The Importance of Being Me

by Caroline Grace-Cassidy

  “Lemons, Jeff!” I shout after him as he runs away from me again. “And capers . . . find me capers.” I busy myself making the two starters. I add rocket and lettuce and, spinning around at Jessica’s station, I find what I’m looking for: sauces. I gently drizzle balsamic vinegar over the salads as Jeff hands me the lemons and capers. I put them up on the pass the exact same time Keith arrives at the pass with his three plates. We reach for the bell at the same time; Keith gets there first.

  “Service!” he shouts and my ear rings. He examines my plates, runs his finger around the edge where a minute splatter of balsamic ran, dips a tiny fork in and tastes some.

  “Not bad!” He winks at me. “Not bad at all! Right, Courtney, what do you feel you can handle from mains?”

  “I’ll take the seafood linguines – it’s my speciality at home. I mean, my granny cooked it for me all the time, growing up. Her Seafood Surprise. I’m easy-handed with that dish, made it a million times.”

  “Great! Jeff! Get beside Courtney again: she shouts for help, you jump, got it? Fresh pasta is in there, garlic and onions on the counter, cream in the fridge.”

  “Got it, chef!” Jeff stands on top of me.

  The bell rings. Keith spins to see Barbara leaning through the hatch, beckoning.

  “What’s up? All covers are covered right now.”

  “One crab salad has dressing on,” says Barbara. “She’s allergic to some dressings apparently, but she saw it was dressed before she tasted it so she’s okay, but can we get a fresh one please?”

  “Oh shit . . . oh shit! Oh Keith, I’m so sorry!” I drop my face into my hands. Who do I think I am? I’m not a bloody chef! Have I lost my mind? I think I’ve taken Alice’s advice – believe in your talent and be ready to seize life’s opportunities when they arise – too far on this occasion.

  “Not your fault. Mine. I have to check every order that leaves the pass. I forgot about the no-dressing one. Redo it. Then start on the linguines right away.”

  I busy myself making another one.

  “Shit! Shit!” Keith yells as flames reach the ceiling and he runs to a pan on the other side of the kitchen. “Jeff, I told you to turn her!” He grabs the pan and burns his hand and throws it into the sink.

  “Two seabass burnt!” he screams into a tea towel.

  “Go again!” I yell at him, in an absolute sweat now. “Make them again!” I’m at the pass now and Daphne is still standing there. I hand over the new, dressing-free crab salad, then move along the line and look into each clear box of fish. I have so much to choose from for the linguines. I grab some scallops, mussels, shrimp and crabmeat.

  “Come on, Alice, what is that secret ingredient? Let this be the night I nail your perfect Seafood Surprise,” I whisper to myself.

  “Jeff, when I say ‘go’, add the pasta to that salted boiling water, okay?” I point to a boiling pot of water already on the go.

  I look at Jessica’s oils, but I know what I want. “Butter, Jeff!” I call and he comes back running. I melt two tablespoons of it in a large skillet over a medium heat and I add in the shrimp, giving it a few seconds of gentle cooking before I add the scallops and mussels. “Salt and pepper, Jeff!” I yell. I twist in six good sprinkles of each when he hands me the cellars. “Strainer!” I call and he hands me a strainer and I drain off the fish and juices into another free pot. “Garlic and onions, Jeff!” I holler. I add another two tablespoons of butter to my now empty pan, throw the garlic and onion in and give it a minute. “Have we any double cream, Jeff?” I call hopefully.

  “Um, dunno, chef? Double cream?” Jeff approaches a frantic-looking Keith.

  “Fridge!” Keith screams. “How long have you been here, Jeff? Come on, lad, use your bloody ’ead!”

  I throw in the cream and then melt in another two extra tablespoons of butter. I mix until it thickens, then I add the strained seafood back in, along with the crabmeat. I taste. Oh shit, it’s a little bit salty. Feck!

  “Sour cream, Jeff! I need some sour cream!” I shout. I can’t feck this up. Jeff returns with it like my magic Santa and I add a dollop. I taste again. Miraculously it’s worked; it’s diluted the salty taste.

  “Jeff, go! Fresh pasta in!” I turn to Keith. “Five minutes for linguines, chef!”

  “Great!” Keith yells back.

