection steak taught me anything, it’s to expect the unexpected and have a plan B.
When the potatoes are ready, I carefully slice each one in to thin, round, delicate slivers. I add melted rosemary butter, grainy pink rock salt and a generous helping of grated parmesan and I fold them by hand. I’ll need to layer up the potato slices carefully, building them in the tin mould like petals of a flower to give a rosebud effect; each one will have to be identical and perfectly crafted. I delicately brush a glaze of garlic-infused oil over the roses and then put them in the oven to bake. In about thirteen minutes, I’ll expect the warm air to smell of roasting garlic and melting cheese. That’s when the magic kicks in and all those wonderful flavours will start to sing. Crispy, crunchy, salty roasted edges working inwards to a gooey, cheesy, velvety middle. Oh my, Alice would be all over this.
I double-check my oven settings, mentally bless my baking blooms and start on my salad.
Somewhere to my left, I think I smell burning at someone else’s station. In the distance, I hear a plate smash, the muttering of obscenities, and I feel the energy of intense pursuit. I smile to myself because my heart is pounding in my chest and I feel so excited, like this is exactly where I belong and God does it feel good. I’m back and it is on.
As I prepare my salad, I can’t help but follow my nose. I definitely smell burning, I recheck my oven. It’s not me. I sniff over to the stove at the back wall, nearest the pantry where I spotted my greedy, bearded buddy earlier on. No chef in sight, I open the door and smoke billows forward. Oh no, this is not good. I know from my own previous disaster that somebody’s heart is going to implode when they see this.
I raise one hand in the air shouting, ‘Attention! Oven at station three!’ while I try to rescue the tray of ramekins which I assume contain potato soufflés… Burnt, sunken potato soufflés.
As I wave my dishcloth in the air to distribute the plumes of smoke, I hear Ben’s voice right beside me.
‘What the hell?’
I turn to see him. His eyebrows knitted together with incredulity and his cheeks flushed pink.
‘Are these yours?’ I ask.
‘Yes! I only put them in five minutes ago… how can they be burnt?’ He slides his fingers through his hair and swivels from side to side. ‘That’s it. That’s me done. I’m finished.’
I glance down at the temperature dial; it’s on 200 degrees! These need to be at 120 maximum. There is no way Ben would ever put soufflés on at that temperature unattended for even five minutes. We were trained the same way. It would simply never happen. I rack my brains and instinctively turn to the far corner of the kitchen, where I can see Beardy watching us out of the corner of his eye. He meets my gaze momentarily and then hastily turns away.
I saw him over here a few minutes ago. Clearly this isn’t his station. He had no business being here unless he was in the business of sabotaging Ben… Ben being the one who has already impressed Jean-Michel’s wife, and therefore the current favourite and the one to beat.
Beardy, you slippery, soufflé-destroying, greedy, cheating bastard.
I turn to Ben, who is leaning back against the wall, pinching his shut eyes, as if unable to even look at the charred remains of his black and smouldering dish. I can tell by his own low, shrunken shoulders that he’s beaten. He’s given up. There’s only fifteen minutes left on the clock. There’s no time to whip up some new soufflés, no time for potato blinis with crème-fraiche and smoked salmon, or sweet potato gnocchi, or a classic galette, or any other of the ideas I had earlier.
I put my hands on Ben’s shoulders and give them a squeeze. He looks at me, defeat in his eyes.
‘I thought I could do it. I really wanted to see how far I could go.’ He shrugs. ‘But I don’t need to tell you that, do I? Of all people, I know you understand exactly what it means.’
He’s right. I do know.
‘You can do it, Ben,’ I tell him and I find m
yself moving in closer, dipping my gaze to find his and make sure he’s listening to me loud and clear. Because I’ve got an idea. ‘Vichyssoise,’ I say, a smile breaking my lips. ‘Ben, your vichyssoise is the best thing in the universe and that’s a big statement for a chilled soup.’
He almost laughs at me. ‘Thanks, Katie, but fifteen minutes?’
I stand straight and start firing orders. ‘I’ve got extra potatoes boiled, you can have them. Just plunge them into ice and they’ll be fine, two-minute job. I’ll check my oven and then fetch you some leeks, you’ll have time to sweat them, blend and finish with cream if you heat your pan this second.’
He stands to his feet, wiping his hands down his apron. ‘You think so?’
‘Yes, chef! Now get going!’ And I whip the dishcloth across his chest.
‘Thank you,’ he mouths just before he sprints to the pantry.
I take my parmesan rose stacks out of the oven to rest and, I’ve got to say, they are perfect. I fetch the leeks, drain, rinse and cool the extra potatoes I’ve got for Ben, and leave it all by his station. Right, time to begin my own plating up. I decide that I’m not going to tell Ben about my Beardy suspicions right now, or maybe ever, because with everything that there is at stake and so many sharp knives around, it’s not safe. Jean-Michel isn’t the only one with a chef’s hot temper. If Ben gets wind of this, he will go over and tear strips off Beardy. And even though he’d be well within his rights, it’ll definitely get him kicked out of this process. And I realise, that’s not something I’m willing to let happen just yet. Firstly, because it would be unfair, Ben’s burnt soufflés were not his fault, and secondly, if I do dig deep down and let myself be truly honest for a moment, I don’t want him to go. It’s been far too nice seeing him again, even if it has been mostly out of the corner of my eye.
I can feel my cheeks flush at the thought of standing so close to him back there, looking straight into those eyes like we hadn’t yet made all our mistakes – or maybe like we were on the other side of them. Is it possible? That it could feel like we were new? Different? Like we had it all to look forward to all over again but this time with a happy ending?
One Way or Another: An absolutely hilarious laugh-out-loud romantic comedy Page 8