“How will people …,” Chladek said.
“Notre gastronomie. A tribute to Caruzo, to you. To my father. To …” He waited for a memory of his mother to pass on through. “Even as a one-off thing on opening night, I’m guessing people might not partake voluntarily.”
When Chladek understood that there was subterfuge involved, his face brightened. “So, here.” Chladek pointed again at the menu item. Winking. “Beef tenderloin.”
Jeremy wasn’t sure. “What are our meat options, anyway?”
Chladek rhymed them off. “Cats, dogs, black rats, mice, rabbits, eastern grey squirrel, Douglas red squirrel, skunks. The odd opossum.”
“Rabbits?” Jeremy said.
Lots of rabbits, in fact, Stanley Park having been used for many years as a dumping ground for unwanted pets. Whatever their fed-up owners had anticipated, the rabbits thrived. There were probably fifteenth-generation Stanley Park rabbits.
“Are they scrawny?” Jeremy asked.
“No,” Chladek said, clenching and pointing at his biceps. “Big and strong. Well fed.”
“Fine,” Jeremy said. “Rabbit for the rabbit.”
Chladek jotted a note in a spiral-bound notebook. “Ducks?”
“Canvasbacks, please,” Jeremy said.
“What are you doing for prawns?” Chladek asked. “We could use goldfish.”
Jeremy shook his head. “Queen Charlotte prawns is what I’m doing for prawns. They are excellent in the market right now. We need goldfish for the escabeche.”
“Right boss,” Chladek said. “And lamb?”
“Saltspring Island Lamb,” Jeremy said. “They came in this morning.”
They went over the rest of the menu, noting the items that needed to be harvested.
“The squab?” Chladek asked.
“How about rock dove?” Jeremy said. “They hang out near the pitch-and-putt. They’re a lighter colour.”
“Roger.”
Jeremy continued itemizing. “Canada geese, OK fine.…”
“How about,” Chladek said, “for the flatfish we get some of those Beaver Lake carp?”
“I think they’re prehistoric,” Jeremy said. “Bad karma. Anyway, I thought you said you could buy flounder off those Chinese guys who fish under the Lions Gate Bridge.”
Jeremy would take care of all the conventional materials from conventional suppliers.
Chladek looked disappointed. “What about the racoon?”
“All right,” Jeremy said. “Three racoons.”
“Three only?” Chladek asked.
“Four, if they’re small.”
And when they had completed these tasks, the kitchen at Gerriamo’s had begun to look not unlike how Bueckelaer would have painted it. Friday late afternoon (doors to the dining room now locked) Jeremy surveyed Chladek’s first shipment. There was a bucket of dandelion greens and fiddleheads, as well as a garbage bag full of salal, salmon and huckleberries. A dozen plump Canada geese, a dozen grey rock doves, six canvasbacks, four large rabbits, fifteen squirrels (greys, fatter and more plentiful than reds) four huge racoons and a swan.
“Why the swan?” Jeremy said. “I didn’t want swan.”
“I thought …,” Chladek said, “you might …”
“Chladek,” Jeremy yelled. “I did not want swan! Why did you bring me swan?”
Chladek was confused by the reaction, and clearly hurt, but to Jeremy the swan was ominous. “Take it out of my kitchen,” he said. “It’s not even indigenous.”
Chladek shook his head. “And the grey squirrel? These came from England in a boat.”
Jeremy sighed and looked away. Not the point. “I’m sorry, but I cannot have swan.”
“Fine,” Chladek said. “It’ll get eaten, I can tell you. Tonight maybe.”
“How’s my fish coming?”
“Fish tomorrow,” Chladek said. “Goldfish, flatfish, periwinkle …”
“Mushrooms?”
“Yes, yes, fungus too,” Chladek confirmed. “They’re still around but not so many.”
Friday night Jeremy worked late butchering, portioning and making stock. The rock doves, geese and ducks all had to be plucked and drawn. The doves he stored for Sunday’s crapaudine, the geese livers for the faux foie gras. Duck and geese breasts were set aside for their respective marinades. All the remaining bird carcasses went in to roast.
Squirrels he skinned and boned, then ground the lean meat for the consommé and put it in the walk-in. The rabbit he jointed, removing the two pieces from each saddle and the two rear legs. What was left of these went on for stock, to be combined later with mirepoix.
