by Janey Lewis
‘Don’t change the subject! You knew I was trying to escape from everyone.’
Liberty was trying her best to remain cross, but now her father was here she actually felt a great reassurance. Although when her parents split up it had affected her in such a dramatic way, she had maintained a fantastic relationship with both, and as an adult had grown to be quite excited to meet her father’s latest glamorous, ever younger model, and to find out how daft she really was before he got bored and moved on to the next one. She had once asked him how, or why, after her mother, who was so dynamic, and with female friends such as Paloma, who was so driven and interesting and well-educated, he could settle for such bimbos. Even his second wife had been a ballerina, someone really worthwhile, if a little dramatic, proud and self-assured. Alain simply told her that it was a search for something to take his mind off the restaurant. ‘But the restaurant is my life, so it never works. I have no time to interest myself in anything else, really, although I do enjoy holidaying on the water. But, of course, I do have you to look after and care for,’ he joked, winking at Liberty. And that was the end of that discussion. Paloma had years ago mooted that he really regretted leaving Deirdre, and it had been the biggest mistake of his life, but neither she nor Liberty were brave enough to bring that subject to his attention.
Alain was a seriously enigmatic, elegant man. His manners proclaimed him as a true gentleman, and his dress code spoke of his Englishness. He wore impeccably tailored suits, shirts and handmade shoes when he was not clothed in chef’s whites. Now, on the Côte d’Azur, he was wearing his white linen shirt, dark blue linen shorts and Tod’s loafers. His silver hair was slicked back to the nape of his neck, and his dark green eyes flickered with amusement and excitement as they always did if beautiful food, wine or women were in evidence.
He had always been very ambitious, and his greatest achievement was gaining and maintaining his three Michelin stars. But he was also hugely caring and emotional, unusual in an Englishman, a trait probably encouraged by his French mother, Josephine, who, along with Liberty’s other grandparents, had sadly died before she was born. He adored Liberty as only a father can. It was easy to be proud of such a stunning, bright and intelligent girl, and he was thrilled that she had so easily succeeded in her career, but along with Deirdre, Paloma and several of Liberty’s friends, he was sad she had not realised what he thought was her great potential, whatever that might have been. After all, she had the need to achieve in her genes.
He recognised now that the person standing in front of him was a changed woman. Yes, the statuesque brunette was still there, but the life force gleaming from behind her eyes he had only seen when she was a little girl. My, my, he thought, here’s a woman to be reckoned with. He ordered a pastis from Vevetine, and sat down. He picked up a tiny pastry from the selection before him. ‘You made these?’ he said, looking at Liberty as he bit into the finger of buttery puff pastry, topped with a rubbing of tomato and herbes de Provence.
‘Yes!’ squeaked Liberty in excitement. ‘How could you tell?’
‘No French pastry chef would undercook puff pastry. And they were not properly chilled before being baked, which is probably why they haven’t risen properly.’
Paloma picked one up and stared at it. She could not have told the difference between the canapé she was holding in her fingers and one that Louis, her pastry chef, had produced. As Liberty stormed off on the pretext of needing the loo, Paloma raised an eyebrow and looked sternly at Alain. ‘That,’ she said, ‘was a Michelin inspector’s opinion. These are perfect.’
‘No, they are not perfect at all. There is a faint softness in the centre, which makes the butter taste slightly rancid. They should have been much colder so the water in the butter really exploded in the hot oven and released all the steam necessary to make the layers puff up. She will be a really excellent pastry chef one day, but I need to push her.’
‘Go easy,’ said Paloma softly. ‘I think she is still in shock. It’s bound to hit her at some point. I hear her screaming in the night; she seems fine, but under the surface . . . We must be careful. Don’t forget, the last time she had an emotional shock, it left her physically damaged. It must be her body’s way of coping, some sort of self-protection, so that when something goes wrong in her life she either explores a new subject or loses one of her senses. Let’s hope she doesn’t lose her marbles as well.’
