A Taste of Passion

by Ashley Lister

  ‘We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,’ the maître d’ announced. Her crisp voice cut through Trudy’s thoughts. It was sharp with tones of clinical authority.

  The restaurant was virtually empty. Aside from herself the only other patrons were a solitary couple sat in one corner near a window. They held hands across a table decorated with empty plates, half-drained coffees and a single rose.

  One petal had fallen from the rose to the floor.

  ‘The head chef has given me permission to lock the doors with you inside.’

  Trudy glanced at the maître d’. ‘You’ve spoken with the head chef? May I speak with the head chef?’

  ‘No. As I might have mentioned before, that goes against restaurant policy.’

  ‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’

  The maître d’ sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she headed towards the kitchen. A moment later a smirking waitress appeared and placed another muffin in front of Trudy. She had fuchsia hair and the name badge over her right breast was written in italicised script: Nikki.

  ‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Nikki grinned.

  Trudy nodded. ‘I’ve never had better.’

  ‘My friend Kali makes them,’ Nikki explained. ‘She’s pâtissier here at Boui-Boui and she was the one who showed this recipe to Mr Hart.’

  ‘Really? Has she ever told you what goes into them?’

  ‘What goes into a citrus and blueberry muffin?’ Nikki repeated doubtfully.

  Before Trudy could say that wasn’t what she meant, the maître d’ had appeared and the conversation was cut maddeningly short. She escorted the fuchsia-haired waitress out of the room and back to the kitchens.

  Trudy was left alone in the restaurant with her single, enigmatic muffin.

  Each citrus and blueberry muffin had been baked in a pastel pink paper case. Trudy slowly peeled the paper away before sampling the sponge in small, savoured morsels. Over the past two hours she had grown so acquainted with unpeeling the muffins from their paper cases that the action felt like a well-practised ritual. Primed by some Pavlovian response, she began to salivate in anticipation of the tantalising taste as soon as she was teasing paper away from the sponge.

  Something about the flavour was maddeningly familiar.

  Emotionally she was detecting excitement and hope – not things she often associated with flavours. Her tongue continued to identify suggestions of vanilla but that was a common ingredient in so many pastries that acknowledging its presence did little to help. Trudy was still trying to work out the identity of that missing detail when the maître d’ reappeared in the main doorway.

  The solitary couple had crept quietly from the room. Their table had been surreptitiously cleared without Trudy noticing.

  She was now the only customer in the restaurant.

  The maître d’ wore an overcoat over her uniform. She had one hand on a light switch. There was something about her posture that suggested absolute determination. And, whilst Trudy could see the woman was resolute, she did not think the determination of the maître d’ could be as strong or resilient as her own will.

  ‘I’ll be locking the doors now,’ the maître d’ explained. ‘This is your final chance before you get locked in here for the evening. Are you going to leave?’

  Trudy drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave after I’ve spoken with the pâtissier.’

  The lights went out. Before Trudy had a proper chance to realise she had been plunged into darkness, a stranger took the seat next to hers.

  Chapter 4

  ‘What do you want?’

  Her heartbeat quickened. She had no idea who he was. Had she been left alone with the restaurant’s security detail? Her grand idea of remaining at the table, until the restaurant’s staff were forced to deal with her, no longer seemed like such a clever strategy. A slick sheen of sweat moistened her palms. Her mouth was almost too dry to talk. She started twice before finally finding the words.

  ‘These muffins,’ she began. It took every ounce of effort she possessed not to stammer. She willed herself to appear in control. Even though it was dark and even though she didn’t know who she was talking to, Trudy felt the need to exude an air of contained professional calm. ‘These muffins are delicious.’

  ‘I know. Everything I serve here at the Boui-Boui is delicious. Now, tell me, what do you want?’

  It was too dark to see who he was. He was simply a suggestion of shadow against the blackness of the unlit restaurant. His voice had a northern twang to it that reminded her of the blustering heroes from hardy TV shows and gritty films. It was an accent that suggested the words were spoken by someone with no time to tolerate whimsy, artifice or fools. They were plain-spoken words from a plain-speaking man.

  His accent trilled softly against her ear like the rasp of a favourite blanket. Maddeningly, she knew his voice was one she had heard before and that she knew well. She racked her brains, desperately trying to think where she had heard it and how she knew this stranger.

  ‘What do I want?’ Trudy repeated. It was difficult to believe that the full details of her request had not been passed on to the senior kitchen staff. She brushed past that detail refusing to let her ire show. ‘Perhaps you might be able to tell me?’ she began excitedly. ‘Are you the pâtissier?’

  Even as she asked the question she knew that wasn’t correct. The waitress had told her that the pâtissier was a woman called Kali.

  ‘No. I’m not the pâtissier. I’m head chef. This is my restaurant.’

  Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Whatever she had hoped to say suddenly seemed unimportant as she realised she was in the presence of a legend. She was briefly thankful for the darkness because it meant she wouldn’t be embarrassed by the fact that she was flustered with this discovery. She was in the presence of her idol.

  ‘William Hart?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The William Hart?’