He turned last to the racoons, opening the first gingerly, peeling away its fur, severing the feet above the claws. Gutted, the carcass was meagre, but Chladek’s instinct had been good. There were two tenderloin pieces running parallel to the spine on either side. Jeremy removed one and smelled it. Distinctly gamey, he thought. They’d need pepper to tamp down that flavour. The rest of the meat he divided in two for the terrine. Half went through the grinder and was seasoned with salt, thyme, rosemary, black pepper and Dijon mustard, then moistened with reduced apple cider. The other half he smoked over hickory and ground with diced pork fat. Three large pâté moulds were lined with bacon fat and brandy-simmered prunes. And finally, in alternating layers, Jeremy built his pâté. Seasoned racoon mince, pork fat, minced shallots, parsley and smoked meat. He packed the terrines tightly and put them in the oven to cook in a water bath.
When the duck and geese carcasses were brown and rendered of their fat, Jeremy drained them, added water, caramelized mirepoix, bay, peppercorns and a half-head of garlic, and brought them slowly to a boil. He started a mushroom stock for the risotto with a few pounds of button mushrooms and imported dry porcini. Last, a clear white vegetable stock, which he made with sweated onion, celery and carrots.
It was almost midnight by the time he had the meat stored and the four stocks going at a lazy bubble. It was time for the kimchi, which would need the two intervening days to marinate and develop its piquant flavour. Shredded cabbage, onions, vinegar, sesame oil and chilis. It aged best in clay, he knew, so he rooted for fifteen or twenty minutes after assembling the kimchi, looking to find the urns he’d bought especially for this preparation. They were buried under boxes in the dry storage area, and by the time he found them, filled them, sealed them, put them at the back of the walk-in and turned to his final task of the night, the boutifar, it was one in the morning.
“Damn,” he said, noticing the clock and wondering if he should get to bed. But he had the buzz, the zone. He was cooking by feel, instinct. He wasn’t tired, so he dug out the two frozen quarts of pigs’ blood he’d been sent from the butcher. Just enough to make the sausage he’d need for tomorrow.
He melted the frozen blocks on low heat and steeled the Sabatier to prep the vegetables, swiping the blade down the length of steel. It made a reassuring sound in the silent kitchen: zing, zing. He was leaning over the saucepan with the blood, steeling. Not looking. Zing. Zing. He didn’t even realize he’d cut himself until he moved away from the saucepan to put the steel away. Skimming the Sabatier down the outside of the long, carbon steel rod, he had apparently jumped the guard and cut the first knuckle of his index finger, removing a very neat disk of skin. It was one of those painless, non-life-threatening cuts that bleed a great deal. The ones you do not feel and which require a very sharp blade.
“Damn,” he said aloud, startled at the sight of his own blood, now spilling down his hand and covering all his fingers, his thumb. It had dripped down the steel too and onto his pants.
He dropped the knife and the steel onto the cutting board and clamped a hand towel over the cut, applying pressure. He walked the length of the bridge to the first-aid kit and put on a bandage, shaking his head. He went back up the line to clean the cutting board, the steel and the knife. And it was only when he finally turned back to the range that he realized just how much of his blood had been distributed over the stove top
. Dime-sized drops, up the front of the unit, across the burners. On the hood.
Splashed all over the side of the saucepan too.
Jeremy groaned. He rolled his head back and looked up at the ceiling. Just what he needed. He should have gone to bed. Any of his own blood in the saucepan and it all had to go into the garbage, of course. He turned off the flame, disgusted with himself, took out a damp cloth and carefully wiped down the stove top. He picked up the saucepan to empty it into the sink, set it down again.
Two precious quarts. There was no more.
He left the pan sitting on the burner and wiped down the sides, using the edge of a paring knife to scrape off the bits that had been cooked hard. He stepped back from the stove, leaned on a prep counter, chin in hand, staring at the pot.
“Jesus,” he said aloud. He went out into the back alley and smoked a cigarette, looking up and down the dark shining lane. Black clouds were sifting by overhead.
Boutifar or no boutifar, it was only the thematic core of the whole menu. What were the chances any of his blood got into the pot at all? If so, how much? A single drop? Long since mixed a part per billion with the rest? Boiled?
