If the outside of Azure was a soft baroque symphony of sandstone, slate and wrought iron, inside the kitchen was a cross between an operating theatre and contemporary art gallery. In a room large enough to house a twenty-five-metre swimming pool there were five stainless-steel galley kitchens organised in formation, each with two large gas cooktops, ovens and severe overhead extractor fans that would be at home in a factory. Metres of wide benchtops were set in sharp military-style rows with a collection of at least twenty copper pots and pans graded by size suspended above. Pip was sure Azure’s prep kitchen was big enough to cater for an airline. There were at least a dozen people, mostly blokes, in chefs’ whites standing at each station. Movement for each shift took place in two-metre-square zones. To step outside your zone was a sackable offence, unless requested by the head of your station. The industrial feel was softened by a series of bright red, green, blue and yellow old-style globes draped artfully in the centre of each station using a simple black cord. Dramatic silver laminate splashbacks were indented with a Moorish mosaic. There were high windows to let the daylight stream in (but prevent nosy tourists peeking inside) and bounce around the shiny surfaces in the kitchen, and a lower row of modern stained-glass blocks in apple greens and reds set into heavy wooden doors marking the entrance to the service area.
‘You ready, Pip?’ Pedro whispered in his deep liquorice voice.
Despite her scepticism, Pip had decided that cooking at Azure was the closest she would get to alchemy. At her time on the pintxos station she had seen the local tapas reinvented. There was no sign of sliced baguettes and toothpicks. Instead, bread was sliced to less than one millimetre, drizzled with oil and baked until each round looked like a potato crisp. Once cooled, they were topped with a pickled anchovy, smoked caperberries and miniature quenelles of a sweet red capsicum and garlic sorbet. Or the perfect tiny ice cream cone the size of her little finger, made from malsouqa pastry and filled with the creamiest Bacalao—salted cod—and topped with an emulsion of reduced Pedro Ximénez. Or the dish of raw mackerel carved into thumb-sized pieces with the scales intact and a silver glimmer, set into an autumnal mushroom broth with dried thyme and a sprinkle of cinnamon and scattered with the local zizas—chanterelles—delicate droplets of glossy pine nut emulsion and scattered with fresh thyme and fern shoots gathered from the nearby mountains.
While she worked to plate up her dish, she felt the sweat gathering on the back of her neck. She bit into a baby carrot and then a bright pink radish and enjoyed the crunch. Sure enough, she could taste the iodine Pedro had spoken about as he picked over a tray of root vegetables. Salty mist that lay trapped between Donostia’s beaches and the mountains, hanging in the valleys, infusing the vegetables and concentrating the flavours. It was this blend of saltiness and sweetness that she wanted to capture. It was time for her to plate up Abiega Ozeano.
First up, she took one of the limestone tiles on which they served entrees and rubbed it with olive oil till it glistened. She didn’t want her dish looking like it was on a dirty floor. She added some Galician seaweed that she’d set in a thin talo batter so it was nice and crispy, some shaved lemon rind and chopped parsley for extra punch. To get some crunch onto the plate, Pip had rolled chunky squares of soft goat’s cheese in eggplant and garlic ash and baked it so it looked like Zurriola’s jagged shoreline. She leaned in and smelled the smokiness. For her splash of the ocean, Pip painted sheets of obulato, a transparent film made from potato extract, with squid ink. She then baked this until it rolled and went hard and crunchy, and then she plated up her rolling splash of the waves. Next, she placed glossy red spheres of salsa she had made yesterday with a reduction of tomato, capsicum, oregano, red onion and black pepper. Pedro had helped, adding some smoked paprika from the trusty spice room. She’d then let the salsa cool and finished the spherification using some gelatine. She was thrilled with the perfect red globes. Lastly, she scattered translucent slivers of smoked eel, raw tuna and jamon on the plate. Then she sprinkled the lot with a fine orange powder made from cayenne pepper and ground saffron. Again, that was Pedro’s suggestion from the spice room.
After two hours Pip finished the dish and her whole team was gathered around cheering. Her plain grey T-shirt was stuck to her back and her crisp white apron was now rumpled and stained with black ink and red streaks. She wiped away a piece of hair that had escaped from her ponytail and noticed that she had orange sprinkles on the wisps of hair floating in front of her eyes. She must look a complete mess. Pedro stood at the end of the long bench, pristine in his whites, grinning like a proud uncle. He gave her a wink as she held the plate aloft and walked past the clapping and cheering staff, who had formed a guard of honour, through the swinging wooden doors to Eduardo’s table.
