All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “He was just telling me that you plan to close down the restaurant,” Bernard answers. “I thought we moved here so we wouldn’t have to close the restaurant down. Wasn’t that the whole point?”

  “It was,” Susan reassures him. “It’s a temporary closure while we refurbish and overhaul the menu. Did you not have time to get to that bit, Dan?”

  “Well, I’ve only just arrived,” Dan excuses.

  “Still, though. Closing down …” Bernard murmurs, shaking his head, “and refurbishing? Won’t that be”—he lowers his voice a little—“expensive?”

  “Julia’s going to handle the redecoration,” Susan explains. “She had a look this afternoon and doesn’t think it’ll be too bad.”

  That’s half true. When Julia first arrived, she looked around, face mostly impassive, only her widening eyes revealing particular disgust now and again. Susan guessed that interior designers had to perfect the art of not looking horrified. It was probably a whole class they had to take at design school.

  “We should tear everything out and replace it with new,” Julia finally declared. “Move the bar in there”—she gestured to the dining room on the right—“so people sitting at it don’t get a cold blast every time the door opens. And put up some sort of a wall here”—now pointing just to the left of the door—“to protect the diners in the main room. A glass wall, I think, so the space still feels open. Rip up the carpeting and go for a wood floor. All new lighting, of course, and new upholstery. Maybe get something bespoke; it can be part of the branding. And speaking of branding, that’ll need an overhaul too. New logo, new menu covers. And new plates and glassware. Should we see about installing a fireplace we can light in the winter? I think we should. It’ll give the space a focal point.”

  “We can’t move the bar,” Susan told her. “Not now. You can have your wall, but no bespoke textiles, and the fireplace isn’t happening just now either. But I agree with you on the lighting.”

  Julia nodded. Obviously negotiation was important in this line of work too. “At least let me ask about some kind of a fireplace. A gas one—something people can gather round in the cold months. People love that sort of thing; it’ll be another selling point. I’ll just inquire, okay?”

  “All right,” Susan agreed. “But we’ll be setting a firm budget, you and I, and all expenditure goes through me.”

  “You’re the boss,” Julia responded with a sarcastic smile, but her eyes were already gleaming at the challenge.

  Bernard is less excited by this whole prospect.

  “Julia’s going to do over the restaurant?” he gasps. “But”—he looks around at the beige walls—“she’s meant to be redoing the house. We might have guests here during the Festival, and we can’t have people over with the dining room that horrible purple color. What will they think?”

  Dan’s looking down at the floor, turning red. Susan gets the feeling he’s trying hard not to burst out laughing.

  “We can talk about that when Julia gets in,” she replies. “In the meantime …”

  But then the front door opens and Julia blows in, hugging a book of fabric samples.

  “Suze! I think I’ve found just what we need,” she announces, joining them in the sitting room. “Who’s this?” she asks, looking Dan over and clearly deeming him unworthy to be gracing her sofa.

  “This is Dan, the head chef,” Susan answers. “He’s come all the way over here to tell Dad about the plans for the refurbishment.”

  “Oh no, Dad, let me tell you all about it.” Julia bounds over to her father and flips open the swatch book. “Look at this—it’s such a lovely color, isn’t it? ‘Thistle Field’ they call it. I think it’ll really brighten up the space, especially against the blonde wood I’m going to have put in. No more of that ugly dark stuff. Suze, don’t look at me like that. You know the paneling needs to be redone, okay? Oh, and I’ve got a meeting with three contractors this week; one of them just got finished with the interior for Chris Baker’s place. Don’t know if that really recommends him, but we’ll see.”

  Bernard smiles softly at his eldest, pats her hand, and agrees that Thistle Field is lovely and he’s sure it’ll make a real difference in the space. (As if he would know, Susan thinks.)

  “But Julia, darling, what about the house?” he asks. “Remember, you promised me you’d do it over as soon as we arrived.”

  “Oh, Dad, I’ll get to it when I can, of course, but this is important. It’s for the business, which is for the family. And it’ll be so good for me to spread my wings a bit, don’t you think? Oh, please let me do it. I promise, once everything’s underway there, I’ll get to work on the house, okay? Please?”

