All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  Susan laughs, a little more loudly than warranted, and the man at the end of the bar looks up and grins. His smile is as dazzlingly superhuman as his hair. She feels herself blush and fumbles with her purse.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gloria says. “I got this one.”

  “Thanks, Gloria,” Susan says. “Not just for the drinks, but—”

  “I know, it’s all good,” Gloria answers, taking her second beer. “You know I’m here, okay? We women in this business need to stick together.”

  “In any business,” Susan agrees. “See you tomorrow. And don’t forget we’ve got that interview with The Scotsman on Sunday.”

  “I remember.” Gloria’s eyes twinkle over the bottle. “Maybe we’ll give Baker a little of his own back.”

  “Let’s not.” Susan’s not prepared to tackle a full-on war. She can’t even make a berry behave. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you.” As Susan walks away, Gloria looks at the man standing at the bar next to her, who seems to have his eyes affixed to her generous breasts. “Sorry,” Gloria says, gesturing to his drink, “were you looking for something to put that on?”

  Susan laughs again as she sidles out the door and hails a cab.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Played

  It is most definitely not Lindsay Howard, The Scotsman’s new deputy head of content, who saunters through the door of Elliot’s on Sunday morning.

  Susan, caught unawares, is expecting a petite forty-something woman with honey-colored hair. Instead, in comes a young man with black hair and a ruthlessly waxed and styled French handlebar moustache. He looks around, seeming amused, emits a low whistle, and observes, “You’re really doing a number on this place, aren’t you?”

  “Can I help you?” Susan asks. In his white, popped-collar polo shirt, seersucker jacket, skinny jeans, and Toms slip-ons, he looks like the sort of person who parades around the city just hoping to run into someone taking photographs for a Street Style spread. It seems odd that he’d wander into a restaurant so clearly under construction.

  “I sure hope so,” he answers, approaching her and extending a hand. “Rufus Arion. Lindsay sent me.” He shakes her hand, then produces a card.

  Rufus Arion

  Journalist

  Arionnation.com

  “Oh, you’re that Rufus Arion,” Susan can’t help but say, passing the card along to Gloria, who raises an eyebrow and pinches her lips together.

  He brightens. “You’ve heard of me!”

  “My sister-in-law’s mentioned your blog.” Susan forces a smile, even though the idea of having to entertain someone with such a repulsive blog moniker makes her skin crawl.

  “Oh, right!” Rufus grins. “That’s Lauren, right?”

  “You know her?”

  “I know of her, of course. Not exactly a shrinking violet, is she? And now she and Chris Baker … kinda fun, innit? Complicated for you, though, right? But we’ll get to that. Shall we?” He swoops down on a table, setting out his phone and a pad and pen.

  Gloria swallows hard and gives Susan a “good luck with this one” look before vanishing into the kitchen. As she goes, the bartender approaches the table with a bubbly, coral-colored cocktail in a champagne glass.

  “Buckthorn fizz.” He sets it down in front of Rufus and winks at Susan.

  The previous day she’d handed him the sea buckthorn juice she’d been unable to use and told him to do whatever he wanted with it. This pretty brunch cocktail is his answer.

  “Oh, very nice,” says Rufus. “The hen parties’ll love it.”

  “We hope so,” Susan responds, taking a seat across the table from him.

  Rufus raises an eyebrow. “Really? You’d welcome the hens, would you?”

  She knows what he’s doing. Hen parties are notoriously raucous, and plenty of restaurants won’t have them or their male counterparts, the stag dos. But she won’t have Elliot’s known for snobbery.

  “We welcome everyone,” she replies. “This is a restaurant, not a members-only club.”

  “Well, that’s a bit of a turnaround,” he observes. “I went to Elliot’s on Regent Street once. All bankers and their second wives. Hoping to attract a different sort here, then?”

  “We hope to attract people who appreciate excellent food.”

  “Ah yes, the food. There’s been some debate about that, hasn’t there?” He makes a sympathetic clucking noise. “Chris Baker was really rough on you the other day, wasn’t he? Naughty boy, going after the very place that gave him his start.”