  ‘Unless he owes you money, yes.’

  Her heart had been racing before. Now it thundered so loud she was sure he would be able to hear it in the darkened silence between them. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Mr Hart. You came to the university and delivered a seminar. It was most inspirational.’

  He grunted as though the matter was of no importance.

  ‘What do you want?’ In his broad accent the question came out as: Waz tha one? ‘It’s late, I’m jiggered and, whilst I’ve got no problems locking you in here for the night, I’d be better suited if you simply chuffed off back to where you’ve come from. Let those of us who work for a living get some shuteye.’

  She tried squinting at him in the darkness. His dialect and unfamiliar word choices made it difficult for her to work out if he was angry or amused or possessed by some other emotion. If there had been better lighting between them she would have been able to read his eyes and establish if he was sincere in his threat to lock her inside the restaurant.

  ‘I wanted to learn something about the ingredients in your citrus and blueberry muffin.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Are you lakin’ with me?’

  She shook her head and then realised he wouldn’t be able to see the movement in the darkness. ‘I don’t think I’m laking with you. I’m not fully sure I understand what that means.’

  ‘Lakin’?’ He sighed. ‘Are you joking? Are you playing with me? Are you having a laugh? Are you messing me about? Did you really spend your entire evening sat at this table because you wanted to know what’s in one of my blueberry muffins?’ He chuckled dourly and added, ‘I’ll tell you now, lass, the answer to that one was buried somewhere in the question.’

  Trudy frowned. She could tell he was mocking her and she supposed her unorthodox behaviour did merit some level of derision. Nevertheless, she was determined not to be dismissed as a foolish blonde who hadn’t worked out that a blueberry muffin contained blueberries.

  ‘I recognise so many flavours in this product,’ she said quickly. ‘I can taste
the organic, free range eggs. I can taste hand-milled wheat as well as blueberries and citrus zest.’ A revelation suddenly came to her and she said, ‘I’ve even worked out that those sugars that were initially confusing me are an acacia honey.’

  He drummed his fingers on the table.

  Her vision was beginning to adjust to the lack of light in the room and she could see the lines that weathered his face. His eyes were wrinkled by the suggestion of constant smiles. She could see he had raised one steel-grey eyebrow, as though encouraging her to continue. She wanted to believe he was grudgingly impressed with her abilities but the lighting in the dining area was too dim for her to read much from the shadows that cloaked his face.

  ‘Well done,’ he said drily. ‘You can taste flavours.’

  ‘But that’s the problem,’ she insisted. She quashed the urge to let him hear the impatience in her tone. ‘I can’t name all of them. There’s one remaining flavour that I haven’t yet been able to identify. That’s why I’m still sitting here. I need to know the identity of that missing ingredient.’

  His smile glinted brilliant white in the shadows. The darkness made it impossible for her to see if there was any kindness in his eyes. The expression made her think of a shark on the scent of blood.

  ‘When I delivered my seminar at your school –’

  ‘University,’ she corrected.

  He waved a hand as though the distinction was unimportant. Continuing without pause he asked, ‘Can you remember what I spoke about?’

  She didn’t have to hesitate. The lesson he had imparted on that day had been one that matched her own beliefs about the ideals of cuisine. Goosebumps bristled at the nape of her neck as she remembered William Hart delivering his message to her and a lecture theatre of two hundred students. ‘I remember it vividly. You told us to respect the flavours.’ Her voice lowered to a reverential whisper as she repeated the words. ‘You said that a chef needs to be conversant with flavours. As conversant with flavours as a concert pianist is conversant with classical music. As conversant with flavours as a writer is conversant with works of great literature. You said that it’s the duty of every great chef to respect and understand every flavour in the kitchen. Respect the flavours.’

  ‘It sounds sexier when you say it,’ he admitted. ‘But, despite the respect you clearly have for flavours, you still don’t recognise that added flavour in my citrus and blueberry muffin?’

  She started to shake her head and then stopped. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognise the flavour. She did know it – or something similar. Her chest began to swell as she realised why she had associated emotions such as excitement and happiness with the flavour.

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  Her smile grew broader.

  It was a Christmas flavour.

  ‘It’s a type of cinnamon, isn’t it?’

  He laughed. ‘Is it chuff? It’s not just a type of cinnamon. It’s the type of cinnamon. It’s Sri Lankan cinnamon.’

  Her brow creased as she tried to recall all that she had learnt about cinnamon and apply that knowledge to her memory of the flavour in the citrus and blueberry muffins. ‘From the cinnamomum tree,’ Trudy remembered. ‘It’s not one of the more common variants of cinnamon like the Indonesian or Vietnamese.’

  She watched his silhouette nod approval. ‘You do know your stuff.’

  Hearing those words from the lips of William Hart, growled in his impenetrable northern voice, was almost more impressive an accolade than the honours degree that she had received earlier in the day. She knew, when she finally retired to bed this evening in the house she shared with Charlotte and Donny, Hart’s sincere praise would be at the forefront of her thoughts as she drifted to sleep.

