by J. A. Lang
“Don’t you dare touch my microwave!” yelled Miranda, while her assistants huddled nearby. “Alice, Becky, go get someone to throw this man out of the tent!”
Signor Gallo’s feet scrabbled along the stage as he applied his shoulder to the microwave, while Miranda attempted to bat him away with a rubber spatula.
“The fire extinguisher is just outside,” Arthur informed the two watching chefs, then ducked out of the tent. He had no desire to be present should something go up in flames, which seemed fairly likely in the current circumstances.
Visitors were starting to stream into the field from the parking area across the road, and various members of the Beakley Ladies’ Institute, identifiable by their fetching green-and-white straw boaters, were circulating through the crowd, raffle ticket books at the ready.
Many of the children had come in fancy dress, lured by the prospect of the prize for Best Costume (also unofficially known as the prize for Parent or Guardian with Best Access to Sewing Machine and Large Amounts of Time and Glue). Various pudgy bumblebees were running around with face-painted tigers; there were fairies in pink trainers, budding Spider-men, and a little boy dressed, for some unknown reason, as a giant hot dog.
One particular costume stood out from the crowd. It was worn by a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman, and comprised a full-length pastel-pink bunny suit, complete with furry ears and a white bobble tail. There could only be two reasons for a grown man to be dressed thus: doting fatherhood or local politics.
This was a case of the latter.
“Hallo, Arthur!” The rabbit, spotting him, hotfooted its way across the grass to shake his hand. “Splendid day for it, isn’t it just?”
“Indeed it is. How’s the campaign going?”
Rory Gifford, Mayor of Cowton, gave an expansive shrug. “My people tell me I’m a shoo-in, which probably means they’re resting on their laurels a good deal too much. I told them, there’ll be no putting our feet up when we get to Westminster.”
“Very true.” Arthur glanced down at the mayor’s own furry examples.
“Fantastic costume, isn’t it?” said Angie, coming up beside her husband. She was a short, plump woman with a vague motherly air, though as far as Arthur knew she and Rory didn’t have any children. Perhaps her job as cookery teacher at Miss Caruthers’ school, having to deal daily with thirty teenage girls wielding knives and hormonal urges, had a dampening effect on any desire to partake in the joy of parenthood.
“My team reckon I’ll get more coverage in the papers in this get-up,” said Mayor Gifford, tugging at his costume’s collar.
“You will, darling. Remember all that fuss last year when Nancy Draykin ran a marathon dressed up as an egg-and-bacon roll, for the children’s breakfast club? She even made the national news.”
“Only because she had a string of fried bacon tied around her waist and was chased down Cowton High Street by a dozen dogs and one vegetarian,” said Mayor Gifford.
“Even so. Oh, isn’t that sweet!” Angie pointed across the field to where a small group of children had been coerced into a circle around the old village maypole. Unfortunately, any attempts at weaving and skipping had by this point deteriorated into running madly around, purple and yellow ribbons trailing, while the instructor stood in the middle of it all, rapidly resembling a particularly fashion-forward Egyptian mummy.
“This will be perfect for next month’s newsletter! Rory, have you got your phone on you?”
Mayor Gifford reluctantly relinquished his phone to his wife, who handed him an oversized beige leather handbag in return.
“Ooof, what do they put in these things?” said Mayor Gifford, as Angie scuttled off towards the maltreated maypole. “Anyway, all she’ll come back with is ten pictures of the grass, two of her thumb, and one blurry shot of the actual maypole,” he added with a chuckle.
At this point, they were joined by another bunny, except that instead of the baggy plush suit currently sported by Mayor Gifford, this new arrival was wearing a pink corset-and-leotard combination, pink leggings, and a pair of white peep-toe heels. In deference to the concept of rabbit-ness, she was also wearing satin bunny ears in her shoulder-length auburn hair and a white fluffy tail.
“Arthur, this is my top research assistant, Miss Karole Linton,” said Mayor Gifford, apparently quite unfazed by the young woman’s costume, which was more than could be said for a number of gentlemen milling around nearby.