  “Well,” Bernard sighs, “if it’ll make you happy, Poppet. I suppose we can hold off until next year to have Festival guests.”

  “Aw, thanks, Dad—you’re the best, you know that? Now, I’m going to look into some graphic designers for the menu and logo,” Julia goes on. She glances Dan’s way again. “I suppose you’re here to discuss the changes to the menu? Because Susan’s right: it’s dreadful.”

  Bernard looks at him expectantly. Dan just blinks, clearly unsure how this has all gotten away from him so quickly. “Oh yes,” he agrees. “Yes, we’ll be making changes.”

  “Good. I’m off to make some calls, then.” Julia drops a kiss on her father’s cheek and disappears.

  The silence in the room is a heavy one.

  “Dan, could you give my father and myself a moment, please?” Susan finally requests.

  Dan rises slowly and leaves the room. Susan closes the door behind him, then walks over to her father.

  “Dad,” she says, lowering herself onto the sofa Dan’s just vacated. “I need you to answer something honestly for me. Do you want to be in charge of the business and its day-to-day running? Because if you do, I need you to say so now, and I’ll go back to London and find another job.”

  Bernard’s horrified face is enough answer. But even so, he gasps, “Run the business? We all agreed it was for the best that I not do that. And anyway, I’m busy now: I’ve been asked to serve on the boards of two charities and joined the Malt Whisky Society. This is supposed to be your job, Susan.”

  “So we’re agreed I’m in charge, then?” Susan presses. “I need to hear you say it, please.”

  “I already have said it! Yes, you’re in charge, all right? And much joy may it bring you!”

  “And may I borrow some family funds to pay for the refurbishment?” Bernard looks even more alarmed, so Susan hastily adds: “It’ll disappoint Julia terribly if we called it off. She’s already put in so much effort …”

  “Right, of course. Shame to waste all her talents. Yes, all right, Julia can redo the restaurant.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Susan pats her father on the shoulder, then goes out to the front hall, where Dan loiters on an antique bench. Susan can hear Julia on the phone in the study, already interviewing a design firm.

  “This is going ahead whether you like it or not,” Susan informs her chef. “Don’t think I don’t know what you were trying to do here. Thought you’d go over my head and convince my father to overrule me? Nice try, but unsuccessful.” She steps a little closer, standing over him, arms crossed. “It’s clear you don’t see us as being on the same team here, Dan, and I need my chef to be on the same team as me. I don’t have time to fight someone every step of the way.”

  He smirks. He knew this was coming. If she didn’t fire him, he’d quit. But still, he won’t go quietly. “You think you can just wander up here with your London accent and attitude and just start running this business? You don’t know anything about the restaurants up here—or the suppliers. You’re not part of this clan.”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it,” she coolly replies.

  “Who’s going to help you, huh? Gloria?” He snorts. “I know she’s been saying things about the restaurant, and you’ve lapped it up. You think she’s not playing you? You think she doesn’t have ambitions a
nd is using you to get ahead?”

  “I don’t fault people for being ambitious if they’re also good at their jobs.”

  He shakes his head. “You skirts always stick together.”

  “Keep talking, Dan, really. You think we don’t know restaurant people up here? We do. You don’t want us poisoning your well, or you’ll find yourself looking for jobs at B&Bs in the Orkneys because that’s the only place people will still hire you, and that’s because they won’t know your name. I suggest you get up, walk out of here, and go register on S1jobs, because you’re fired.”

  * * *

  Susan got almost no sleep that night.

  Immediately after closing the door behind Dan, she realized her heart rate was reaching alarming levels, and her knees were shaking slightly. With any luck, he hadn’t seen that or sensed it.

  And then she realized she’d have to recruit a new head chef. And that chef would need time to give notice at their current place, get acclimated to the new restaurant and the staff, and then set about redoing the menu. This was going to push things back. Way back. It had to be done, of course, but this was not at all ideal. She wondered if Dan guessed that and would hover around for a while, hoping she’d telephone, apologizing, begging him to come back, hence giving him all the power.