  “He’s entitled to his opinion,” Susan answers in a tight voice and with an even tighter smile. “But let’s talk about the food.”

  “Oh, we’ll get to that.” Having been cut off from a gossipy story about a potential rivalry between the restaurants, he’s clearly searching for another angle. His eyes flicker around the chaotic interior, taking in the walls that have been reduced to studs, the tables and chairs that have been bunched near the windows, the open box of lighting fixtures that don’t match the ones that have already been hung (Julia had had a fit over that and gave the supplier an earful). The brass that has not yet been removed. “Going industrial chic with your decor, I see.” He chuckles. “You should know that’s out now. We all want some Scandinavian thing.”

  “I promise you’ll get it,” says Susan, “but I’m sure you know any major refurbishment takes a fair bit of work.”

  “Especially when you’re dealing with council red tape.” His eyes flash, waiting for her response.

  Susan heads him off with “I didn’t know you were a food writer. I got the impression your blog was more … news based.”

  “It’s a gossip blog—no need to beat about the bush.” He smiles, unperturbed by any judgment. “I’ll write about nearly anything. Freelance life, you know. But I asked for this assignment. Seemed juicy.” He knocks back the Buckthorn Fizz in one go. “Oh, that’s quite refreshing.” He sits up a little straighter and catches the bartender’s eye. “Don’t suppose you have anything in the line of a Bloody Mary, though? More Mary, less bloody, if you know what I mean?”

  The bartender glances at Susan, who nods briefly. They need to keep Rufus sweet, after all. It’s been hard enough to get this story. She had leaned hard on the deputy editor and mentioned her connections to both Kay and Russell when it became apparent that Elliot’s name alone wasn’t enough to interest the paper. The (potential) resurgence of a high-end restaurant doesn’t scan with newspaper editors, who are after clicks and ad revenue. Susan hates having to play those family cards, but she’ll hate not having any customers far more.

  “Shame about the flame-out in London,” says Rufus, wrinkling his nose in sympathy. “Bad luck, that. Well, some of it was bad luck, eh?”

  “It’s rough on luxury brands when the economy takes a turn,” Susan agrees.

  “Luxury? But it wasn’t really a luxury brand anymore, was it? More Kardashian than Cartier. You think opening the door to hen parties is going to help that?”

  Susan glances away, trying to stay calm, keep the rage from building. It’s not rage toward Rufus, as unpleasant as he is. It’s only fair that he should ask these sorts of questions. She expected it and told herself she was ready for them. She was wrong.

  “There were regrettable decisions made,” she allows. “We experimented. Took some risks. They didn’t pay off. Sometimes that happens. All you can do is learn from it.”

  He nods. “So no risk taking here, then?”

  “We’re committed to getting back to our roots. Elliot’s was always about excellent food and a great experience—”

  “Kind of lost its way, though,” Rufus clucks, shaking his head. “The stuff that was being served here … I don’t know anyone who’s been to Elliot’s. They all want to hit Aizle or The Kitchn or Baker’s new place. Speaking of that”—Rufus leans forward and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial murmur—“you and Chris Baker have a history, I hear.”

  “Who told you t
hat?” Susan asks, pulling away from him.

  “Oh, come on now—I have sources. No need to be coy.”

  “I’m not going to discuss my personal life or Mr. Baker’s,” Susan responds primly.

  Rufus sighs, and for the first time, his expression changes from one of overeager wickedness to something more genuine. Almost like sympathy.

  “Listen,” he tells her, “I’m trying to help you, believe it or not. No one is going to read an article that’s all ‘the food here is good.’ They want more. Trust me, I know. I’m the perfect person to write this whole thing up. You want to build some excitement and bring feet through that door? You’ll need clicks on this article, okay? Give me a juicy angle to work with. Now, you and Chris Baker—I’m guessing it didn’t end well, considering that interview and the fact he’s backing your former chef’s new venture.”

  “He’s what?” Susan hisses, feeling like she’s just had ice water thrown at her.

  That previous expression, the one that almost made Susan like Rufus, is, for a second, replaced by a smile that slithers. “Oh,” he says, “you didn’t know?”

  “Who’s hungry?” Gloria and a waiter appear at the side of the table, arms piled with dishes.

