Each tingling memory of him testified to the satisfaction he delivered.
Now that same satisfaction was at the back of her throat. She had taken him in her mouth and sucked him to climax. The memory nestled there with the comforting warmth of glowing coals on a fading fire.
It was evening at Boui-Boui and, with the chaos of the kitchen well under way, Trudy took a moment to drink in the chaotic atmosphere. The walls reverberated with repeated cries of, ‘sharp,’ ‘behind you,’ ‘blade,’ or ‘hot.’
The calls were variations on warnings that Trudy had heard in a hundred or more kitchens. They were used as a courtesy whenever a chef walked behind a colleague. The deafening clatter of pans on hobs and the sizzle of oil in skillets meant every warning cry had to be shouted like a thinly concealed threat.
‘Watch your back!’
Trudy glanced over her shoulder to see the Smurf making his way from the boucher’s station. He flashed an indolent grin and waved three blue-plastered fingers as he passed by.
She returned his false smile with one of her own and nodded. It was easy to like most of the kitchen staff but there was something about the Smurf that she didn’t fully trust. It wasn’t the suggestive leer in his eyes; it wasn’t even the way he kept getting moved from one station to another because each chef de partie preferred it when he was elsewhere. Trudy figured it was just one of those indefinable somethings that made some people likeable and others unlikeable. She tried to make the situation tolerable by spending as little time as possible in the Smurf’s company.
‘Table eight wanted to thank the pâtissier,’ Aliceon told her.
Trudy tried not to show her shock.
Kitchen staff announced their presence loudly so there was no danger of accidental collisions or unfortunate incidents in a potentially hostile environment of heavy ironware, lethal blades and scalding liquids. She had yet to encounter a chef who could sneak behind a colleague without succumbing to the reflex action of shouting a warning.
But front of house staff, like Aliceon the maître d’, didn’t trouble themselves with such trivial considerations. Aliceon had managed to appear by Trudy’s elbow without Trudy even realising the woman was there.
She refused to show that she had been startled.
Inwardly, she tried to quell her panicked heartbeat.
‘Table eight?’
Trudy frowned for a moment, trying to recall what Kali had been working on for table eight. The memory came swift and she grinned. It was Kali’s signature dessert: ginger-flavoured panna cotta, topped with poached pears, orange brandy gelée, and a candied orange zest. Even thinking about the dish made Trudy’s mouth water. It was a truly exquisite concoction.
‘I’ll pass on their compliments,’ she assured Aliceon. ‘Kali will be pleased. It’s always good to hear about satisfied customers.’
The maître d’ shrugged with her usual cool authority. ‘Few people leave Boui-Boui dissatisfied.’
Trudy shook her head. She didn’t think that was accurate. ‘I would have been dissatisfied if I’d left without learning more about that muffin.’
Aliceon regarded her doubtfully. ‘It’s not possible for me to please every customer. Some are too demanding or too peculiar for me to be of assistance.’
‘Which was I? Too demanding or too peculiar?’
‘Both, I suspect.’
The honesty of her rudeness and her haughty assurance were both likeable and intimidating. Although she was grinning now, Trudy was still trying to work out how best to interact with the woman. It was part of Aliceon’s job to be aloof, commanding and distant she supposed. But Trudy realised it was also part of her own newly devised role at Boui-Boui to act with an equal level of authority.
‘I’ll pass on table eight’s comments,’ she told Aliceon. ‘Thanks for letting us know.’
The maître d’ nodded and slipped quietly back to the front of house.
* * *
Trudy walked through to the pâtisserie and stopped, surprised to find the room empty. After the meaty heat of the main kitchen she noticed the air in here was cooler and filled with the softer scents of silky chocolates, razor-sharp zests and moist sponges. The air in the patisserie, she thought, was the most divine part of any kitchen.
The pantry door was ajar and, as she stepped closer, Trudy could hear muffled voices whispering from the depths of the room. She recognised Kali’s voice and, after a moment’s concentration, realised the second voice belonged to the Smurf. She frowned. She hadn’t thought he was working with the pâtissier this evening.