  Trudy stroked her tongue along her teeth. Now that she knew the identity of the flavour she felt as though she would be able to recreate the muffins in her own kitchen. It took an effort of self-restraint not to leap from her seat to hurry home to start baking. Of course, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t be able to make a start until the morning, after a trip to the local market where she could maybe track down a specialist spice supplier who might stock Sri Lankan cinnamon, but …

  ‘Thank you,’ she said earnestly. ‘Thank you so much for sharing that with me. I don’t think you know how much it meant to me.’

  His silhouette shrugged. ‘I can see we share a passion. I enjoy sharing things with people who share my passions. I assume, since you’ve hung around here this long, you have time to let me show you my kitchen?’

  Chapter 5

  It was only when the lights came back on that Trudy remembered William Hart was attractive. Disturbingly attractive. Admittedly, he was old enough to be her father. Taking into account the lined face and steel-grey hair she figured he was in his late forties or early fifties. But his age seemed immaterial.

  He was hot.

  There was a timeless quality to William Hart that she had noticed when he delivered the seminar at her university. His diamond-blue eyes shone with bright enthusiasm. His smile, set in a square and manly jaw, glinted with a boyish promise of inappropriate mischief. At the university she had thought he was physically imposing but, at the time, she had ascribed that to the fact he was standing on a podium, wearing a generously-cut suit beneath a double-breasted tweed overcoat. Now she could see his substantial presence came, not from his clothes, but from his broad and manly chest and his considerable height. From what she could glimpse beneath his white shirt and dark sports jacket, there didn’t appear to be any excess fat on his lean frame.

  Her heartbeat had been slowing back to its normal rhythm.

  The realisation that she was alone in Boui-Boui with the desirable William Hart sent it racing again. Muscles deep in her loins began to tingle with wanton and unbidden anticipation. She desperately willed herself to stop brooding on his handsomeness. He was likely married or in a relationship and she told herself it should be obvious that a man of his years would have no interest in her.

  ‘This way,’ he said, extending a hand.

  She allowed him to hold her fingers, thrilling to his touch and hoping he couldn’t see that she was mesmerised at being in the presence of a respected idol. When he led her towards the kitchen she felt self-conscious about every step and how he might interpret her movements.

  If she walked too close to him would he think she was needy or infatuated by his celebrity? If she stayed too far away would he think she had no interest in him? Or that she didn’t know who he was? Would it be less complicated, she wondered, to simply embrace him and devour him with kisses so he could see that she worshipped him?

  That final idea made her smile.

  It also made the muscles in her loins clench a little more hungrily.

  He pushed through a door marked IN and held it open for her as fluorescent lights splashed their illumination across a bright and shiny kitchen. The room was a gleaming array of stainless steel work surfaces and sleek, polished tiles. The glossy lustre of the starship cleanliness juxtaposed harshly against the rustic exterior of Boui-Boui’s dining room with its gingham tablecloths and country house décor.

  It was like stepping between worlds.

  Trudy couldn’t stop herself from grinning as Hart led her by the hand through the first of the aisles past cooling hotplates and quietly ticking ovens. The walls of each station were decorated with magnetic strips where dangerously sharp kitchen blades hung and glinted beneath the fluorescents. The handles were colour-coded in bright reds, yellows, blues, greens, blacks and whites. She saw food hygiene posters on the walls above wash stations, explaining that red blades and boards were intended for raw meat, yellows were solely for cooked meats, and all the other colours of blades and utensils had their own specific purpose. The faraway chugging and churning sounds of an industrial dishwasher squelched rudely from an adjacent room. The air in the kitchen was stained with the memory of recent cooking and the pungent tang of studiously applied cleaning products.

  Trudy tried
to suppress her grin as she walked around the kitchen.

  Hart nodded towards the glass windows of an office. The glass door was closed and labelled with the words: Head Chef.

  ‘I work and watch from in there,’ he explained. ‘I can oversee the hotplates and the service windows. I can inspect everything going to front of house from my office and nothing ever leaves these kitchens without my approval.’

  She knew her eyes were wide with disbelief. She was being shown around the kitchens of a three star Michelin restaurant. More than that, she was being given a private tour by the celebrated William Hart. And he was hot.

  The significance of the moment was almost too much for her thoughts to process.

  She was reminded of the thrill she had experienced at Christmas, as a small child, when her parents had first taken her to meet Santa Claus. Then she had been meeting someone whom she revered and respected to such a magnificent degree the man was more than human: he was a legend. She was reminded of all those thoughts and more when she looked at William Hart.

  Slyly, she took a glance at him.

  Outside the kitchen he had moved with the graceful confidence of a ballet dancer. Inside, he patrolled the room like a panther strutting around its lair. He moved arrogantly, his possessive hold on her fingers tightening. He pointed at various aspects of the room, explaining which chef de parties were responsible for which stations, how many commis each required, and sharing his thoughts on how well each area was working and how it could be made more efficient.

  The timbre of his voice was a constant, reassuring grumble. Some of his word choices, flummox, fettle and faffing, made her wonder if she was listening to a foreign language. But each unusual word only made her curious to learn more about William Hart and everything he had to say.