“Hallo. Mr Wordington-Smythe, isn’t it? I recognise you from your restaurant column. Lovely to meet you in person,” said Karole, holding out a neatly manicured hand. She had the cut-glass tones of the type of young lady more accustomed to pencil skirts and cashmere cardigans than bunny-girl outfits. Arthur wondered whose idea her costume had been.
“Sorry to drag the mayor away,” she continued, “but Rory, I thought you should come and say hello to our new Youth Campaign. I’ve managed to get a few of the local boys interested in putting together a few events—”
With a brief smile at Arthur, she led Mayor Gifford away into the crowd, their white tails bobbing in tandem. Arthur, watching them depart, couldn’t help but speculate as to the exact cause of the sudden turnaround in the area’s usually politically apathetic youths, and suspected that Miss Karole Linton’s shapely ankles, amongst other numerous assets, might have held some sway in the matter.
His stomach gave a little rumble, reminding him that breakfast had been quite a long while ago. Arthur snuck a glance at his watch. If he moved fast, there’d be time for a session at the cupcake-decorating stand, plus the disposal of all evidence thereof, before Meryl made her promised appearance around lunchtime.
At the ‘Glam Up Your Cupcake!’ stand, he snagged the last seat at the low bench, his knees creaking as he clambered into place between an underage fireman and a ladybug with a dribbly nose.
It had been some time since Arthur had last been required to make small talk with the single-digit age group. He turned to the ladybug on his right. “So, simply splendid weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?”
Come half past eleven, Chef Maurice, Arthur and Patrick had succeeded in securing the last few seats in the back row of the cookery demo tent, with the latter two sitting on either side of Chef Maurice, ready to intervene in the event of heckling, persistent low-level grumbling, or projectile cheese.
Ten stifling minutes rolled by, and Miranda Matthews had still yet to make an appearance up on stage. The tent was packed with culinary enthusiasts of all ages, many of whom were clutching copies of Miranda’s latest oeuvre, Blend It Right!, a paean to the art of smoothie making.
Chef Maurice jiggled his steel-capped boots and pulled out a battered wristwatch, an item that Patrick had never seen him actually wear. This was not surprising, though, as a professional kitchen involved far too much vegetable rinsing, splattering oil and hot oven doors for one to consider wearing any form of wrist accessory, not to mention the danger of it falling off into the dishes themselves. Diners did not enjoy fishing flies out of their soup, and they certainly had something to say when they found timepieces underneath their steak minute.
“Voilà, she is late! How does she dare to call herself a chef? To be a chef, one must have the most fine sense of time. For a customer waiting for his food, a delay of ten minutes is a torture. He begins to stare at the food of other diners, he finds the conversation of his table companions to become intolérable. Non, to be late, it is unacceptable.”
“You could just leave now, you know,” said Arthur. “There’s plenty of people who’d take your seat, I’m sure.”
“Pffft,” was all the reply he got to that particular suggestion.
Another tolerably torturous five minutes later, Miranda Matthews strutted in through the back of the tent and up onto the stage. With a little hop, she seated herself up on the kitchen counter and crossed her legs in a flash of pink stiletto.
“Hello there! First, I want to say a huge thank you to everyone for coming a
ll the way here to see me today. I’ve got some real treats lined up for you this session. I’ll be showing you how to make my signature vanilla-and-chocolate lava cake—”
“Pah! She simply takes a packet of cake mix and undercooks it—”
“—and I’ll also be demonstrating a recipe for a banana-and-yoghurt smoothie from my new book, Blend It Right!, which I’ll be signing copies of later this afternoon, after the Bake Off—”
“How does she call that a recipe? When I pour cream into my coffee and mix it with a teaspoon, I do not go away and write a book about it!”
“—and finally, I’ll be showing you a brand-new celebration cake recipe I’ve been developing, using everyone’s favourite chocolate sweet!” Miranda stretched out her hands in a big tada motion towards a giant glass jar of multicoloured Smarties sitting on the counter.
The crowd whispered excitedly to each other. Patrick looked over to Chef Maurice, but his boss was apparently too dumbstruck to comment on this latest revelation.