It was just past 11.30 pm and she was finishing wiping down her section, polishing the stainless steel so there were no streaks when the sun hit the benchtops at dawn. Her calves ached and her lower back felt a little stiff. Adrenaline was still flowing through her body. Despite the aches and niggles, she felt amazing. And just a little proud. Pedro wandered over with two champagne glasses and a bottle of ’04 Pierre Peters, smiling as he poured a glass for them both.
‘The sommelier sends his regards. He wants to congratulate you. Eduardo also sends his congratulations. He especially loved the tart crunch of the goat cheese against sweet salsa. The slivers of eel also impressed. The masterpiece, however, was your wave. Genius.’ He grinned and held out a glass: ‘This was left over from their little party.’
He raised his left eyebrow as he poured the fizz.
‘Salut.’ They clinked glasses and the buzz matched her mood—fine bubbles.
She sent a quick text to Megs with a photo of her dish. My dish was a hit! Tell my niece I’m a super-chef.
Pip was surprised to get a response immediately. Looks amazing! Well done. Only cooking in this house is super-omelettes made by super-Will.
The emergency meals Pip had filled their freezer with before she left must have run out.
Pip shot back a quick text: I’ll get Dan to drop off some more supplies at the end of the week. My treat. P x
The reply was immediate. No need. We’ll be fine. Besides I love omelettes and scrambled eggs. Will even added some herbs and parmesan this week. Getting fancy!
Even from a distance her sister was bossy. Pip replied: Too late, already ordered it. Let me know when it arrives. X
She’d send Dan an email with the pics of Abiega Ozeano and a bit of news about the kitchen when she was back at her bedsit. Pip was sure he wouldn’t mind packing up some veggie-loaded soups and mains for Megs and dropping them off before work one day. She’d send him her credit card details too—and a budget! Perhaps they could work out some kind of fortnightly delivery. Not too much, or it would drive Megs nuts. Just enough to help out a bit while Pip was still away.
Still, it sounded like Will was doing an amazing job making sure there was always a cooked dinner on the table. He must be shattered. Megs and Will were always in sync. The perfect couple. Pip paused, listening to her aching heartbeat.
No, she scolded herself. Tonight she should celebrate.
‘Hey, Pedro,’ she said, ‘do you want to go out for pintxos? We could go to that place over at the Gros with the pulpo.’
‘Sure. Let’s take my scooter. It will be quicker and it’s a little cold, yes?’
‘Fine by me. You got a spare helmet?’
‘Of course.’ Pedro grinned as they stepped out the side door and the moon cast warm light against the sandstone wall opposite. Caught in the light, Pedro’s caramel skin and dark hair glowed.
The evening chill had well and truly settled in for the night and Pedro offered Pip his black leather jacket. It hung slightly loose against her shoulders and she hoisted herself onto the scooter and wrapped her arms around his waist. She snuggled in, telling herself it was to avoid the wind in her face. Pedro felt warm and underneath his light cotton jumper she could feel a tight set of abs. She s
melled revolting and sweaty, she knew, but Pedro smelled like garlic, smoked paprika and cloves and she wanted to hold on a little tighter.
Pip leaned against Pedro’s back and zoned out as they weaved through narrow alleyways and along cobblestone streets. She felt a rush of excitement, but also uncertainty. She’d produced a beautiful dish and mastered some tricky techniques, but now what?
She didn’t notice they’d pulled up outside the bar until Pedro said: ‘Wake up, sleepy head. Celebration time.’
She was strangely disappointed the ride was over and she had to peel away from his warm back.
‘Let’s go,’ said Pedro, leaning his scooter against the wall.
They pushed through a tiny wooden door with a thick oak beam set above. It would be difficult to get through that door if you were any taller than Pedro, who was just shy of six foot. Her dad would have to duck. Jack too.
‘I’ll get us some beers,’ Pip said as they entered the crowded, noisy bar. ‘You order the seafood, okay? Make sure you get the pulpo—and the anchovies, if they still have the fresh ones. And whatever else is running this week. I’m starving.’ She headed towards the bar to order the local Gross craft ale she preferred. Such a great beer, such a terrible name. It was almost a challenge to order it!
‘Philippa Arnet? Pip, is that you?’ said a familiar Canadian drawl.
