All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “See you got some Edinburgh sun!” she says, tossing Susan a kitchen towel.

  “Thanks,” says Susan, drying her damp face and setting the bag of cardamom buns on a prep table. “Some breakfast pastries, if you want.”

  “Aye, I do!” Gloria helps herself to one, taking a moment to appreciate the beautifully knotted little bread before taking a bite. “Ooh, someone stopped by Soderberg Bakery.”

  “No, I made them.”

  “A baker! Ace!” Gloria grins and goes back to checking the deliveries.

  “Are you the only one in?” Susan asks, glancing around the curiously quiet kitchen, as if that would somehow make chefs appear.

  Gloria shrugs. “It’s like this most mornings. The apprentices are here. In the walk-in, putting things away.”

  “And Dan?”

  “Office.”

  “Paul?”

  “Gets in later.”

  “He should be checking in supplies,” Susan mutters, lifting the lid on a box of onions.

  Gloria smirks. “He and Dan agree that this is good for my career development.”

  Susan looks up with a raised eyebrow. She’s read Gloria’s CV: she doesn’t need this kind of career development. She’s spent more than a decade working in some of the best kitchens in Scotland and the North of England. “And what do you think?”

  Gloria lowers her clipboard and looks Susan right in the eye. “I think I’m doing this so Paul can sleep in and Dan can update his Tinder profile.”

  Susan nods. “How does everything look?” She gestures to the food Gloria’s checking.

  “I sent back some of the fish, but the rest of it’s all right.”

  Two of the apprentices appear, and Gloria directs them to some boxes filled with produce.

  Susan reaches into a large plastic bag lying on one of the prep tables, and pulls out a roll. Just by looking at it, she can tell it’s going to be lousy. It has no crust to speak of, and the sides are wrinkled, which suggests there’s no structure inside. Sure enough, when she tears it in half, the interior is gummy and underdeveloped. “You should have sent these back too,” she grunts.

  “We’ll not get anything better. Not from that supplier,” Gloria answers, grimacing in agreement.

  “There’s no excuse for lousy bread nowadays,” Susan declares, setting the roll aside.

  “I’ve suggested other places to try, but Dan says most customers don’t know the difference.”

  “Well, he’s wrong about that,” says Susan, crossing her arms and leaning against the prep table, mentally preparing herself for an argument with her chef.

  “Preaching to the choir, you are,” Gloria singsongs. “Everybody’s starting sourdough cultures and watching Paul Hollywood wail about gluten structure on The Bake-Off. They know their bloody bread.”

  “They know a lot more than that.” Susan shakes her head. There’s a hot spurt of anger building in her chest. “Right—I’ll be back.” She straightens her shoulders and strides to the chef’s office, reminding herself that, while she wants this relationship to be a partnership, ultimately she owns this place and Dan is her employee. She tries to ignore the fact that the rain has left her hair stringy and her top a bit more clingy than she’d like.

  “Have a nice weekend?” Dan asks, hastily closing a browser window on the computer as she enters his office.

  “I did, thank you. And you? I’m looking forward to seeing the receipts from the last three nights. You told me on Thursday the weekends tend to be busier.”

  “Riiiight. Yeah, it was busier.” He’s looking everywhere but at her.

  “Was it really?”

  “Yeah. A bit.” He’s toying with a fake cactus on his desk now.

  “May I see the receipts?”

  He takes his time, fussing around with various paperwork, but finally hands them over. It takes Susan all of a minute to go through them and discover that “busier” means “we had ten tables on Saturday night.” That hot spurt builds to an actual flame, fueled by his indifference.

  Susan sets the receipts aside. “Dan, this isn’t enough, and you know it. How’s the new menu coming along?”

  “Paul and I are talking about it.”

  “And when can I expect to see some ideas? When do you plan to start testing new recipes?”

  “Soon.”

  She wants to scream. And cram that stupid fake cactus right down his throat. Instead, through tight lips, she says, “We really have to talk about some changes, and that starts with the running of the kitchen.”