  Rufus straightens and rubs his hands. “Oh, me! I’ve brought my appetite.”

  Dishes are set before him: grilled pheasant and pomegranate salad; the haggis, neeps, and tatties soup; a savory doughnut stuffed with fresh crabmeat; lemon, zucchini, and Anster cheese soufflé; a slab of moist sourdough bread with a pot of freshly made crowdie and preserved lemons to spread on top; and, of course, the pudding.

  This one was born from Susan’s childhood memories: after-school treats of bananas split in half and spread with peanut butter, and her mother’s chocolate chip–studded banana bread, lavished with butter or dripping with honey. This pudding starts with a cake: the bottom layer is a rich, dark, fudgy chocolate as luscious as velvet. On top of that a layer of banana honey cake laced with cinnamon—just sweet enough to balance out the bittersweet bottom layer. And finally, a peanut butter mousse that dissolves as soon as it reaches your tongue, melding creamily with the other layers like a slightly salty, addictive sauce. Shards of honey and peanut praline decorate the cake, and it’s accompanied by a little peanut-flavored candy-floss “lollipop” on the side.

  Rufus snaps photos with his phone, murmuring, “Oh yes, that’ll do nicely. Looks delish!” At last, he takes a bite of the salad, followed by some of the soup. “Yes, this is much better than what you served here before. Edible, even!”

  “Thaaaaaanks,” says Gloria, joining them at the table.

  Around a mouthful of bread, Rufus tells her, “I was just telling Susan here that your former boss is opening a place just around the corner. Dan—that’s his name, right? Well, he and the sous chef and the former pastry chef here took a place in Waverly Arches, with support from Chris Baker. What do you think about that?”

  Gloria gapes at him for a moment, then looks at Susan, who is similarly shocked. The Arches! That is literally around the corner from Elliot’s—a set of cave-like hollows from the Victorian period that were revamped into retail and dining space. And now their disgruntled former employees are opening a place there!

  “We wish them luck, of course”—Susan manages to cover—“as we would wish anyone luck. This is a tricky business.”

  “Yes, indeed, as you yourself have found,” says Rufus, reaching for the doughnut. “Seems you,” he says to Gloria, “have ruffled more than a few feathers.”

  “Women who speak their mind and take a tough line tend to,” Gloria flings back. “People hate an uppity girl.”

  “Not me!” Rufus chuckles. “I like ’em feisty!”

  Something about the way he says that makes Susan shudder. Out of the corner of her eye, she could swear she saw Gloria do the same.

  “Kind of a gamble on your part, putting an untried chef in charge of a restaurant you’re trying to pull back from the brink,” Rufus comments to Susan.

  “She’s not an untried chef. She’s highly qualified and has been working here for years. And I think the food speaks for itself,” Susan replies.

  Rufus nods. “Oh, I agree!” He starts in on the soufflé.

  “We’re interested in fostering talent here,” Susan presses on, hoping to regain control of the interview and maybe find that angle Rufus says he needs. “We’ve always been interested in identifying and nurturing promising up-and-comers, even when others would consider it a risk.”

  “Like Chris Baker,” Rufus supplies.

  Susan inwardly curses herself for walking into that. “Yes.” Tightly, through her teeth.

  “And that’s the kind of comeback to bite you in the arse, isn’t it?” Rufus shrugs and begins sucking up the Bloody Mary through his straw.

  “We’ll just have to see,” Susan says.

  “Oh, come on. He’s funding a restaurant run by your angry former chefs, just around the corner from here.” Rufus clucks, shaking his head. “I mean, really! What else does he have to do, actually walk up and punch you both in the face?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Susan coolly replies.

  Rufus sighs. “He really has it in for this place. Just the other day, I was talking to my friend, Babs, who runs the Foodies Festival, and she said Chris floated the idea of doing a wee head-to-head competition at the Festival this year—you know, to give the crowd a little thrill and raise some money for charity? And she suggested he go up against a team from Elliot’s, but he just laughed and said you’d never compete against him because you’d be afraid of being humiliated. And you would be humiliated because he’d wipe the floor with you. His words, not mine. He said this place was all washed up, and your chef was just some woman no one’s heard of. He told Babs not to waste her time.” Rufus leans forward again, peering into Susan’s face. “Jesus, what did you do to him?” he asks.

