Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  He was nodding now. “You really wish to become a chef?”

  “I would like to be in charge of my own kitchen someday, yes.”

  “I think you may have a problem there,” he said.

  “You don’t think I’ll be good enough?” I asked coldly.

  “I don’t think you will find a male sous-chef who will want to take orders from a woman.”

  “Perhaps I shall employ an all-female kitchen,” I replied. “After all, who does all the cooking in private houses? Women know how to cook instinctively. Men must learn.”

  He laughed heartily at this. “Very good,” he said. Then he grew serious again. “But you do not wish to marry? I thought all girls wanted a husband and a home and a family.”

  “Maybe one day,” I said. I looked at him defiantly. “What about you? Are you married?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Mademoiselle, I have a problem. I do not see how I can ask any girl to marry me. Who would want a husband who does not come home until midnight and who rises at dawn to go to the market? I am married to my profession.”

  “Monsieur Lepin. You wish me to wrap the octopus?” the stall-keeper interrupted.

  “Please, mon ami.”

  “Tell me,” I said. “How does one cook an octopus? It looks as if it would be slimy and rubbery.”

  “And so it will be, if one cooks it too long. Myself I prefer to grill it in the Spanish style. The tentacles can be cut into rings, or marinated and served whole, but always they must be cooked to the moment of perfection so that when one bites into it there is no resistance. You will try a piece when I serve it as an entrée tonight.”

  “Thank you, you are most kind,” I said.

  “I am not normally known for my kindness,” he replied. “You must be having a bad effect on me.”

  Our eyes met for a brief second. There was something in the way he looked at me that made me feel uneasy—as if some kind of subtle contact had been made. So I said quickly, “I must not keep you from your commissions. You need to prepare the lunch menu.”

  “I do,” he said. “Au revoir, Mademoiselle Chef. I will see you at the hotel. You and your fellows should dine with us tonight. I am making a bouillabaisse. You will sample the local cuisine.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to tasting it, and to learning new recipes if you are willing to share them.”

  “Until later, mademoiselle.” He gave a little bow and pushed his way into the crowd. I found myself staring after him, my heart beating rather fast. Remember that the French are known for their flirtatious nature, I reminded myself.

  CHAPTER 19

  After Chef Lepin had gone, I wandered into the section of the market that sold household goods and bric-a-brac and found a stall selling fabrics. These were fabrics for the common people, no silks or brocades amongst them, but I found a length of a cotton weave that felt soft and pleasing to the touch. It was in a pretty bluish green that would go well with my hair and colouring, and it seemed extraordinarily cheap to me. I added a couple of yards of thin muslin lining, then I went off to find Claudette’s mother. After many directions and pointings, I found her dwelling up a flight of stone steps ascending the castle hill. She greeted me cordially when I explained that her daughter had sent me, and I handed her the cloth. I found her extremely difficult to understand—her local accent was so strong, and she lacked most of her teeth—but the gist I got was that the cloth was of inferior quality and she didn’t know if she could make a decent dress out of it. I explained that I had very little money. She said she would try and took my measurements. I went away not feeling too hopeful. Had I wasted precious money on something that would be useless? But how was I to know? I had had no experience in selecting fabric for my clothes; in fact, I had not had new clothes for many years. At least it would be better than nothing, and if it didn’t last, as the old woman had suggested, I didn’t really care. And if I liked the quality of the woman’s work, I would splurge and spend some of my hard-earned wages on a new wardrobe.

  I reported back to Mr Angelo. We tried a dish using the aubergine, peppers and onion—sautéing them together with the forbidden garlic and tomatoes, then declaring it to be quite interesting. After my description of the market, Mr Angelo decided he would order his meat through the hotel, just to be on the safe side. “I know what I like,” he said.

  I also told him that we had been invited to join the French chefs at their dinner that evening. He thought it was quite neighbourly of them. I wasn’t so sure. I suspected it was Chef Lepin’s way of saying, “Look what we can do.” A way of scoring points over the stupid English.

  We got down to work, discussing what meals we should prepare for Her Majesty’s arrival.