“In fact”—Miranda paused, then gave her audience a radiant smile—“I was going to start with the lava cake, but I can see you’re all really excited to see my latest creation. So let’s go ahead and start with the Smarties recipe. After all, isn’t that the joy of cooking? You always get to start with a blank slate!”
Patrick saw Miranda’s two assistants, who were standing half-hidden behind the tent flap, give each other a look of mutual horror, as they threw aside the cake mix boxes they were holding and scrambled to assemble the necessary trays for this sudden change of schedule.
“Aren’t they just beautiful?” said Miranda, scooping a handful of Smarties out of the jar and letting them clatter into a bowl in a rainbow of sugar-covered chocolate. “I got my inspiration for this recipe when I took a short trip to India last month. I happened to be in Delhi during the festival of Holi, which”—she nodded at her third assistant, who was standing by the projector screen at the back of the stage—“you might also have heard of as the Festival of Colours.”
The screen lit up, though rather dimly due to the bright spring light outside, with photographs of revellers in front of a white-domed temple, their faces and bodies splashed with a riot of colours, with puffs of vivid-hued powder shooting up above their heads. The slideshow ended with a shot of Miranda, free of paint and wearing a white kaftan, leaning over a flower-clad balcony high above the street, smiling beatifically at the tumultuous scene below her. She held a tall glass of smoothie in one hand, and on the little table beside her stood a shiny-new retro-style blender.
“Right! First things first, we’ll need something to put these gorgeous Smarties onto. You can make a basic sponge base—there’s a recipe for my favourite sponge in Bake It Right! (Volume 1 of 16)—but really, the most important part of any celebration cake is the outside, so I won’t tell on you if you’re skimped for time and use a shop-bought Victoria sponge instead.” She aimed a naughty wink at the audience.
Patrick sneaked a glance over at Chef Maurice, who was furiously patting down his pockets and muttering something about ‘a special type of hell’ for television chefs.
“Ah, and here we are! Thank you, girls,” cooed Miranda, graciously accepting a very handsome Victoria sponge cake, oozing with jam and cream, from one of her assistants. She then proceeded to trowel on a thick layer of chocolate icing, pausing occasionally to lick her fingers with a look of lascivious delight.
She was just proceeding to cover the whole thing in careful rows of colour-coordinated Smarties when Patrick’s phone alarm buzzed in his pocket. He nudged Chef Maurice, who was busy buffing a tomato on his sleeve.
“We better go get set up, chef,” he whispered.
“Eh? Look at how slowly she works. Me, I would have covered ten cakes in this same time—”
“If we don’t move now, chef, we’re not going to start serving on time.” He looked around the tent. “Look. Bonvivant’s already gone to set up his stand.”
This last fact appeared to get Chef Maurice’s attention.
“Bof, very well.” He aimed one last glare at Miranda Matthews, who was too busy picking out the blue Smarties from her bowl to notice, and heaved himself out of his chair.
“A sponge cake covered in chocolate sweets? The people, they call this cooking?”
“There’s probably another step to the recipe, chef.” In fact, just as they’d left the tent, Patrick had cast one last backwards glance at the stage, in time to catch Miranda whipping out a set of plastic goggles and firing up a blowtorch.
He decided, however, it was best not to mention this to Chef Maurice.
The battle line was drawn, and the two opposing sides took up position behind their stations, tongs at the ready.
Like in matters of war, politics, and competitive jam eating, when it came to running the most popular lunchtime stall, there could only be one winner.
Chef Maurice hefted up the stainless steel lid on the big wood-fired oven. Hundreds of pounds of slow-roasting hog stared back up at him. By his side, Patrick was busy slicing open a mound of wholegrain cob rolls, while a huge vat of freshly made applesauce bubbled on the portable stove nearby.
To their left, Chef Bonvivant and his kitchen brigade were firing up their hotplates, ready to begin caramelising scallops, piping out creamy cauliflower purée and finally garnishing the finished dish with a crisp slice of dry-cured Italian ham.
