Recipe for Disaster (8 page)

Jake had briefly considered having an opening night
party because his bank manager told him he should. Then
he realised Mr Biggins couldn't run a restaurant if his life
depended on it and he should go with his gut feelings on
this. He wanted the food to speak for itself. So he looked
sternly at Godfrey.

'I don't want to see a balloon or streamer anywhere near
this place and I am prepared to strip-search you if
necessary.'

'Don't worry, none of us wants to see him naked either,'
said Kirsty, pretending to shudder.

'But why not?' asked Godfrey, who was always in search
of a party and free beer.

'Restaurants – good ones – are about having a sublime
eating experience and that is what we are going to
concentrate on. They are not about gimmicks.'

So Cuisine opened quietly, without any fanfare, one
Friday night. The only thing Jake did was make sure that
the menu went up well in advance. People were seen licking
their lips as they scanned it and because Jake hadn't put
anything in the local paper, they were intrigued by the
slight air of mystery that surrounded the place.

The first night they were practically full, but Jake wasn't
entirely happy.

'I know everyone loved it, but as far as I could tell they
were all tourists. We might never see them again.'

'There are plenty more where they came from, Boss,'
said Tess.

'Yeah, but this place will have no heart if we can't get
regulars in, and that means tempting the locals.'

'They are a cautious lot when it comes to food. Give them
time. I'll get my dad to spread the word,' said Godfrey.

'What? On the fells! You said he was once up there for a
week without seeing a soul,' scoffed Kirsty.

'That's enough, you lot. We've made a sound start, so
well done, everyone!' Then Jake jumped out of his skin and
swore, because Godfrey had just let off a party popper.

The owner of the London restaurant where Harry was
head chef was a businessman, not a cook, which meant he
was always having ideas about making more money, usually
at the expense of the food.

He had popped in to see Harry in his office that morning
to discuss taking the menu in a new direction.

'New?' echoed Harry in derision, his lip curling with
barely concealed contempt. 'Fusion cooking is about as stale
as turkey in January.'

'Some of our female customers have commented that the
food, though absolutely top notch, of course,' he was rather
frightened of Harry, 'is a trifle rich. I was wondering about
some lighter alternatives, a menu that would evoke the sunshine
and healthy lifestyle of the Southern Hemisphere.'

He was hoping it would also be lighter on the bills.

'Our female customers don't come here to eat, and when
they do they chuck it up half an hour later,' hissed Harry.

Mr Thomas shifted awkwardly in the extremely hard
chair Harry had found for him. There was no doubt Harry
was a brilliant chef, but it was always touch and go whether
he actually remembered he wasn't the boss. The restaurant
was successful – there was a two-month waiting list for a
table, for a start – but as his accountant had reminded him
only that morning, profits were still slim. Mr Thomas didn't
care if his customers chose to vomit their dinner up, as long
as they kept coming in and paying.

Harry stared at him while his head seethed with insults.
This was what happened when you worked for someone.
You were prey to every stupid idea they had, and some of
this creep's were positively cretinous.

He couldn't just leave Harry to get on with it, could he?
At least once a week he would shuffle into Harry's orbit with
another 'bright idea' about generating more cash. This of
course was always disguised as 'not getting stale' or 'trendsetting'
or some other piece of crap culled from ten minutes
of watching Jamie Oliver on the television, in between
shagging his mistress. Shit, she probably lay there wishing
he was Jamie Oliver.

Harry didn't give a crap about people, but he cared
passionately about his food. He was tender, understanding
and respectful towards ingredients – it was the animals that
talked that he had a problem with.

Harry smiled, displaying all his perfectly capped teeth,
which made Mr Thomas even more nervous. He should be.
Harry was having a delightful fantasy about shoving this
prick head first into the kitchen's biggest stockpot. If the
wanker wanted to talk food with him, let him experience it
close up first.

He was still smiling later as he walked through the
double doors into his kitchen, but that was in expectation of
finding someone he could pick on. Like Caligula searching
the senate for a victim to chuck into the arena, his eyes
roved thoughtfully over the rows of bent heads. Everyone's
white chef's hats were bobbing like snowdrops in a breeze.
The thing about working for Harry was, even though you
were utterly convinced you were doing everything right,
there was still a good chance of a bollocking so fierce your
teeth would rattle.

Harry had mentally rewritten the Ten Commandments
to keep him on track in his career. He had found he only
needed two:

1. Use only the best ingredients.
   
2. Rule through terror.
   

He walked behind his staff, silent as a peckish panther.
They quaked in their clogs.

Now his gaze came to rest on the pastry chef, who was
trying to make exquisitely tiny lemon tarts, but his hand was
shaking so much it slipped and the mixture blobbed onto
the work surface. Harry slammed his fist on the counter so
hard everyone thought their fillings would fall out. 'What's
the matter – got Parkinson's disease?' he enquired nastily.

'Yes, Chef. I mean, no, Chef,' stuttered the poor man.

A commis was making a sauce to go with that night's fillet
steak. The recipe had been scalded into his brain the week
before. In this kitchen you followed the boss's orders down
to the last peppercorn. There was no room here for
hesitation, deviation or imagination.