  Barbara is back. “Starters are finished.”

  “Empty plates! Bloody marvellous!” Keith shakes his pan and flames rise again. “Heat the plates, Jeff!”

  Turning the heat back on, I stir the seafood one last time. I dish my linguine carefully onto the hot plates and get to the pass just ahead of Keith. I bash that bell.

  “Service!” I call.

  Keith dips a spoon in my sauce, tastes it and smiles. He stabs some fish with his tiny fork. “Perfect,” he says, joining his index finger to his thumb and kissing them. “Wow, you are good! I want to meet your granny!”

  I blush.

  “Last sitting: no starters, three seafood linguines, no prawns in one!” Keith calls out.

  “Yes, Keith!” we all call out.

  “I’m on it, chef!” I add as Keith opens the back door.

  “All there is to do now is wait and see.” The orders for desserts haven’t come through yet, so Keith has a few moments to himself. He stands by my station, not watching over me exactly, but observing. He’s more relaxed now. I’m busy, but I can handle it and, what’s more, I’m really enjoying it.

  “So, your boss, he wants to open another Meloria’s, is that it?” I shake my pan. Confident now. All my ingredients to hand.

  “Aye, he is very close, but this is the big event we’ve been waiting for. These guys invest in a lot of Cornwall’s top restaurants. I mean, ideally no one wants silent partners like these lot, but . . .” He shakes his head. “Where did your granny learn to cook like that?”

  “She has Italian heritage and her family loved their food. But she’s not cooking any more, now. Dementia,” I tell him.

  “Sorry,” Keith says. “But she taught you well. You cook like a pro.”

  “I don’t know that I cook like anything. I mean, I just cook. I learned cos Alice taught me, and I cooked cos I had a family to feed.” I don’t take my eyes off my pan now.

  “You’re really great in a kitchen, a natural.”

  “I just love cooking.” I shrug. “I met Steve, the owner’s brother today,” I tell Keith.

  “Ah aye, Steve, he’s a good sort. Very different, the pair of them, mind you . . . Steve’s more of a free spirit.”

  I plate my dishes and bring them to the pass.

  “No prawns in one, chef!” I wink at Keith as he tastes. Barbara takes them away and then I start to clear down my area.

  “Oh you, no need!” the commis says.

  “No, it’s okay, I want to.” I raise my hand to him and he nods his approval at me, his bottom lip pushed up over his top.

  “Federec.” He extends his hand.

  “Courtney.” I wipe mine on my dirty apron and shake before I clean down my area.

  “Christ, I hope they’re enjoying it,” Keith says, then he puts some low music on as we all work.

  Daphne and Barbara are back. “They loved it!” says Daphne.

  “Let me see? Let me see?” Keith runs to the plates on the trays. “Brilliant!” He claps his hands. “Even the extra Dover sole is gone!”

  “They had no time for puddings this time, they said. They want to meet the staff!” Daphne’s eyes are wide again.

  “No problem. I’ll do all the talking . . . Let’s go.” Keith pulls off his chef’s hat.

  “Oh, I can’t . . .” I protest.

  “Oh, you can!” he insists. “We need you.”

  We walk out into the restaurant, empty now apart from the table of six by the window. A candle flickers brightly in the reflection. A tall man in a black suit turns in his seat as we approach, and my heart skips a beat. Surely not?

  “Thank you, chefs, floor, service.” He clocks me. H
e is an expert actor. He doesn’t miss a beat as he introduces us to the investors. “This is Keith, Federec, Courtney and Jeff – and you’ve met Barbara and Daphne.”

  “Wonderful food . . . simply wonderful fish . . . Tony has done a fantastic job here keeping Meloria’s on the map,” says a woman. She is talking to the others at the table more than she is to us.

  “Tony Becker, the accidental restaurateur!” another says, and they all laugh a little too hard for my liking.

  “Excuse me, please. I’ll be back with some brandy.” Tony plasters a smile on his face. He looks warm in the sharp, dark suit and tie. We all move away. His hand rests on the small of my back as he whispers into my ear, “What the actual . . . ?”

  I lean in. “I’ll let Keith fill you in. I’d better be off: early flight to catch,” I whisper back. I’m sweaty, and I pull the bobble from my ponytail and shake my hair out.