“How do they expect those paper plates to hold up to the purée?” whispered Patrick, as they watched their rivals attempt a sample plate for Chef Bonvivant’s inspection.
Chef Maurice shook his head. “There is a time for haute cuisine,” he said, waving his third ‘just for testing’ hog roast roll, “and there is not. A good chef must consider his audience. Once we have finished serving up Arnaud”—he patted the curved oven lid—“there will be no question as to who is the greater chef!”
“I wish you’d stop naming our hog roast each year,” said Patrick, brushing a generous daub of slow-cooked onion mayonnaise onto the inside of each roll. “It’s starting to freak the kids out.”
“Bah, they must learn about their food. Last week, there was a little girl in the restaurant who did not know where eggs came from. Can you believe this?”
“Was that the table who Dorothy said left straight after their starters? And hardly touched their omelette aux herbes fines?”
Chef Maurice puffed out his chest. “It is not my fault that the parents of today do not inform their children of the key facts of food production.”
“I think it was the hand gestures you made when explaining it all, more than the facts, that did it, according to Dorothy . . .”
“Hi, guys. I thought I’d come get our order in before the lunch rush,” said PC Lucy, strolling up to the stand. She was in normal uniform, but had managed to pin a daffodil to her walkie-talkie pouch to show willing. “Three jumbo rolls and two regular ones, all with the special mustard, please.”
“How’s the competition for the Bake Off looking?” asked Patrick, as he readied five waxed-paper wrappers for her order.
“Don’t talk to me about it. Your mother is never going to speak to me again after she tastes my entry. How did the fish demo go?”
“Good. We ran out of recipe cards. Though it turned out one of the audience had an undiscovered allergy to lemon sole. They had to take him off to the first-aid tent.” He handed her a paper bag, heavy with hog roast rolls. “Have you seen my mum anywhere? She wanted to try our special mustard sauce.”
“Last I saw of her was in the demo tent, talking pastry with Bonvivant. Out of interest, what would I have to do to get you to steal or destroy my cake before your mother gets to taste it?”
“Sabotage?” Patrick raised an eyebrow.
“Think of it as for a good cause.”
“No can do, I’m afraid. It’s against the cheffing code. Thou Shalt Not Destroy Food.”
PC Lucy sighed, took the bag in her arms and went off to feed her fellow constable
s.
Lunchtime was now in full swing, and Chef Maurice and Patrick had their hands full trying to keep up with the ravenous crowd, which was mostly made up of young families, retired residents from the nearby Cotswold villages, and a few couples on a romantic day out in the countryside. One couple in particular, her with flame-red hair, him with dark glasses and neatly groomed stubble, were currently drawing the crowd’s attention by their prolonged make-out session in the hog roast queue. Such antics were met with disapproving stares from their fellow queuers, along with Chef Maurice, who felt that this behaviour did not display sufficient anticipation about their upcoming meal.
The sautéed scallop stand was also doing a brisk trade, but as Patrick had predicted earlier, their patrons had soon run up against the conundrum—common to many a buffet party—as to how to support a plate, wield a fork and hold on to your drink, which in today’s case took the form of a large paper cup filled with the local pear cider.
“Has anyone seen Edith— I mean, Miss Caruthers?” said Angie, hurrying up to the hog roast stand, her round face flushed. “Or Rory? It’s one o’clock now, and they’re meant to be in the Bake Off tent getting ready, but the only judge I can find is Chef Elizabeth— Oh, wait, I tell a lie, there’s Arthur over there . . .”
Arthur, who had been quietly shuffling his way along the sautéed scallop queue with his jacket collar turned up, looked over at Angie in annoyance.
“Traitor!” shouted Chef Maurice, brandishing the applesauce ladle. “No extra hog roast for you!”
“Ah, Angela, there you are,” said Miss Caruthers, striding up behind Angie. There were splash marks on her long tartan skirt and she wore an expression of mild displeasure. “There are children playing unsupervised in the creek. I’m aware it’s not deep up here, but even so, we roped off that area for a reason. Where are their parents?”