‘You’d have made a damn fine sous,’ the Smurf whispered. ‘That job should have been yours. The old man doesn’t know what he’s doing. I think he’s losing it.’
Trudy stepped closer.
The pair remained oblivious to her presence and, whilst she didn’t like the idea of eavesdropping, she understood they were discussing her and she wanted to know what was being said. She held her breath and strained to hear more.
‘She got the credit for taking the muscovado out of the banana puddings,’ Kali complained. She sounded disgruntled. She was shifting items on the shelves and banging them around with obvious unhappiness. ‘I had that same idea eight months ago when Imogen still worked here. This new bitch comes here on the first night, steals my idea, and gets all the credit and the glory.’
The Smurf snorted. ‘Perhaps you should try fucking the old man?’ he suggested. ‘Maybe then you’d get a promotion?’
‘Give over,’ grumbled Kali. ‘He’s old enough to be her grandfather. Carlson and me did the maths. He reckons that’s why Hart’s losing it right now. Too much sex at his age. It’s not healthy for any man.’
‘You do right to keep hold of your dignity,’ the Smurf agreed.
Trudy could feel the threat of outraged tears building at the back of her eyes.
A part of her wanted to burst into the pantry and demand that the Smurf and Kali both take back the hurtful things they had just said. But she knew that such an outburst would do no good. She slipped out of the patisserie before either of them could realise their conversation had been overheard. Needing to escape the claustrophobic air of the kitchen, desperate to get outside and cool down she stepped out through the kitchen’s rear doors and into the night.
* * *
It was late and cold.
A sliver of new moon sat high in a star-speckled sky. The fragrant scent of tobacco mixed with marijuana came to her on the night’s air. After the overpowering flavours of the kitchen the smell of the smoke was almost pleasant.
She glanced towards the shadows where a pair of chefs shared a hand-rolled cigarette. One was lean with a wiry beard whilst the other was clean shaven but broad around the belly. They spoke in low voices, as though their conversation was being kept cautiously private.
‘Fair play to the old man –’
Trudy couldn’t tell which of them was talking. Neither seemed to have noticed her and it was too dark outside the kitchens for her to see much about anything clearly. She kept in the shadows and strained to hear their conversation.
‘– if I wanted to screw a blonde with legs like that I’d give her a job here as sous.’
There was a pause and then the snatched breath of someone sucking on a joint. A moment later, sounding slightly fuzzy and a little breathless, the second chef spoke.
‘Have you been talking with the Smurf? He’s just a bitter little bag of nastiness spreading rumours about that poor bitch. The fucker can’t be trusted to slice cake and keep all his fingers. Why you’d trust him on something as important as Hart’s decision-making processes is a mystery to me.’
‘I’ve been talking with the Smurf,’ the first speaker admitted. ‘But he’s got a point. How come Hart didn’t promote a sous from within the ranks?’
‘Would you have wanted the job?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Do you think there’s someone here better qualified than a summa-cum-laude colle
ge graduate?’
‘That’s not the point either.’
‘Then, what is the point?’
Trudy turned around and went back into the kitchens.
* * *
She tried not to brood on the things she’d overheard but it was impossible to put them from her mind. Every time she met someone’s gaze she wondered if they were also thinking the same thing.
Trudy had only got her job at Boui-Boui because she was fucking Hart.
Trudy was unqualified and not right for a position of command at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Trudy was an untalented slut.
She went about her duties in the kitchen, suggesting small improvements when she saw a need for them and struggling to bite back the persistent threat of tears. Her chest felt tight with the effort and she knew her eyes and nose had turned red from the prospect of crying. It was the first time she could recall working in a kitchen and not enjoying the ambience.
She wondered if she had made the right decision in telling Bill that she would work for him. A part of her was trying to think of a way that she could extricate herself from the commitment when she heard the bellow of an outraged cry.