  “She will have been travelling for two days and be tired,” Mr Williams said. “A light meal, easily digestible. Maybe a soufflé? A fish dish? A roast capon?”

  “I think she’ll be starving,” Mr Angelo disagreed. “There is no proper food served on the train. No dining car. They have to take it on at stations and keep it hot for her. I think we should tempt her appetite. Make her glad she’s arrived. Give her some of her old favourites. We know she likes cream of rice soup, and whitebait, and lamb cutlets, and we’ll order ices from the hotel confectioner. What else, do you think?”

  As under-cook, I kept silent while the men added dishes, but Mr Angelo turned to me. “And for her puddings?”

  I thought carefully before I answered. “She loves her rice puddings and her mehlbrei, doesn’t she?” I suggested, using the term the queen always used for a German nursery custard. “All those puddings with milk and cream. Maybe I’ll make a cold rice pudding, and custard tarts?”

  “Good idea. Settle the stomach after the journey,” Mr Phelps said. “If her stomach is anything like mine after all those hours on a train, she wouldn’t want stodge.”

  I volunteered to go down to the market to purchase fresh whitebait the day of the queen’s arrival. Mr Angelo cooked a couple of capons to serve cold with a veronique sauce and grapes. And at dinner that night, we joined the French chefs, eating at the kitchen tables. I have to admit it: the bouillabaisse was one of the most delicious things I had ever tasted. The rich broth, tasting of both fish and tomato, and with a spicy tang to it, and the little pieces of fish and seafood coming unexpectedly on to the spoon. And the crusty bread to dip into it? Heaven.

  “How do you prepare the sauce?” I asked. When I found out they started with twelve cloves of garlic, Mr Angelo shook his head. “The queen wouldn’t approve, would she? Nothing that would make her breath smell bad,” he said. “You know she’s always forbidden garlic.”

  “How would she know?” Chef Lepin asked. “If garlic is cooked well, it does not come on the breath.”

  Then he came over to me. “And I saved you a morsel of the octopus,” he said. He stuck his fork into what looked like a piece of brown grilled meat and held it up to my mouth, as one feeds a child. The gesture was somehow so intimate that it startled me. I opened my mouth obediently and felt the explosion of flavour—saffron and garlic and a hint of spiciness and flesh so tender it almost melted. He nodded with satisfaction as he watched my face. “Someday I will teach you to cook octopus like that,” he said.

  I also found that Chef Henri had saved me a sliver of the chard tart. It was delicious, and one would never know that it had a vegetable in it. After dinner I went straight to my room and wrote down the recipe as well as I could remember it. Also the recipe for the fish soup. I had been keeping my own little notebook of dishes I liked, dishes I remembered from the days of Mrs Robbins, and ideas that had come to me to try one day. Maybe I’ll publish my own cookery book, I thought, laughing at this absurd suggestion. Then it struck me that this wasn’t such an absurd idea. A book of recipes from the South of France? How many of those were there in England? I would try to assemble as many recipes as I could, starting with the bouillabaisse and that strange tart made of chard.

  That evening I sat in my room, watching the l
ights of the town twinkling below me, and wrote one of the postcards to Louisa.

  My dearest sister.

  As you can see, I am in Nice. My employer decided to visit the Riviera for her health, and I was lucky enough to be taken to cook for her. Everything is so beautiful. Perhaps you will stop here on your way to Australia!

  Much love, your affectionate sister,

  Bella

  The next day work started in earnest. Her Majesty would arrive the next morning. Supplies were delivered. Crates were unloaded, and our many moulds and saucepans were washed and placed on shelves. Mr Angelo lamented spices and sauces that he hadn’t thought to bring with him, also that he didn’t have his stockpot. “How can I possibly make decent food without good stock?” he asked. “I can simmer veal bones, chickens and vegetables all day, but they are a poor substitute for a stockpot that has been going for twenty years.”

  I was relieved to find that I was not expected to go down to the market for supplies every morning. Frankly I would not have known what was good and fresh and what wasn’t. Especially when I didn’t recognize half of it. I had come to realize that my training had only just started. If I couldn’t identify every cut of meat, every fish, every vegetable, I could never call myself a chef. Maybe one day when Chef Lepin had a little time, I could accompany him to the market, and he could identify those mysterious morsels that lay on meat and fish trays. And I have to confess that the thought of spending time with him was quite a heady one.