She turned and saw the big bearded bear who was her former lecturer, Tom Green, in front of her. His gut seemed smaller but he was still a giant. Six foot five? Six? she wondered for the hundredth time.
‘Oh. My. God. It is you, Pip. I didn’t know you were coming to the conference. I didn’t see the précis for your paper. This is exciting. So you’re finally writing it all up. Got some good data to share with us all, hey?’ His grin was as broad as his shoulders and his eyes were sparkling.
Pip could see Pedro leaning over the end of the bar, ordering some food in his native Basque tongue, sending her quizzical glances. ‘Hi, Tom, great to see you.’ She wrapped her arms around him. Her hands only just met on the other side. Pedro was still staring at her, rather nervously, she thought. ‘What conference? No, I’ve been working here for about two months, I—’
‘Oh,’ Tom boomed as he cut her off. ‘So you’re working down at MerCon. How can you not know about the conference? They’re hosting it. Who’s your supervisor there? Bo? Jean?’
‘No, no. I’m not working with a lab. I’m working in a kitchen; I’m cooking at Azure. You know, the Michelin-starred restaurant.’ Was she puffing her chest a little?
Over the other side of the noisy bar Pedro raised an eyebrow as if to say, You okay? She nodded at him.
‘A kitchen? What? Did you say cooking?’ Tom tilted his head sideways, confused. ‘Like a chef or something? What happened to your PhD?’ His face darkened a little. ‘I really hope you haven’t quit, Pip.’ He fixed her with a narrow gaze.
Her happy buzz from champagne and exhilaration was abruptly extinguished.
Tom leaned in closer and whispered in her ear: ‘I can’t help but think that’s a waste of a good brain, Pip. Don’t throw it away.’ She could feel his warm breath on her cheek and caught a faint cloying smell of smoke and beer.
She glanced again at Pedro, who was still watching them.
Tom followed her gaze. ‘So, you ditched that down-home farm boy of yours, I presume. That why you’re cooking in the kitchen? Chasing Mr Dark and Mysterious over in the corner there?’
‘No, you’ve got it all wrong.’ Why was she being so defensive? What was she trying to prove? She was good at lots of things—it was just that nobody she knew considered them important.
Except, perhaps, Pedro.
‘We’re out for a drink to celebrate,’ she explained. ‘I was invited to present a dish and I called it The Mighty Ocean—Abiega Ozeano.’ She was getting the Basque accent right, at last.
Tom’s eyes were already wandering around the room; he fixed on a blonde with long hair. Some things didn’t change. Pip knew he’d been married once, in his early twenties, to a fellow lab rat, but it hadn’t worked out and he’d moved to a research post in Tasmania. ‘As far away from Vancouver as you can get,’ he’d liked to joke. ‘Best way to get someone out of your mind. Switch countries. Forget about it.’
Pip tried to get his attention. ‘So, you should come have dinner at Azure. I can get you a good table.’ She would be happy to show him her new hard-won skills.
Before Tom could respond, Pedro approached with a silver jug of beer—damn, she’d forgotten to order the beer—two glasses and a plate of grilled pulpo.
Pip introduced the men and explained to Pedro, slowly, that she was talking about her dish. It was difficult to hear over the blaring music and loud voices.
Pedro beamed and half-shouted: ‘It was great. She should be very proud. Eduardo, the boss, really enjoyed it. Sent it to Creative to see if they can modify it for the menu.’
‘I see,’ said Tom, looking Pedro up and down. Whereas Pedro was slender and tanned, Tom was tall, pasty and barrel-chested and sported a hipster beard. Confidence oozed from every pore. Once Tom had finished sizing up Pedro, he ignored him and turned his focus back to Pip. ‘So, Pip. This it? Throwing in all that hard work to make bloody squid ink look like water? Years of chemistry and zoology and this is how you apply it?’
Pip could feel her face burning with humiliation. She was used to Tom being blunt, but rarely was he so rude. She was feeling a bit clammy standing shoulder to shoulder with everyone squeezed into this tiny bar. The heavy legs of dried porc Basque hung in rows from the ceiling and mingled with the charred smells of grilled octopus and mackerel.
To avoid responding, Pip sculled her beer and held out her glass to Pedro for a refill from the shiny jug. When in doubt: scull. At least she could tell her parents her university years weren’t entirely wasted. She seethed at Tom’s dismissal, but it was nothing she hadn’t asked herself already.