The roar was loud enough to make her flinch.
‘Say that again,’ Bill roared. ‘Say that a-fucking-gain.’
The kitchen fell silent. Trudy strained her neck to see what was happening.
‘What’s the matter, old man? Are you losing your hearing with old age?’ the Smurf taunted. ‘I said she’s only working here because she’s fucking you.’
‘You foul-mouthed little twat.’
Trudy raised her head in time to watch Hart throw a punch.
The blow smashed straight into the face of the Smurf.
Bill had come out of his office towards the hotplates. He threw the punch as though he was adept in the art of fist fighting. One hand went up and pushed away the Smurf’s weak and feeble defence. The other slammed hard into the Smurf’s nose.
The younger man went down fast and hard.
The noise of the kitchen, which had been a deafening roar a moment earlier, turned to a vast and frosty silence. Even the sizzles and steams seemed muted in the aftermath of the punch.
‘Get up and say it again,’ Bill demanded. ‘Get up from the floor and tell me again that I promoted her because I’m fucking her. Get up from the floor and tell me again that I’m a senile old man who’s making decisions with his dick.’
The Smurf scrambled to get to his feet.
Blood bubbled from both nostrils. In the harsh and uncompromising lights of the kitchen the liquid looked black. His cheeks were crimson with outrage. His eyes were red-rimmed with obvious pain and from the threat of tears they blazed with a raw and bitter fury.
‘I’ll say it again,’ the Smurf agreed.
He grabbed a paring knife from a rail on the wall and brandished it in Bill’s direction. The knife had a red handle. It was red, Trudy realised, because it was intended to cut raw meat. The red-handled blades were the keenest in the kitchens.
‘I’ll say it again,’ the Smurf promised. ‘And then I’ll carve the words in your leathery old fucking face.’
‘Put down the sharp,’ Bill said calmly. ‘Or I swear to God, I’ll take it from you, snap off the blade, and then push the handle up your arsehole.’
The Smurf looked momentarily panicked.
His ratty eyes scoured the room.
Trudy could see he was looking for an ally or an escape route.
He had his knife arm stretched out, the tip of the blade trembling with an extension of his obvious unease. The blood continued to seep slowly from his nostrils, dripping idly into penny-sized splotches on the polished kitchen floor.
‘Put down the sharp,’ Bill repeated. ‘Do it now and you’ll get out of here tonight without suffering further harm, and carrying the wage packet that’s owed to you.’
‘And if I refuse?’ the Smurf demanded. His voice was high-pitched with nerves. The knife he held trembled as though it was sawing patterns in the air. ‘What if I refuse?’
Bill punched him again.
He was swift, Trudy noticed. She hadn’t seen the blow coming. She knew the Smurf had no way of avoiding the fist being thrown at him. This time, when he landed on the tiles, his head crashed against the floor and he made no attempt to get up.
A fresh-faced entremetier bent down.
He plucked the paring knife from the Smurf’s fingers.
Bill nodded gruff thanks.
‘Someone get Aliceon to call the police,’ he growled.
A commis chef rushed from the room to find the maître d’.
‘And before any of you get back to work,’ Bill continued, ‘I want to hear from anyone else who thinks I employed the new sous simply because she and I are fucking.’
Trudy blushed crimson. She admired his ability to talk straight and not mince his words. But to announce to all kitchen staff that they were fucking seemed inordinately direct even for him.
‘All I’ve heard from you yabbering pricks this evening has been complaints about the new sous.’ He kicked at the Smurf’s prone body. The tip of his boot struck the inert figure in the ribs. ‘Was it all poison being spread by that little twat?’ Bill demanded. ‘Or does anyone else have a problem?’
There was a moment’s stilted silence.
Trudy didn’t think anyone was going to speak. She glanced from one chef to another, reassured that some of them were giving her sympathetic smiles but unhappy that some of them refused to meet her gaze.