  Like hell she’s going to do that. He can sit by his phone until he starves. She’ll make this work. Somehow.

  Just after five she gives up tossing and turning and goes down to the kitchen to bake something. The bread she made the day before is sitting on a cooling rack on the countertop, its thick crust cracked and lovely, jagged ridges ripping through the neat swirled pattern the proofing basket left on the dough. She cuts a thick slice and pops it in the toaster, makes some tea, and eats the bread spread generously with marmalade. Sour, nutty, sweet, fruity, bright, citrusy—a wake-up and a joy in a single bite.

  She polishes off the first piece and, while a second toasts, decides to try out a cake idea she had, which she thinks will work best with a genoise sponge. While she’s watching the eggs beat up into a thick, primrose-colored froth in the stand mixer, Julia comes in, eyes ablaze, hissing:

  “It’s six o’clock in the morning, Susan! What the hell are you doing down here?”

  “Sorry.” Susan sheepishly turns off the mixer. The sponge will have to wait.

  “God! Most people just read books or watch TV when they can’t sleep!” Julia storms out, muttering about how this was going to give her bags under her eyes.

  Susan stands in the middle of the kitchen, afraid to make any more noise. It’s been so long since she’s lived with anyone, she’s forgotten how sensitive people can be to it. Chris never minded her late-night baking binges. But then Chris almost never slept himself.

  She dumps out the half-whipped eggs and heads out, deciding it’s best to leave the house to her father and sister.

  It’s light out already—the sun sleeps as little as she does at this time of the year—and the sky is watercolor-washed in pale pinks and blues. It’s quiet, no one about, and few buses and cars on the road at this hour. She likes the peace. She can think here. Sometimes (like, when her mind wanders to Chris and those memories) she’d rather not be able to think so much, but it’s good today. The day is fresh and, despite the lack of sleep, her mind is too.

  She goes to the restaurant because she can’t think of anywhere else to go at this hour, and there’s work to be done anyway. An advertisement for the chef’s position will have to be written up and posted. And Paul will have to be dealt with. She knows instinctively that he’ll feel entitled to the top job. But if he wants it, he’ll have to work for it.

  There are other things that will need her attention today. Budgets to be balanced, suppliers to be contacted, jobs to be reviewed. Possibly some tough decisions to be made. And it all has to be done soon.

  She unlocks the door and trots down to the kitchen, where she manages to scare the hell out of Gloria.

  “Jesus!” Gloria gasps, nearly dropping the foam canister she’s holding.

  “Sorry,” says Susan. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be in.” The chefs aren’t due in until around half past eleven, since the restaurant has put a hold on its abysmal mid-week lunch service. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh,” Gloria gestures to the plates arrayed in front of her, “just working on some things.” She shakes the canister and very carefully pipes a creamy, snow-white mousse onto a thin charcoal-colored biscuit.

  Susan eases over to the table to watch her work. “What sorts of things?”

  “Just a few ideas,” Gloria answers without looking up. She places some salmon roe on top of the mousse with the delicate precision of a jeweler setting diamonds.

  Susan waits until she’s done before saying, “I guess you heard about Dan, then?”

  “Oh, we all heard.” Gloria smirks. “He came blasting in here yesterday to get his knives and whatever else from the office. He took Paul back there and the two of ’em yelled about how ridiculous the whole thing was. They closed the door, but we could still hear it. I learned at least eight new variations on ‘fanny,’ which is impressive, because I thought I already knew ’em all.” She shakes her head, grinning. “Dan left after that, banging every door he could find on the way out. He didn’t tell us he’d been sacked, but he didn’t have to, did he? Paul spent the rest of the night strutting around in that smug way of his, and after service he took a bottle of whisky back to the office while the rest of us cleaned up.”

  “And now you’re here, at the crack of dawn, experimenting,” Susan murmurs, facing Gloria over the chef’s new concoction.