Tom must have seen he’d overstepped the mark. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. His hand lingered in the small of her back. She hoped Pedro couldn’t see it. ‘Come down to the conference tomorrow, Pip. I’ll get you a pass. It starts at ten. Let me show you what you’re missing.’ With that he kissed her cheek, pulled her towards him and hugged her for a moment, pressing his chest tight against hers for an extra beat.
Pip didn’t get to answer Tom before he turned and walked to the door, bending his head sideways to navigate the exit, without looking back. She turned back to see Pedro hunched over his beer at the bar, picking at the pulpo with a toothpick. Pip felt conflicted. Should she go to the conference and meet up with Tom? Did she still want a marine biology research job? The opportunity at Azure had made her realise she was far more than her degree.
Pedro looked up and met her gaze as she stood slowly sipping her beer, his dark eyes questioning. Her stomach fluttered a fraction. Pip wondered if he was maybe just a tiny bit jealous.
Chapter 19
Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487
Artemisia headed out the kitchen door and bounded up the thick granite stairs in the turret that spiralled up to the banquet hall and private chambers. She lifted her tunic and wondered how many more times she would run up these stairs today. Best not to think about it. As she rounded the first turn, she brushed shoulders with one of the new young chambermaids carrying armfuls of silver goblets and asked, ‘Josette, isn’t it? Can I help you?’
‘Yes, Cook, it’s Josette.’ She looked at the goblets tucked up in her apron. ‘Not much more to go, now. But, thank you …’ Her voice faded.
‘Settling in?’
‘Well enough, I suppose,’ Josette whispered, but her voice broke. She dipped her head to the opposite wall and tried to wipe away the emerging tears with her shoulder.
Artemisia dropped her voice and patted Josette’s forearm. ‘Make sure you come down later for porée, won’t you, child?’ Then she took two steps before adding, ‘I just thought I’d check the final
table settings.’ She smiled. ‘Are they almost finished?’
‘Yes, Cook,’ the girl spoke softly as she nodded and scuttled ahead up the stairs to join the older maids, like a lamb seeking the shelter of the flock. Artemisia knew that feeling well—it would be hard to leave her kitchen flock.
The excited chatter of a dozen chambermaids drifted into the stairwell as Artemisia neared the entrance to the banquet hall. A maid was standing in one corner with a basket, scattering armfuls of barley, lavender, white lilies, rose petals and rosemary across the floor. The vaulted ceiling echoed with the clanging of silver and pewter trays, goblets and jugs being set on the royal blue velvet table runners Artemisia had laid out last night. She double-checked the placement of the head table for the bride and groom, where it sat on a plinth along the far wall. A giant new tapestry shimmered, illuminated by shafts of light streaming in from the tiny high windows on the opposite wall. Artemisia paused and leaned against the cold stone wall to catch her breath.
The edges of the tapestry depicted thick brown trunks of an oak forest, with a clearing right in the middle. The clearing was filled with a circle of wild young women dancing with their arms linked, heads thrown back, laughing. Some women had their hair loose down their backs, eyes closed and mouth open as if they were … Artemisia blushed, but she couldn’t look away. Their skin looked luminous, their hair was threaded with gold and copper and she could almost feel the movement. She noticed to one side a trio of musicians accompanying the dance—harp, lute and fiddle. These women were also naked, with rose-tinted lips and glistening skin, almost dripping with sweat. So this was the mysterious tapestry gifted to the château by the bride’s kin in Clinchy? Rumours had been circulating for weeks. Apparently there was a sizeable dowry attached to Rose and Lord Boschaud was most pleased to secure it. He had declared proudly on his return to the château after his betrothal that it was his finest hunting expedition yet. So it was only proper this wedding gift hung in pride of place behind the head table for the wedding banquet. Abbot Roald had objected to the removal of the original tapestry, but Artemisia presumed the good Virgin Mary was now rolled up safely in the store keep in the barn area, forever reading on her flowery mead surrounded by roses, lilies, columbines, hollyhocks and peonies. Where the Virgin Mary was nestled safe inside the garden wall surrounded by saints, these dancing nymphs seemed to have found a different kind of paradise. A couple of maids beat the new tapestry with broomsticks to flatten creases. Plumes of dust clouds appeared with every thud and the girls shrieked, giggled and covered their eyes as they whacked.
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