  She can see his protest gathering in a deep frown and blazing eyes. At least now she knows what it takes to light some kind of fire under him. Before he can form an argument and try to drown her out, she continues, “I realize the running of the kitchen is meant to be your department, but it’s all part of the overall running of the business, and that’s my job. And I have to say, I’m a bit disappointed with what I’ve been seeing. Gloria should not be checking in all the supplies; that’s your job or the sous chef’s job. And why isn’t Paul in yet? It’s nearly ten and there’s a lunch service to prep for.”

  “We did a lot of our prep last night,” he explains, getting to his feet so he can stand above her.

  Susan stiffens her spine but keeps her tone even. He won’t provoke her. “Even so, he should be here to organize the supplies. It’s not Gloria’s job. If you want it to be her job, since she’s doing so well with it, then promote her to sous chef and send Paul packing.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Then make him do his job! You’re chef de cuisine, so get out of this office and run your kitchen!

  His glower actually seems to be giving off heat. She imagines he’s trying to sear her with it, force her to give up, tuck tail, and run.

  She won’t run.

  “Dan,” she says, switching to a different tone. Conciliatory. “I really don’t want to tread on your toes, but surely you agree that changes need to be made.” She gestures to the receipts. “We’re simply not breaking even, and it’s not because it’s the off-season, because there isn’t really an off-season in Edinburgh anymore. There are always people around who need feeding, and we simply can’t afford to slack off and just hope they wander through the door. The restaurant scene in this city is competitive, and we need to compete. If we don’t”—she takes a deep breath, remembering those blank faces at Regent Street, staring up at her as she stumbled through her speech—“then we’ll have to let people go.” Starting with you, she doesn’t add.

  “Maybe we should just convert to a chippie,” Dan sniffs. “The students and the Americans will love it, and all we’ll need is a fry cook.”

  “Let’s not be dramatic, please; it won’t help,” says Susan, barely suppressing an eye roll. “Change will. And on that subject, we’re going to be closing down the restaurant for a little while and refurbishing.”

  He blinks at her. “What? When? You’re shutting the place down without consulting me? All that nonsense about this being a partnership! I knew you were full of shit!”

  Stand firm, stand firm. “I’m sorry to blindside you, but it needs to be done, and ultimately it’s my decision. You see to the running of the kitchen—there’s clearly plenty of work to be done there. I mean, my own family didn’t even think to come to us for food. Something’s going wrong here, and we need to fix it quickly, and the only way to do that is a complete overhaul.”

  “I thought you said dramatics wouldn’t help,” he spits out.

  “It’s not dramatics; it’s plain fact. And I don’t have the time or the capacity right now to coddle a kitchen diva, so you need to get on board or we’ll have to consider a change.” They stare each other down for a few long, silent moments. “Now,” Susan says, “do you want to tell the rest of the staff what’s happening, or shall I?”

  “You may as well do it,” he answers. “You’re dying to be in charge.”

  “I am in charge,” she informs him. “We’ll be closing down and ann
ouncing the refurbishment by the end of the week. And I want you and Paul to have a new menu proposal by then as well, so you can start testing recipes. Oh, and Dan? If I see Gloria doing the inventory again, I’m going to assume it means Paul no longer works here.”

  * * *

  “Feeding Tories!” Calum Walsh punctuates this exclamation by sinking a butcher’s knife deep into the side of a half pig lying on the butcher-block table in front of him. “I know we were bound to sell out, mate, but did we have to do it before we even opened?”

  Chris is focusing on a delicate sauce that’s in danger of breaking, and takes his time answering. “I was on television,” he says at last. “Selling out is second nature to me now. And I hate to break it to you, but the prices we’re charging, we’re going to be feeding a lot of Tories.”

  Calum laughs and, with another whack of his knife, separates the pig’s shoulder from the rest of the body.

  “Besides, they can be our guinea pigs,” Chris reminds him. “We’ll try out some of our ideas on them, and if they boak, we’ll know not to serve ’em to anyone else.”

  “Excellent business strategy there,” says Calum. “Nothing like a load of politicians spewing up your food two weeks ahead of opening.”