‘She is my daughter, and I see a lot of myself in her. I know what I am doing.’
Liberty came back to the dinner table, looking a bit blotchy in the face but determined to stand up to her fiercest critic.
‘OK, Daddy, two o’clock tomorrow morning. I will be in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, not here, darling, I was only joking. You will be in the way of the professionals. I know this restaurant, and the kitchens are buzzing all night long with the bread and pastry chefs. Come and stay on Liberty Five and I will teach you all I know.’
‘Why on earth at two o’clock, then?’ asked Liberty.
‘Because it gives you the discipline. If you want to run a restaurant, you will be doing this every day, all day.’
‘But I don’t want to run a restaurant. I want a café or tea room.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. I know you. You will eventually want to serve lunches and breakfasts to attract decent punters. Tea rooms are for softies who want a cup of milky tea and an old scone for a euro a pop. It would drive you mad in no time. If you are going to turn a decent profit, you need to attract the people who will appreciate it, and therefore happily pay for it.’
Oh, bugger, he’s right, thought both Liberty and Paloma, but neither would admit it, and so they silently sipped their drinks.
Alain’s phone suddenly sounded, a loud hunting horn ring tone that he loved. He found it very funny to assign the same ring tone to his new totty; at least then, when he was having problems getting rid of one, if they heard the horn and it was not they who were calling him, they tended to get the message, no matter how stupid they were. However, sitting with Liberty and Paloma it had the reverse effect. They both gazed at him and then at each other and burst into hysterical laughter, which is what the poor girl at the other end of the phone, sitting at the reception desk of Daphne’s Restaurant in London, heard.
‘Who on earth is that woman laughing with you?’ she squawked. ‘I thought you went to rescue your daughter. I’m not impressed.’
Alain left the table, making shushing movements with his hands at the two women and went to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. She was a dear girl and he didn’t want any of that jealousy nonsense that sometimes soured his relationships.
‘Will he ever grow up?’ sighed Paloma.
‘Doubt it, but he is a catch, I suppose, even at his age. It’s unusual to be so relaxed a person considering his profession, let alone so glam and gorgeous. Even I can see that, as his daughter,’ said Liberty.
‘Well, as we were talking of phones,’ said Paloma, ‘sort of, have you been in touch with Percy, or any of your friends?’
‘J-T has tried to call me several times. I will need his help with the restaurant. Whoops, I am already calling it that, bloody Daddy, I mean the café, and I am desperate to catch up with him. And strangely, I had an email from Savannah, my very old friend from home. I thought she had married the Aga Khan or something, and moved to the Middle East. I haven’t heard from her in years. I still don’t want to talk about what has happened between me and Percy, really. Apart from with you, of course, and I am sorry to have burdened you with my problems, really I am.’
‘My darling girl, I am just so pleased you are relying on someone at last, and I am even more thrilled that it’s me you have chosen to confide in. Stay here just as long as you need, although Claude seems to have gone all gooey for you again, and I think his last fling has been flung, so go easy on him, please. You just don’t realise how easy it is for men to fall in lust and love with you. Men never expect to find a woman with the combination of stunni
ng beauty and extreme kindness, warmth and generosity. They want to make love to you, and for you to mother them. And now you are becoming a professional cook! It’s going to be a lethal combination.’
With that Paloma stood up and walked into the restaurant. She had been keeping a distant eye on the proceedings within, and she had suddenly spied a man who appeared to be dissatisfied with his meal, so she wanted to soothe his brow personally. She left Liberty in a state of amazement. The young woman had never really thought of herself at all, and of course her lack of awareness of her beauty and abilities was very much part of her appeal.