  “Nothing to warrant that,” Susan growls as Gloria demands, “He actually said that?”

  Rufus slathers his bread with crowdie. “Of course, I could tell Babs the man was talking out his arse. It’s not too late, you know, to schedule this whole thing. You could show him what Elliot’s really has to offer.” He gestures with the bread to the remains of the food.

  Susan narrows her eyes. Something about this doesn’t quite gel. She’s never known Chris to be so, well, cruel. It all sounds a bit cartoon villain to her. But then she clearly doesn’t really know him anymore. Would the Chris she knew say those things about her grandfather’s restaurant on the radio?

  Rufus sets the bread aside after two bites, digs a fork into the cake, and scoops some into his mouth. “Oh yes!” He closes his eyes, savoring it. “Now that is pudding,” he declares before devouring the rest of it. “So, ladies, what do you say? Should I tell Babs you’re game? It’d be great publicity,” he adds, as if he senses they need further persuasion.

  “Yeah,” Gloria answers before Susan can get there. “You do that.”

  A Grinch-like grin spreads once more over Rufus’s face. “Excellent. I’ll phone her today.”

  * * *

  Service! Just the thought of it is enough to get Chris’s blood pumping. That frantic run-up to the opening of the front doors—a flurry of chopping and last-second prep. His last turn around the kitchen to sample sauces and soups, and make sure the meats and fish and vegetables are all correctly portioned out. A reminder to the waitstaff to push particular dishes. That brief period, just after the first guests are seated, when the chefs correct any last-minute errors (“too much salt in that dressing, mate—let’s do something about it”) and Chris takes his place at the pass. A breathless moment, and then the computer spits out the first ticket. Chris bellows, “Service, please!” and calls out the orders to a chorus of “Yes, Chef!” from the line cooks.

  And from then on it’s a marathon and a dance, all of them doing a dozen things at once—sautéing and saucing and plating and finishing, stepping around one another
in a dangerous choreography as they juggle knives and crackling pans filled with spitting fats. Every plate is set in front of Chris, who finishes them off, wipes the edges, makes sure they’re perfect before placing them on the pass to be whisked away by the waitstaff.

  They do this for hours, until the tide of customers begins to ebb. They see the orders drop off, and finally it’s only the puddings left to plate. A few people linger over coffees and after-dinner drinks as the kitchen staff shut down and clean up. Then the door is locked, and they can all breathe again. Work the kinks out of their muscles and notice the sore spots for the first time. Chris has noticed recently there are more sore spots than there used to be.

  “Right, bacon rolls!” Calum announces at the end of Sunday night service. This is their tradition: proper bacon rolls for the whole staff at the end of the night, before everyone disperses to beds or (more often) bars. Sunday is a particularly popular night for partying, as the restaurant’s closed Mondays and Tuesdays.

  Calum tosses thick slices of smoked back bacon on the hot grill, where they sizzle away, while Rab slices soft buns and the staff crowds in, popping open bottles of beer, swapping stories about the evening’s more interesting customers, and making plans for the night and the next two days. Bacon comes off the grill and is slapped onto buns, then slathered in bottled brown sauce and distributed. Chris always gets his last: it only seems right to him.

  “Thanks for another great night, everyone!” he shouts before sinking his teeth into the roll. His reward is a spicy-sour gush of brown sauce, mixed with the mellow smokiness of the bacon and barely there bun.

  People keep trying to posh up the bacon roll. They put fancy meat on rich, buttery brioche buns and pile on homemade chipotle-red- pepper-Sriracha ketchup or something, and a handful of arugula as if they’re trying to fool everyone into thinking it’s healthy. They charge eight pounds, and people pay it and talk about how great these rolls are and isn’t it amazing how far food’s come these past few years? But Chris hates those sorts of rolls because to him they miss the point of the bacon roll entirely. It’s supposed to be cheap and comforting and satisfying. You aren’t supposed to get all nuanced with it.