Infuriatingly, he was getting it right. Harry's eyes
snapped like an angry bull. He knew he would only feel
better when he had head-butted someone.

He picked up a bread roll fresh from the oven and bit
into it. He chewed in silence, then grabbed the baker by the
scruff of his neck and spat it out, hitting him on the nose.
'This tastes like a dog turd, you tosser – start again.' He
tossed the rest of the bread, including the tray, into the bin
and stalked out.

Behind him, everyone stroked their knives lovingly,
thinking about where they would like to put them.

Feeling marginally better, Harry rang for coffee and
settled down to the latest edition of
Hotel and Caterer
. He
scanned the jobs column first but no one was prepared to
match the extortionate sum he had managed to screw out of
Mr Thomas. Then he flicked back to 'Table Talk', the gossip
column. There was often something about him there.

Blah, blah, blah, stuff about yet another chef who was
making a television series. His lips curled in scorn at people
who were prepared to prostitute their talent like that. What
was even more annoying was that no one had approached
him with a similar offer. He was far more photogenic than
this guy, and a better cook. Harry came to the conclusion
that it was just because the man was married to some B-list
celebrity who was in that idiotic soap
Country Matters
. When
she got written out, she'd probably never find another job
in television.

His eyes flicked restlessly down the page.

Word at the stove has it that gastronomes are pulling
on their wellies and hiking to the country. The Pied
Piper responsible for this exodus is Jake Goldman,
who until recently was wowing palates at Brie.
Unfortunately, the Jubilee Line doesn't go as far as his
new restaurant, Cuisine, which is way up north in a
little town called Easedale. Now you've probably not
heard of it yet, but we reckon it will soon become as
well known as Bray. We ate there last week and have
only one thing to say – sublime. Jake has had a very
mixed career but . . .

but Harry couldn't bear to read on.

There was a bellow of rage so loud the pastry chef quit on
the spot.

Harry flung his cup against the wall, his heart as black
and bitter as the tepid coffee dripping down next month's
staff rota.

'The bastard! The slimy piece of shit! The . . .' Expletives
failed him. He was so incandescent with fury he could
practically feel his hair sizzling.

Harry only had to hear Jake's name and he was right
back at the time of his greatest (well, only) humiliation. So
much time had passed, yet he could still remember what it
had felt like to come second. It was like a chronic disease –
it was never going to get any better. Whatever he did to
Jake, the bastard was going to bounce back, like some
indestructible jack-in-the-box. Now, to add insult to injury,
he had had the bloody nerve to bounce right into Harry's
home territory! Harry sucked air deep into his lungs to get
over the shock.

Then another thought struck him, even more teeth-grindingly
infuriating than the first. Jake was now his own
boss. No more kowtowing to someone else's half-baked
ideas about fusion bloody cooking for him! He was bound
to be stony broke and on the edge of a nervous breakdown,
but he was master of his own fate, king of the kitchen. Harry
could feel his veins flooding with corrosive envy. He might
be able to make his staff pee in their pants with terror, but
he was still at the mercy of his boss's curdled ideas about
cooking.

He sat quietly, forcing himself to let the rage seep away
so he could think more clearly. He thought affectionately of
his aunt Agnes, not because he loved her, but because the
old boot had died last month and left him a wad of money.
This had been earmarked for a Porsche, but maybe there
were more imaginative uses for it?

He smiled to himself. What Jake could do, he could
certainly do better.

Kate, lying in bubbles, thought about her story. She had
been mulling over it for several weeks, but now, with
Jonathan backing her that she was on to something, she
could feel the excitement welling up inside her. The first
thing to do was get a job as a waitress. Well, that wouldn't
be difficult. This town was full of restaurants and it wasn't
exactly something you would need a qualification for.

Eventually hunger forced her out of the bath. Padding
into the kitchen of her light airy flat, she peered hopefully
into her fridge. Oh dear. A lot of research would be
necessary to convince someone that she knew anything
about food. Inside there was a mushroom that had been
there so long it had welded itself for ever to the back panel.
Next to that was a pack of bacon. Was it the fridge light or
was it really giving off a greenish glow? And how long had
those eggs been there? Kate was sure there was a method
for determining whether eggs were fresh, but she was
vague on the details. If they floated in water, were they
rotten, or was it the other way round? Really, the only
culinary knowledge she possessed was a nodding
acquaintance with salmonella.

Kate toyed with the idea of ordering a pizza, but judging
by the stack of takeaway boxes piled up by the bin, she'd
had a few too many of those recently. Basically, they were
just bread and cheese, weren't they? Surely one needed to
supplement one's diet with other food groups occasionally?
While flinging on a T-shirt and a skirt, she realised she
wanted company as well as dinner, so she rang Lydia.

Lydia was the editor's secretary and her best friend.
Five foot ten inches tall, sometimes blonde and sometimes
not, as the mood took her, she drank mostly by the pint
and smoked Marlboro Lights by the carton. Lydia often
claimed that the only thing she was ever prepared to give
up was the belief that men could act like decent human
beings. Kate called it tough love, as men tended to swarm
to Lydia like lustful lemmings, regardless of how she
treated them.