  Two weeks. Chris can’t quite believe it’s only two weeks away. Or that he’s standing in his own kitchen, which he’s planned and laid out himself, overlooking a dining room that will soon (so soon!) be filled with diners eating his food.

  Well, his and Calum’s. Chris’s sous chef came over from Ireland back in the day to work at Elliot’s. He and Chris started and came up at the same time. But while Chris unexpectedly went on to fame, Calum languished and wasted his talents at a country house hotel in Cornwall. He was only too eager to give up endless chicken liver toasts and overdone beef to return to Edinburgh.

  “I swear, the menu at that place hasn’t changed in twenty years,” he moaned. “Mind you, neither has the clientele—more blue hair than a Katy Perry concert and far less hot.”

  Calum turns to Rab, the pale, gangly apprentice meticulously chopping onions on the adjoining table.

  “I know why he agreed to it,” Calum says to the boy, with a knowing look Chris’s way. “The cute daughter.”

  Rab’s head snaps up.

  “Mind what you’re doing!” Chris says, gesturing to the boy’s knife, which is still slicing through the onion, even though Rab’s attention is elsewhere. “And don’t listen to a word this numpty says.” Now he gestures to Calum, who laughs again.

  “Say what you will, but that girl’d make me agree to most anything. You saw her, Rab, what d’you think?”

  Rab turns bright red and hyper-focuses on those onions.

  “Leave him be,” Chris warns his friend.

  Chris hates to admit it, but Calum’s right: Lauren’s just the sort of girl to make you turn and stare. She’s petite, but lithe as a willow branch. Her hair, which curls at the ends, frames a sweet oval face with green eyes and cupid’s-bow lips. She doesn’t wear much makeup. He likes that. Susan never wore much either.

  Lauren, he realizes, is attractive the way many healthy, carefree young people are: full of energy and enthusiasm, still seeing the world as a place of opportunity instead of one of striving and struggle. Life is still sweet for her, her optimism and good nature unblunted by the pressures and realities of adulthood.

  She bounded into the restaurant that morning to choose the menu for her father’s party. Trailing behind was a staid staffer who clearly felt she had better things to do.

  “Dad sent me because I know what he likes,” Lauren explained, galloping toward Chris to shake his hand. “And he sent Rachel to make sure I don’t do anything crazy,” she added, indicating the staffer. “So nice to meet you,” Lauren continued, grinning in a way that lit up her whole person. “Face-to-face, that is. But it was really nice talking on the phone the other day. I love your show. And this restaurant. It’ll be great once you open. I’ll bring some friends and we’ll all sit right there.” She pointed to the bar that ran along one side of the open kitchen. The “Chef’s Table” they’re calling it, and charging an extortionate fee for people to sit there and have a special meal cooked just for them by Chris himself. Chris hates the idea of having to take time to schmooze people there, but these are the things you need to do to pull ahead. And if they all look like Lauren, he might not mind.

  Lauren kept up a steady stream of chat all through the tasting, exclaiming over the food and talking about her father and her friends and her plans for the summer and asking Chris what it was like living in America and being on TV, and did he miss it? And how did he like being back in Edinburgh? Was it a wonderful homecoming? Must have been, because this is a nice city, isn’t it? Nothing like New York, of course, but more laid back, you know? Which is nice.

  Nice. Yes, it is.

  He found himself smiling at her—really smiling, which he rarely did anymore, outside the kitchen. No polite, close-lipped smile like he had given the woman at JFK, but an actual honest-to-God grin. He was sorry when she and Rachel had to go.

  “You liked her,” Calum teases, finishing up the last of the pig carcass and sorting pieces into various bins for storage.

  “She’s a bit young for me,” says Chris. “More Rab’s age.”

  “How about it, Rab? Fancy dating a Tory’s daughter?” Calum asks the boy, who blushes yet again. “I can’t say how she’ll age, since she’s half her dad and Lord knows he’s nothing to look twice at, but her mum’s quite fit, so it may be all right. I’ve always heard that if you want to know what a woman will look like later in life, have a look at her mum.”