‘Anyone?’ Bill demanded. ‘Does anyone here have a problem with my sous? Or was the Smurf the only one who thought it was an issue?’
‘Why is she your sous?’
The question came from the lean man with the wiry beard whom Trudy had seen outside. In the stark light of the kitchens she recognised him as Frank, the saucier. Trudy could see Kali taking a step closer to his side and nodding as though she agreed with Frank’s question.
‘There are others who’ve worked here longer,’ Frank said. His tone was reasonable and he spoke as though he was making a point rather than trying to be contentious. ‘Even some of the commis chefs have got more experience.’ He rolled his eyes and said, ‘There are even porters here with more experience.’
Bill glowered down at the Smurf’s fallen body.
Trudy could see he was thinking of kicking the unconscious man again. When he elected not to deliver the blow she admired his restraint.
‘Some good questions,’ Bill said.
His tone was so gruff Trudy thought it was clear that he didn’t really consider the questions to be good ones.
‘I need to make a couple of points here,’ he began deliberately. ‘First and foremost is that Trudy McLaughlin knows what she’s doing. She’s graduated from a highly respected local university with a first class honours degree in the culinary arts. There are three universities trying to get her to enrol on their master’s programmes and two want her to go straight into teaching for them. You lucky fuckwits will one day be bragging that you worked in a kitchen under the legendary Trudy McLaughlin.’
Trudy felt herself swell inside as she considered his compliments. She wasn’t sure if he meant everything he had said, but she couldn’t imagine ever again receiving such high praise.
‘Secondly,’ he went on, ‘and perhaps this is the most important point here: McLaughlin is the sous here because I say she’s the sous. This is a restaurant. This is my restaurant. It’s not a fucking democracy. On this occasion I’ve been sage enough to appoint a highly qualified and talented graduate to the role of sous. However, if I’d decided to give the role to one of the black rock chickens that’s currently shitting out tomorrow’s supply of fresh eggs, I’d expect my decision to be accepted and respected by every one of you twats. If I’d decided to give the role of sous to a boiled turnip, I would have expected my decision to be accepted and respected. Do I make myself clear on this?’
There was a grumble of
assent.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Bill complained. He theatrically cupped his ear and said, ‘It must be a side effect of my getting too much sex for an old man.’
Trudy blushed.
Kali blushed deeper.
‘Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, chef,’ the kitchen said loudly.
‘If anyone needs to speak with me face-to-face about this I’ll be in my office. If anyone doesn’t like working in my Michelin-starred restaurant and allowing me to make my own decisions, feel free to come into my office and tell me where I’m going wrong so we can discuss this openly and freely as I hand you your last wage packet.’
He turned to glower at Trudy and said, ‘You’re acting as chef de cuisine whilst I talk with staff in my office.’
‘Yes, chef,’ she agreed.
He nodded and turned away.
Chapter 23
Trudy was in charge of the kitchen when the police arrived. She apologised for not calling an ambulance and explained that the worry had not been about the Smurf’s health but the fear that he could prove dangerous if not immediately and securely detained.
‘He threatened Mr Hart with a knife,’ she added. ‘He seemed quite serious. It was very frightening.’
One of the officers glanced at the Smurf’s prone body and raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘He’s not holding a knife now.’
‘No,’ she agreed.
She wondered if the officer had expected them to leave a knife in the hands of an unconscious and potentially dangerous man. She was busy working out the best way to phrase this consideration without sounding stupid or sarcastic when the officer asked, ‘Who assaulted him?’
‘Assaulted?’ Frank stepped between Trudy and the officer. ‘He wasn’t assaulted. He was disarmed and incapacitated. Given the way this lunatic was wielding a knife it’s lucky he was disarmed and incapacitated. Someone could have been seriously injured.’
The officer’s sceptical eyebrow raised again. He took Frank’s name and asked him about his involvement in the matter. Frank described himself as an innocent bystander who was simply keen to make sure the police didn’t botch their enquiries.
A Taste of Passion Page 15