He flicked his cigarette towards the storm sewer. It made an orange streak through the darkness before hissing out on the wet pavement. He went inside. He set the pot on the side rack to cool. He put a new bandage on his knuckle.
It was a simple sausage, really. Onions and leeks cooked in pork fat, cooled and combined with the blood, some cream, salt, pepper, nutmeg, cinnamon, cayenne and thyme. It took Jeremy about half an hour to fill the casings on the KitchenAid and make a glistening stack of black sausages. Tomorrow he’d poach them. Sunday, on the order call, they would grill and open half a link per serving, sauté sliced onion and apple in butter. At the pick-up they’d broil a slice of baguette, rub some garlic on the crust, brush the sausage with cinnamon-infused olive oil and grill. When it was crisp the sausage would slide onto the baguette slice. Somebody would plate the apple and onion in a ring around it.
Apple blossom garnish and you were good to go.
“This is the speech,” Jeremy said, in the kitchen 1030 Sunday morning. “This is the only speech because we’re going to be slammed from here down to 2100.”
“Go Chef,” Joey de Yonker said.
“Thanks for coming on time, everyone,” he went on. “Prep lists are at your stations. No surprises.
“Some notes. Henk and Joey, take up the astringency on the rhubarb sauce. Same amount. Try finishing it with a bit of balsamic. The red wine reduction was excellent, same again. Soup same. I’ll be making the squirrel consommé and the won tons.
“Conrad, Angela: leeks first, please. Then seaweed, oysters in the smoker, endive wheatsheaves. I’ll do the potato cream and give you a hand with anything you need.
“Rolando: you’ve got yams, potatoes for the flatfish crust, mushrooms to Henk for the risotto. Celeriac dice into a hotel pan of lemon water, please, and then to me. I’ll do the purée.”
For Jules, he thought.
“New ingredients?” Henk prompted.
“Right,” Jeremy said. The Pacific wild periwinkle was more saline than the imported one they had been using, so they needed less salt in the stir fry. The goldfish were larger than the sardine; Henk would need two and half minutes a side. The flatfish were small. Angela’s potato crust should be thinner.
“And the racoon …,” Jeremy said. “Strong taste. Pepper the tenderloin pieces. I’m not talking about a crust here, but a good grind all over. And remember that these wild birds have been flying distances up until yesterday. They do not have as much fat and don’t need to render as long. The goose and duck can grill a little hotter. They’ll finish the same as before.
“Questions about any of that?”
There were none.
“Bottom line,” Jeremy said, and then lost the words. He felt a flutter of nerves.
“Here’s to it,” Joey de Yonker offered.
Jeremy pantomimed raising a glass. They all did. “Here’s to it,” Jeremy said. “Our tribute.”
“Our performance,” Henk said.
“On which note,” Jeremy said. “By 2130 I want to come back here and see this.…” Jeremy put a hand above his eyes and looked around the kitchen as if it were empty. Spotless. “I mean clean,” he said. “Leftovers go straight into the bins and out to the dumpster. I don’t want to find any racoon leftovers in my RapidAir, understand? You can leave at that point or come up front for a drink. Everyone got it?”
They got it, and fell quickly into the routine. For two hours there was little talk in the kitchen of Gerriamo’s, just the reassuring sounds of the kitchen humming. Chopping, oven doors thumping shut, Torkil knocking out bread pans, Chico running the dishwasher, the sound of gas flame and scraping pot bottoms. They worked in this familiar cocoon of sounds until mid-afternoon, when Jeremy had everyone take a break together and he made them frittata with pancetta and arugula.
After they’d eaten he walked into the RapidAir and found a bottle of La Fin du Monde. He was at the door, ready to go back into the kitchen, when he thought better of it and grabbed a bottle of Pellegrino instead. He poured off a glass in the kitchen, slugged it down.
“Santé,” he said, to nobody in particular.
“A la vôtre.” Henk said from nearby.
He went out front later. Staff were jogging everywhere, every movement an urgent errand. Someone was washing the baseboards. Somebody else was brushing the purple drapes at the front of the house. The barman was meticulously redusting each bottle on his massive mirror-backed shelves. Dante and Benny were discussing seating arrangements.