  Chris wonders if his sister looks anything like their mother at the same age. They have no way of knowing: Mum disappeared when he was six and Beth nine. They came home from school one day, and she was just gone. Their father never said anything about it, never mentioned her again. It was as if she’d never even existed. If he hadn’t been able to confirm it with Beth, he’d almost have thought he made her up.

  “Speaking of fit women,” says Calum, as if he’s just read Chris’s mind, “is Beth coming to the opening?”

  “She is,” Chris answers, gesturing for Rab to join him so he can demonstrate how to make the sauce he’s working on.

  It took some doing, convincing Beth to come.

  “What, me come all the way there tae eat dainties with a bunch o’ bankers? Are ye aff yer heid?” she’d bellowed into the phone. Curiously, as Chris’s accent went “posh” (Beth’s words)—a necessity if he was to be understood by an American TV audience—hers thickened like hollandaise. So much so that even Chris struggles to understand her from time to time. It’s as if she thinks she has to be Scottish enough for the both of them.

  “Beth, please, I’d really like to have you here,” he begged, even though he knew she’d come no matter what he said. Still, he knew she’d appreciate feeling wanted. “I promise, there’ll be no bankers. It’s just family, friends, and a few critics.”

  “Critics! Bunch o’ richt bawbags, if ye ask me!”

  “I didn’t,” he replied, clenching his teeth and reminding himself that he loved his sister and she loved him, and this was just her way. “And I need them. And I need you, Beth. Please come. Mollie will be here.”

  A pause, then: “Mollie? Mollie Wilson?”

  “Of course, Mollie Wilson.”

  Another pause. “She still talks tae you, then? Always was a good ’un, Mollie. Weel, that changes things, dunn it? Can’t leave her alone there with all ’em … critics.”

  Even so, he had to agree to arrange all her travel from Aberfeldy and put her and the dogs up at his flat for the duration of her stay. He doesn’t mind, really. He likes the dogs. And he wants Beth there.

  “Oh!” Calum now leans back and dramatically clutches his heart. “Beth’s coming! The best news I’ve heard all day!” He turns to Rab. “That, my friend, is a fine woman. A fine, fine woman. Take note when she gets here, my boy—fi
nd someone just like her. She will always be honest with you, won’t take or give any bullshit, won’t play games. That’s what you need in a partner, amirite, Chris? Especially a partner in this business.”

  “Honesty’s the best policy?” Rab tentatively supplies.

  “Right you are, lad!” Calum grabs a tub filled with pork. “Now, why don’t you come with me and see how the sausage is made?”

  Chapter Seven

  A Certain Uneasy Gloom

  Susan senses trouble as soon as she comes through the door at Moray Place. Pausing, her key still in the lock, she assesses. Is it some tension in the air? A certain uneasy gloom?

  The movers are gone; all the furniture is in its place (for now). The house is quiet. Except for …

  There it is! Dan’s voice. A murmur floating her way from the sitting room to her left. Not the sulky tone he uses with her, but a jovial, convivial one. The sort you use on job interviews, when you’re trying to win people over and convince them you’re just right. And her father’s voice, answering. A light tone as well.

  Susan yanks the key out of the lock, closes the door loudly, and pushes into the room.

  As she thought, Dan is there, sitting on the very edge of the sofa, leaning toward Bernard, who is ensconced in the precious Eames chair. Both men look up as she comes in. Dan smiles, but in a way that seems dark to her. There’s something in his face that says, “I’ve got you.” Bernard’s smile is tight with irritation.

  “Oh, Susan,” Bernard says, “the chef has come to talk to me.” His tone adds an unsaid: “Why is this person talking to me about restaurant things?”

  “Has he, indeed?” Susan says, turning to Dan. She does not smile. And both Dan and her father notice that the tension is steadily ratcheting up as she stands there. “And what’s so important, Dan, that you have to bother my father? You know he’s retired, don’t you? Which means he has nothing to do with the running of the business?” She directs that as much toward Bernard as at Dan.