  “You look great. Long hair?” Tony whispers.

  “Long hair.” I confirm, and I run my hands over it as it tumbles over my shoulders. I wind him up. “Incredible things, ponytails.”

  “I would have sworn you had short hair,” he whispers now. He is powerful in this suit, I must say.

  “I’m full of surprises today, aren’t I?”

  As we are talking, we hear seats being pushed back and Tony spins around.

  “Brandies? Jim? Pauline? No?”

  The lady settling a lopsided wire hat on her head approaches us.

  “We are going to call it a night, Tony. We’ll be in touch,” she informs him.

  The others leave without coming over. Tony shakes her hand.

  “Thank you, Pauline. I appreciate your time and I look forward to hearing from you . . . soon, I hope?” He doesn’t let go of her hand. She struggles a little to release it.

  “We will meet next week and be back to you then with an answer. Goodnight.”

  She leaves and Tony pours himself a brandy. “Join me?” he asks. I shake my head.

  “I’m just going to use the ladies’,” I say, and he points to the sign. Inside the ladies’, I check the stalls are all unoccupied and I do my happy dance. I never expected I’d be so completely invigorated and excited. It’s thrilling. I am so proud of myself!

  When I return, Keith is almost unrecognisable in jeans and T-shirt and is in full flow about me to Tony. Tony is open-mouthed at the tales of our evening in the kitchen.

  “Courtney? How?” He holds my hand up in the air now.

  “You know each other?” Keith can tell immediately.

  “Yes, the necessary day job, the building? I just finished a job for her boss. I met her today for the first time.” He releases my hand.

  “Woah, that’s insane, man!” Keith slowly turns his head. “Like I said, she was awesome.”

  “Please, let me get you a drink. You saved my bacon and, maybe, my fish restaurant!” Tony asks again.

  “It’s after ten and I still haven’t eaten,” I say, my stomach rumbling. “Actually . . . I don’t really like dining alone, so I’m just going to grab some fish and chips to take away on my stroll home. That way I can lick my vinegary fingers and no one will judge me.” I laugh as I move around, looking for my coat and bag.

  “Oh come on, are you serious? Step out! Come on, I’m takin’ you for some late bar food, my lady. You saved my life tonight.” Keith has moved away and he calls out to him. “I’m taking her to the Ploughboy, late pub grubbing, anyone want to join us?” He knocks back the brandy. Mutters of “busy”, “tired”, “bed calling” float back as Daphne hands me my coat and bag. I thank her, and them all. I feel like I’ve known them all my life! I’m hugging Jeff as Tony takes my elbow gently, prises me off him and leads me out the door.

  Taking a left at the end of the street, we walk along the beautiful coast. The evening air is salty and welcome, and the late heat from earlier is long gone. Music is ringing out from somewhere and we follow the sounds to a small pub at the end of the road. The old oak door takes a hefty pull to open and we go in. It’s charming inside, music blaring from a jukebox. The clientele is mainly younger people, but there are a few my age. A waitress with a friendly smile approaches, black and white chequered tea towel over her shoulder, black apron tied around her.

  “Hiya, Tony. Can I get you guys the late bar menu or just a drink?” she asks as he leans in. She pecks him on the cheek.

  “I’ll have a white wine please,” I say.

  “Thanks, Sandra. We’ll have some late menus please, and I’ll take a pint of Guinness too.”

  She jots it all down on her pad. “How was the exam?” She asks him in a soft voice as she moves off, twisting her body back towards him.

  “Yeah, it was fine, apparently. Thanks for asking, love.” He pats her arm and she leaves us alone. What exam, I wonder? I won’t ask, as it could be a private examination.

  We sit on soft stools at an empty upright barrel and I watch him remove the suit jacket, open the top two buttons on the shirt and roll his tie into a ball. A strange feeling washes over me, through me, around me. My heart is pounding and my throat is thickening. I can’t be this pathetic, can I? This can’t be what I think it is, surely? Not after all these years of me denying it could ever exist for me. His white shirt is strained against the bulge of his forearms and speckles of dark chest hair are now visible.