The room looked both opulent and messy—the desired effect, Jeremy was sure. Banks, having seen the zucchini blossom garnish on the lamb he had for lunch on Monday, had strewn the tables with dried ones. To this decorating scheme he’d added open champagne crates set strategically around the room, two dozen of them. Jeremy noticed that the crates contained champagne bottles and, in each, several cabbages: red, white and savoy. Veuve Cliquot and peasant vegetables spilled out of the straw as if the crates had dropped from the back of a very specialized delivery truck.
“You like it?” he asked Jeremy. “We make a joke about rich and poor.”
“What’s the joke?” Jeremy asked, towering over Banks, his toque adding authoritative feet.
Banks looked confused, and pointed a quivering finger at a Savoy cabbage. “Jeremy, the cabbawge. People laugh at the cabbawge. He is so … green and wrinkled.”
Jeremy pretended to be greatly irritated. He said: “Do you mind telling me exactly what you find funny about cabbages?”
Banks squirmed in his cream three-piece suit (under a black cape), his hand fiddling with the huge chrome links of a vestigial watch chain. “Jeremy, is just visual humour. Peoples they look at the cabbawge and the beautiful bottle of the Veuve Cliquot and they will lawf. Is all. Please, Jeremy …”
“Please, Chef,” Jeremy said to Banks.
“Please … what?” Banks said.
“Call him Chef,” Dante said from a few tables away, without looking up. He was examining a guest list. “It’s a courtesy he deserves. Jeremy, you don’t like the cabbages?”
“In fact, I love the cabbages,” Jeremy said, not lying.
“Good,” Banks said, rubbing his hands together with relief. “Good.”
Jeremy walked back up the riser towards the kitchen. Just at the kitchen door he was intercepted.
“Chef Jeremy.” It was a harsh English accent, chalk to Dante’s cheese. Jeremy turned to find a tiny, spiky-haired person standing next to him, looking up. She was wearing a puffy, silver raver’s jacket and four-inch orange platforms.
“You must be Kiwi Frederique,” he said.
They sat at the bar. Jeremy took another soda. Kiwi took a Gibson. She slid her Palm PDA onto the mahogany counter, picked up her drink and commenced looking at him intently. Jeremy stared back with a small, expectant smile.
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“Who has been your greatest professional influence?” Kiwi asked finally, no preamble.
Over her shoulder, Jeremy was watching the band set up, a large jazz band, octet at least. The stand-up bass player was noodling up and down through scales, and one of three sax players was throwing the riff back and forth with him, bobbing and weaving. It looked like fun. It reminded him of Olli.
“Ray Kroc and Ferdinand Point,” he said, returning to the conversation. Chef Quartey would forgive him for lying so egregiously given the circumstances.
Kiwi laughed at what she assumed was an ironic same-breath reference to the founder of McDonald’s and that of nouvelle cuisine.
“Seriously,” Jeremy said. “In the early part of the century, Ferdinand Point rejected classical French mother sauces. Mid-century, Kroc introduced the first truly global commodity food. Here at Gerriamo’s, at the end of the same century, we pay homage to these great revolutionaries.”
Kiwi Frederique had decided that he was, in fact, serious and was now making aggressive notes on the Palm. Sometimes when he was throwing things together in the kitchen, not following a recipe, Jeremy felt the same way he felt now. Infallible. Any seasoning he added, any word said … any one would work. And punctuating this thought, the piano player kicked in, slapping down magnificently dissonant chords that anchored all the unrelated noodling going on behind him.
“You see, Ferdinand Point was the first wave in a culinary revolution,” Jeremy went on. “He broke with French formality; he broke with fat and weighty flavours. He kicked free of the past and floated somewhere new without baggage. Kroc created a second wave with his humble hamburger. He broke the constraints of being wherever—McDonald’s is the same anywhere in world, right? Who cares where the beef comes from? He created something that lived independent of its ingredients, a huge change.”
Frederique continued to scribble ferociously. Slashing down strokes, pounding period marks into the little screen. She was backdropped by eight guys going hard on the band riser. Everybody jamming a different tune, the piano running straight down the core. It was a cacophony of random squawks and squiffs, scales and licks. And yet it swung.
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