  Gloria’s face is set. “Are y’askin’ if I’m goin’ to make a bid for the executive chef post? Hell yeah, I am. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve trained up and down the country and spent three years here working every station, handling inventory and purveyors, training apprentices, and being ordered to fetch drinks and coffee. I’m hungry and qualified. And you don’t seem like the type to hand a job to a sous chef just because he’s next in line. So yeah, I’m making a play here.”

  The two women stare at each other, taking the other’s measure. After a few moments, Gloria asks, “You hungry? I’ve got some eggy bread keeping warm in th’ oven.”

  “Honestly? I’d rather try this.” Susan gestures to the plate on the table.

  Gloria grins. “Have at it, then.”

  Susan picks up the fragile biscuit. “What is it?”

  “Try it and find out.”

  Susan places the whole thing on her tongue and swirls it around her mouth. What it is is amazing: a fresh burst of sweet, briny crab flavor, beautifully complimented by just a hint of lemon, followed by a soft crunch from the biscuit, which dissolves more slowly than the mousse and has a slightly salty, vegetal flavor. Susan’s sorry when it’s done; she could happily eat a dozen of these, or just a bowl filled with that mousse.

  But she doesn’t want to show her hand, so she keeps her face as still as she can manage and just makes a little “hmm” noise as she wipes a little mousse off her fingers with a kitchen towel (hard to resist licking them clean). “Is that seaweed?” she asks, indicating a tray of the biscuits, lined up nearby. Without the mousse topping, she can see that they weren’t really biscuits at all, but many layers of paper-thin seaweed, pressed together to form a semi-firm base.

  “It is,” Gloria confirms. “Foraged from Scottish coasts, with Orkney crab mousse and Scottish salmon roe. Scotland’s waters, on a plate.”

  Susan nods, thinking. “Gloria,” she says at last, “I’m going to go do some work. But I’d like you to make me lunch today.”

  Gloria grins, lighting up like Bonfire Night, and nods. “Thanks! I will. Any time in particular?”

  “Let’s say eleven,” Susan answers. “Before the rest of the brigade gets in.”

  “Right you are!” Gloria turns away, begins pulling out tools and hurrying toward the walk-in, ready to work.

  * * *

 
While Gloria preps, Susan reacquaints herself with the chef’s CV. Gloria has indeed trained in some of the country’s best kitchens, and her references are more than glowing. Quite effusive, actually, for chefs who tend to be fairly to the point. “Driven,” “innovative,” “soulful.” Susan guesses the torporific state of things at Elliot’s has been killing Gloria. No wonder she pounced on the chance to do something different.

  In the kitchen, Gloria has turned a radio to an oldies station and is singing along.

  “I love you baaaaybe, and if it’s quite all right, I need you baaaaybe, to warm a lonely night,” Gloria belts.

  Susan smiles, unable to help herself. How nice to have someone there who actually seems to enjoy what she’s doing.

  Susan spends the rest of the morning going over budgets and figures, reviewing suppliers’ invoices, and writing up the advertisement for the chef’s position, just in case. The mousse that morning was outstanding, certainly, but what if Gloria chokes when asked to present a full meal? Unlikely, yes, but it’s best to be prepared. And it makes Susan feel like she isn’t just taking the easy road, although promoting from within would simplify things.

  Promptly at eleven, Gloria raps on the door and announces, “Lunch is served.”

  Susan follows her into the space across from the office, which serves as a sort of staff room. There are lockers on one side for personal items, cardboard boxes filled with clean aprons and chefs’ uniforms, and a rectangular table where staff gather for the preservice “family dinner.”

  It’s Susan, now, who seats herself at the table.

  Gloria places a bowl in front of her. “First course—haggis, neeps, and tatties. And a ‘tattie scone’ on the side.” She disappears to prepare the next course.

  Susan takes a moment to note the presentation. “Eat with your eyes first,” Elliot used to say, placing everything just so. Gloria’s soup is the same creamy white as her mousse, and dotted with crispy haggis croutons arranged in a half-moon shape. The “tattie scone” isn’t the classic tattie scone, which is a flat potato-and-flour pancake fried crisp in a pan, but more like the risen scone you have with afternoon tea. Susan picks up the spoon and dips into the soup.