  “The fish and chips look divine,” is all I can say before Sandra comes back over with our drinks and Tony orders fish and chips for us both, with extra mushy peas for himself. Funny, eating is something I love to do but mainly in the company of Susan and Claire, never with strangers. But right now, I don’t seem to mind at all. I need to just chill out and enjoy my meal. Be where you are. Be in the moment. I chant Granny Alice’s wisdom in my head.

  “Aren’t you full up?” I ask in shock.

  “Oh, I never eat properly at those things. I taste nothing. I want some salt and comfort food now,” he tells me.

  “How did it all go?” I ask, intrigued he has yet to mention it.

  He shrugs. “I owe you big time for stepping in there. I didn’t know you were a chef too.”

  “I’m not! Not at all. Right place, right time, I guess,” I say.

  “Oh, come on now . . . I don’t even know what happened to Jessica.” He rummages in his back pocket now and removes his phone.

  “Her child had a burst appendix.” I tell him.

  “Oh no? Little Jennifer? Shit.” He slides his finger across his phone and his face is illuminated. His ridiculously handsome face. He’s nodding as he reads. “Uh huh . . . Yeah. Oh poor Jen. I’ll pop by and see them tomorrow. Surgery all went well, she says here.” He raises his backside and slides the phone back into his back pocket.

  “That’s good,” I say, unable to take my eyes off him.

  “So go on, tell me how it transpired that I left you at your hotel a few hours ago to attend one of the most important meetings of my business career this evening and you end up cooking the food I serve the investors.”

  His eyes are wide as I fill him in on the events. When I’m finished, he stands and high fives me across the barrel.

  “So how are things with your daughter? Did you tell her about the big, cool apartment?” he asks me, rolling up his shirtsleeves now.

  “No, not yet. Things are a bit . . . well . . .” I fiddle with the stem on my wine glass.

  “Kids can be hard work, right?” he tells me.

  “What would you know?” I say, and it comes out way more hostile than I meant it to. Not the way I was planning it to sound at all. He looks at me.

  “Well, you’d be surprised . . . and hey, I was a kid once myself, ya know.”

  “Being a mother is very different to being mothered,” I tell him, pleased he didn’t take offence at my dig at his bachelor lifestyle.

  “Ah, mothers, they do it all, eh?” He winks at me.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sandra arrives with a full silver tray expertly balanced over her
head. The pub is busier now and in the far corner a band is settling in. The guitarist tunes and retunes his guitar.

  “Wow, that was fast!” I open my napkin.

  “We have a great turnover on our tables here, in and out. Two fish and chips and extra mushy peas for you, Tony.” She puts the large cream plates down and I see the crisp white linen napkins are carefully folded around the silver cutlery.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asks with a smile.

  “No thank you, this looks delicious,” I say.

  “Freshly caught this evening.” She leans back and grabs the salt and pepper from another table. I squeeze my segment of cut lemon generously over my fish. Tony is already eating his.

  “So can you relax now? Did it all go well for you?” I probe now. As I cut through the fish and pop a piece in my mouth, it’s so soft and fresh it’s mouth-watering, and I groan.

  “Em . . . oh yeah, I think so. The food was a knockout thanks to you and Keith. Good, isn’t it?” he says, his mouth full. Then he’s in deep thought. When he speaks again, he says, “I eat here nearly every night. Bit of a busman’s holiday eating in Meloria’s, ya know. I see too much but I hear too little. The only problem with this place is I’m like a part of the furniture.”

  “It’s cooked to perfection,” I say and sip my wine. The wine tastes so much better and less sharp with the food. For the next few moments, we just eat in silence.

  “Have you only one child?” he asks, with half a clean plate now in front of him.

  “Yeah, just the one daughter. Susan,” I say, dipping a chip into the ketchup.

  “Do you think in the long term this move will be good for her?” His eyes pierce mine.

  “No, Tony, I’m dragging her here to make her miserable!” I try to joke, but again I miss the mark. He doesn’t seem to get my humour.

  “It’s a fair question.” He rests his fork on the side of his plate.

  I take a long drink and answer honestly. “I’m messing with you, by the way. It’s just I think I try too hard to make Susan – who’s almost sixteen now, by the way – love me. I’m making her miserable. I need to let her make her own decisions. I can’t make her want to come here with me, can I?” As he leans in across the barrel, our faces are only inches apart.