  Be sensible, Bella, I warned myself. There is no point in falling for an older Frenchman, especially when you are only here for a little while. I assumed that Mr Roland would come out to take my place as soon as he could walk again, and I’d be sent home. And I realized I really didn’t want to leave. I’d just have to prove my worth. That was a frightening thought. I had seen the quality and intricacy of Mr Roland’s pastry creations, and I was nowhere near that level yet. But perhaps I could learn some local cakes and pastries to surprise the queen. I had heard she did like to be surprised.

  I went to work earnestly that day, knowing that the queen would probably be expecting her usual teatime every day. I made a batch of sweet biscuits, a German recipe she liked that I had made before. Then I decided to make a coffee gateau. I needed to ask Chef Lepin for coffee and chocolate powder, but it came out as light and moist as I had hoped. I sliced the layers and spread the coffee buttercream and whipped cream between them. I was in the process of frosting it and wondering what kinds of decorations I’d find in the kitchen when I turned to see someone standing behind me. It was Chef Lepin.

  “I congratulate,” he said in accented English, then added in French, “Most attractive and pleasing to the eye.”

  “Thank you, Chef. I only hope it tastes as good as it looks.”

  “I’m sure it will,” he replied. “I am impressed.”

  Again I was left feeling uneasy. When he said “pleasing to the eye,” his gaze had left the dish on the table and travelled over me. Surely I was reading too much into this, allowing my fantasy to run away with me.

  The morning of the queen’s arrival, we were up early. Her train was expected at the station at eleven, and she, with her party, would be at the hotel in time for luncheon. We had been handed the official list of personnel. It was quite daunting. All in all, there would be around forty people accompanying her. Two of her daughters: Princess Beatrice and Princess Helena, plus Beatrice’s four small children. Also a young cousin from Germany, Princess Sophie of Mecklenburg, and Sophie’s fiancé Count Wilhelm of Schlossberg-Hohenheim. One rank down from this were the ladies-in-waiting, the gentlemen-at-arms, the queen’s secretary, her doctor, her personal maid, other maids, footmen, a guard of Highland pipers and Abdul Karim, the munshi. I studied this. So the Indian had triumphed after all. Those men with power and influence had not stopped him from accompanying the queen. I had to smile when I looked over the list: How could anyone believe that she was a mere Lady Balmoral when half of the English court was here with her, including a guard of Scotsmen in kilts?

  Early that morning I went down to the market to buy the whitebait. I didn’t spot Chef Lepin this time. I have to confess that I felt a twinge of disappointment about this. I wanted him to approve that I was following his example. I caught the trolley back up the hill with no problem, then set to work on my desserts. I made my rice pudding with slivers of almond, raisins and plenty of cream. I made the pastry and the egg custard.

  By eleven o’clock, all was prepared. The lamb cutlets waited to be grilled, the garnishes ready, sliced beside their pots, the capons boned and lying on their platters. So all we could do was wait. We put on our best uniforms and went outside to join the welcome party, as was expected of us. Hotel employees were also lining up, including the manager, looking very smart in his long frock coat, wing collar and top hat. The sun became rather warm as we stood waiting. I saw that crowds were starting to gather outside the hotel grounds. Some carried Union Jacks.

  At eleven thirty, the first of the wagons arrived, bringing the queen’s furniture from the train.

  “Blimey, would you look at that?” Jimmy whispered into my ear. “She’s brought that ruddy great bed with her. And a wardrobe. Does she think the Frenchies don’t have beds or something?” Then he grinned. “Perhaps she thinks French beds have fleas or bedbugs.”

  He was becoming rather too cheeky, I thought.

  “You should watch what you say, or you’ll find yourself in trouble with Mr Angelo,” I muttered to him.

  “I’m only saying it to you, Helen,” he answered. “We young’uns have to stick together, don’t we?”