For the first time in thirty years Alain wanted to delay the opening of his restaurant, much to the chagrin of people who had managed to book a table, as the bookings were only taken one month in advance and the phone lines were jammed from nine to six on the first of each month. Eventually, his second-in-command persuaded him that the staff were perfectly capable of opening without him, and not to fuss. Alain was not so sure; he hated to take his hands off the controls. It would merely mean a very expensive phone bill, as he wanted constant updates, to have a say in the menus and to call producers personally if they didn’t deliver. But it was for Liberty, and for her nothing was too much.
While he tried not to worry over supper with Liberty, the great and the good of St Tropez, or the rich and the rolickers, depending on your point of view, were drifting into the restaurant. Often the clients who came out of season were the people who owned the fabulous villas dotted around the coast, rented out for the too busy, ghastly ‘season’ in July and August, and they delighted in returning to their favourite restaurant for the delicate tomato and herbes de Provence tarts, partridge braised in peas and wild fennel, served with caramelised endive tarte Tatin, followed by a chocolate délice with sesame seed brittle, pistachio crème anglaise, and copious amounts of local wine.
The evening was warm, with a cool breeze bringing in the first scent of autumn; perfect for most, but Claude wept quietly in the centre of the walled garden and vowed to become a monk until Liberty looked at him as a man instead of a younger brother. He had no idea that the following morning his hangover would take him to a local café, where he would bump into an angel sent from heaven to feed him slurps of black coffee from a spoon interspersed with small mouthfuls of croissant, delicately torn by her magical long fingers, and his heart would be lost again.
12
The following weeks were spent intensively learning the art of bread and pastry in Alain’s tiny galley. Patisserie, chocolate, sweet treats – anything that would make a person be grateful just to walk past the establishment that sold the sensuous delights and stare in the window, knowing by then their fate was sealed; they would have to buy one of the gleaming, glazed fruit tarts or a loaf of crusty bread. It was also two weeks of very little sleep. Alain was determined that his girl should do things right. He saw no point whatsoever in making her go through the usual channels of working in a kitchen under a pastry chef, as he knew she would waste time being made to feel completely worthless, both because she was a woman, and because she was an apprentice.
Before they began her training, Alain sat Liberty down in a deep leather armchair in Paloma’s home, handed her a glass of rosé, and said, ‘Got your notebook? There are a few rules to observe. At your age, my girl,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘we have to get you up and running quickly. It would take at least five years of working in kitchens to get you to a basic standard, not because you don’t have the ability, but because you have to earn your praise in any commercial kitchen worthy of teaching you, by doing the same thing perfectly over and over again. And that would simply waste too much time. You will have to prepare your doughs and pastries very early in the morning, or late at night, for morning baking. Your customers will cotton on very fast if you attempt to sell them day old bread. A French boulangerie bakes twice a day. We in Britain have lost the need for this, as so many people are now used to preservatives in their food. And that includes their bread. Thankfully, the majority are now aware that for your body to function well, you have to eat well. A lot of people nowadays feel they have an “allergy” or cannot digest bread comfortably. This is usually because the bread they eat is not left to prove and rise with time, it is all rushed artificially with fillers and additives, and that doesn’t allow natural yeasts and the gluten in the flour to process.
‘The wonderful artisan bakeries now able to open in the UK are relishing the fact there is a demand for high quality, beautifully made breads, using only the finest ingredients.’
Alain paused, remembering he was tutoring his daughter, not telling her the state of the food industry.
‘To even begin to compete with the other artisans, you will want your own “starter” mix for a good sourdough. Most bakers will have been using the same mix, taking the majority for one batch and then “feeding” the starter again. This means they have even more flavour after years of fermentation. We have had the same one on the go for at least fifteen years. It would have been longer had I not gone away and forgotten to remind the oafs in the kitchen to put it somewhere cool. Damn thing exploded! But I digress.’
Liberty had the feeling there would be a lot more digressions, and wondered how long this would take, but, aware of the time her father was generously bestowing on her she sat, took notes and tried hard to be the perfect student.