  I could have pointed out that I was a fully fledged under-cook and he was only an apprentice, but I didn’t. One should never make enemies where one might need allies. Men from the hotel went to join the footmen who had come on the wagons, and it was rather painful to watch as they tried to manipulate the queen’s heavy bed and wardrobe down from the vehicle and in through the carriage entrance. There was much grumbling and cursing in French. I wondered if they would fit into the lift or if the furniture would have to be carried up a flight of stairs. More wagons pulled up, this time with maids accompanying the baggage. Crates were unloaded and carried inside. But still no sign of the royal party.

  The servants came over to greet us when they saw us standing there. “Consider yourselves lucky that you didn’t have to accompany her,” a footman said. “It was an awful journey. That sea crossing—I thought we were going go down and I was going to die.”

  “So where is the queen now?” Mr Angelo asked.

  “She’s getting an official reception at the train station,” one of the maids said. “She wanted to travel incognito and not be recognized, but there was a band playing and the mayor and town officials standing to attention and young women with arms full of flowers when the train pulled up. Silly old thing, she insists on travelling by her own private train. How can she not be recognized?”

  “Hush, Maisie. It’s not for you to comment on your betters,” a senior footman reprimanded and got a grin in return. Maisie glanced around. “Well, I’d better go in and start unpacking her things. She’ll want it to look like home by the time she gets here. And I’m ready to take a nap. I didn’t sleep a wink sitting up crammed eight of us to the compartment.”

  One by one the items of furniture, her rugs and the crates were all carried into the hotel. The maids and footmen returned to stand in line with us. A carriage arrived, but it was gentlemen of her household. They looked a little the worse for wear after their journey, as if they, too, hadn’t slept last night. They did not join us but went inside. I thought I heard distant cheering. The sound of bagpipes floated up the hill on the breeze, and then we caught sight of them. First came the pipers, striding ahead of the royal carriage. The crowd outside the gates was now considerable. They cheered. “Vive la reine anglaise,” came the chant towards us. And the carriage came to a halt outside the main entrance of the hotel. In it was the queen, her two
daughters and her grandchildren, looking very sweet. Attendants rushed forward to open the door and assist her down. But a second carriage had already arrived. It held the queen’s doctor, Sir James Reid, and the munshi, Abdul Karim.

  “It’s that damned munshi,” I heard Mr Angelo mutter beside me. “He certainly considers himself important these days. No wonder the queen’s gentlemen have had enough of him.”

  More carriages pulled up, one with the queen’s ladies-in-waiting and another with more gentlemen of the household—her secretaries, gentlemen-at-arms and whatever these strange positions were called. I watched with interest. So the queen’s gentlemen, who were aristocrats, had to travel together in a carriage while the Indian had a carriage almost to himself, following the queen. I was sure that did not go down well in palace circles. The munshi jumped down and sprinted to the royal carriage to push the hotel attendants out of the way, prepared to help the queen descend.

  The hotel manager stepped forward, carrying a huge bouquet of spring flowers. “Welcome, Your Majesty,” he said in hesitant English. “A thousand welcomes. Your hotel has been built for you and now awaits you with joy.”

  Queen Victoria gave him a little nod while examining the hotel with a critical eye. “It’s very large, isn’t it?” she said. “And please don’t address me as Your Majesty. Simple Lady Balmoral will do. I wish my stay on the Riviera to be that of an ordinary woman, enjoying the sunshine.”

  “Where is the entrance for Her Majesty?” Princess Beatrice asked in French as the queen prepared to step down. “I understood she was to have a private entrance. She is not able to walk far, you know.”

  “Of course. A thousand pardons, Your Highness,” the manager replied. “A special entrance, direct from the carriage, is to your left. I will lead you there.”

  So the royal party sat down again. The carriage followed him and came to a halt beside a special entrance crowned with a blue awning. The munshi had walked beside the carriage and now helped the queen to descend. She smiled up at him as she took his arm. Then inside she went, leaning on him and using her stick. The princesses followed, first Princess Helena, and following came Princess Beatrice with her tow-headed children holding her hands and her older daughter and son following. I understood that Princess Beatrice had been staying with her mother since her husband, the well-liked Prince Henry of Battenberg, had died the previous year.