There were recipes, all rough estimations. ‘Depends on your flour, the weather, the kitchen, the starter or yeast you use,’ was all Alain could say. ‘Practice will make perfect.’ And practise they did. He gave lots of advice, all of which she noted down and sorted out into her huge and growing files for later, should anything go wrong.
‘You will need your own signature tart or cake, something special only you make, something people maybe take home to serve as pudding, then their guests ask where they bought it, and your reputation spreads. So start thinking about that now. And flavours – experiment. Don’t be afraid of them. Specialty breads are always popular, but it’s ordinary, basic bread that ordinary, basic people want to buy. Fennel and sultana breads are fabulous, but not everyone will buy them. You are not after the masses, but to get started you don’t want a lot of waste; it’s too expensive. Garlic, onion, and the basic Provençal flavours are wonderful in summer: tomatoes and herbs. In winter, people eat more blue cheese, so I suggest walnuts, as they go so well together. Find a walnut bread somewhere, or walnut and fig.’
‘Fig?’ Liberty’s nose was wrinkling.
‘Fig. Exactly. It’s a wonderful fruit if used correctly. Think along the lines of connecting two seemingly random tastes, experiment with them, read everything in the cookery books endorsed by the great chefs of the world, including mine, of course, and you will eventually produce your own signature. You will be very unlikely ever to invent anything new, as chefs have been experimenting for hundreds of years and by now we know exactly what works, more or less, but your own mix and availability of flours and grains, for example, or the use of local honey in spelt bread, will alter the flavours. If you can introduce local ingredients, the bread will taste all the better for it, as somehow, eating something local gives it a certain je ne sais quoi, as you breathe in the same air which goes into the item you are eating.’
‘Like eating fish and chips outside!’ Liberty giggled. ‘Everyone has always told me they taste far better eaten outside. I must go to the coast when I return to England, and see if it’s true.’
‘Exactly! In a funny way, that is a really good example.’ Alain smiled. ‘Just remember, everyone says eating in the fresh air is better, and it’s quite true. The plants around you, the terroir, even the pollution – it all goes into the food you are eating, so in a sense you are getting a third more flavour. It’s just like matching the wine to your food. The natural yeasts are great in the south-east of England. They will make your starter dough taste wonderful, and are a good example. Eat Italian, drink Italian, eat French, drink French is always my choice. Fennel with salam
i and Chianti from Tuscany, where you have just been – they go well together, because the pigs grew fat on the same land that produced the wine and the fennel plucked for the salami.’
Liberty coughed and showed Alain her empty glass, which he filled for her without comment. She felt exhausted, but in a good way. Her brain was whirring with excitement, both thinking of well-known flavour combinations and imagining new ones that she wanted to try, although Alain kept insisting that in England she would find everything had to be rethought.
‘I have often written down an entire month’s menus for the reopening in the autumn, only to get back from my vacation and realise that the game tastes different there, the fruits are not as rich, the dairy has had a different summer and is so much creamier than it is in France or Italy, but perhaps not as sharp, and so on.’
‘So it’s all about adjusting to what produce I have to hand and being flexible, I guess,’ mused Liberty.
‘Exactly!’ said Alain. ‘I know you are tired, and it’s the last thing you need to hear, but all the work you did with Antoine, as important as it will be, I feel is over the top now. Paloma gets great ideas in her pretty head, but there is no way you will be able to make a garden to supply your restaurant–’ as he insisted on calling it ‘–in the time you want to open, which knowing you will be as soon as possible. We need to be practical, and no dreaming allowed!’
And on it went, father to daughter, teacher to pupil, on into the night, which would end cruelly. Almost before her head touched the pillow, Alain woke her for practical lessons.
13
Liberty’s arms ached from hand-kneading kilos of dough a day. ‘Of course,’ her father had told her, ‘you will have a machine in your kitchen, but you have to get to know and to understand dough, how it lives and breathes as we do.’