They had been friends ever since one excruciatingly
awful office party, when they got blindingly drunk and
discovered a mutual contempt for people who photocopied
their own bottoms because they thought it was funny.

Lydia was also the newspaper's agony aunt, a job no one
else in the office was prepared to take on, on the grounds
that it wasn't proper journalism and therefore beneath
them. Lydia said this wasn't a problem: 'If being a proper
journalist means I have to look like you, you scruffy lot,
then I'm delighted to be counted out.' She wrote extremely
well, with great imagination and verve, which was because
she made up most of the queries.

'Honestly, darling, what would you rather read over
your morning cuppa – boring crap about how to get a stain
out of a tea towel or the really thrilling life history of a
transvestite farmer who insists on feeding the cows while
wearing his wife's knickers?'

'Put like that . . .' giggled Kate, then became serious.
'Honestly, I know you think us hacks are a scruffy
bunch, but with your talent you should really think about
giving up being a secretary and taking up writing for a
living.'

'What, and have to go to work at weekends? You must be
joking,' retorted Lydia, who maintained she needed
regular days off to have her nails done and indulge in some
abuse of men.

Now Lydia picked up the phone on the third ring.

'I'm not disturbing you doing anything important, like
housework, for instance?' asked Kate, and they both
snorted with laughter. Lydia was always stunningly turned
out, while her flat looked like the scene of a burglary. Kate
maintained that if someone ever did break in, it would take
them so long to find anything, there would be ample time
to call the police.

'How the hell do you live like this?' she asked, the first
time she had gone back there.

'Well, if it gets too bad I just take out my contact lenses.'

Half an hour later Lydia knocked at Kate's door. She
went to answer it with a grin – Lydia's dress sense was
always something else.

Today she was six-inch heels, black footless tights and a
top from Topshop that was meant to be knee length but on
Lydia skimmed her thighs in a jaw-dropping manner. It
was also shocking pink.

'You are going to clash horribly with my hair,'
complained Kate as Lydia followed her through to the
sitting room.

'Oh, for goodness' sake, I keep telling you, life is not
about being co-ordinated,' said Lydia, marching in and
looking round with great disapproval.

To anyone else, the flat would seem perfectly pleasant. It
had cheerful light blue walls, warm wooden floors and was
completely uncluttered, apart from the shelves full of
books. Lydia thought it was monastic and that it showed
Kate was repressing something vital in her emotional life. 'I
see things haven't changed round here. You should really
see someone about that. I think you've got issues.'

'Do you mean that pile of old copies of the
Guardian
?
Seriously, I think you are talking rubbish. I cannot bear
mess around me and I certainly can't work in it.'

'Yes, but life shouldn't be like that, not at our age. There
should always be something slightly out of control and
dangerous about it,' said Lydia, her eyes gleaming.

Kate sat down to pull on a pair of boots. Then she
checked her freckled nose in the mirror, decided it wasn't
too shiny and that she was ready to go out.

'You know your tights are laddered, don't you?'

Kate craned her neck to look round and nearly fell over.
'Oh, bother! Well, I can't see it so I'm going to pretend it
isn't there. I need a large drink and some food more
urgently than a change of clothes.'

Lydia sighed. 'What really annoys me is the fact that this
"I couldn't care less" attitude really suits you. You are far
too low-maintenance.'

'I prefer to maintain myself, actually,' said Kate.

They walked down the street and into the first bar they
found.

Kate took a huge slug of her wine and said: 'So, whose
lives are you interfering with now?'

Lydia took an envelope and a pair of glasses from her
bag.

'Since when did you opt for glasses over contact lenses?'

'I haven't. I just like the way these make me look
sometimes.'

'You look like you're getting ready to spank someone.'

'I know,' said Lydia smugly. 'Anyway, to business. I am
thinking about inventing a woman who is having affairs
simultaneously with three men. There are so many problems
associated with this that I think it could run and run.'

'How will it end?'

'Oh, the poor woman will be so drained by what I am
going to put her through, she will probably decide she's
gay.'

'And does any reality ever filter through to your problem
page?'

'Funny you should ask. I am just about to reply to a
woman who's been having an affair with a married
colleague.'

'Save your ink – it's completely over,' said Kate.

'I'm thrilled for you, honestly I am. It's not that I don't
like Jonathan – actually, I don't really like him, but that's
irrelevant – I just think you weren't doing each other any
good. How do you feel?'

Cautiously, Kate prodded her feelings. 'Actually, I feel
free,' she said slowly. 'A bit lonely, but not in a bad way. And
I think I've got a new project to take my mind off things so
that will help.' She told Lydia about the idea for the 'Chefs
Uncovered' story, as she was now thinking of it.

'Brilliant. Chefs are supposed to be very good with their
hands, aren't they?' Lydia winked knowingly.

'Going to bed with a chef is the last thing on my mind at
the moment, Lydia,' Kate sighed.

'Well, it shouldn't be the last thing. Obviously for a career
woman and a feminist it shouldn't be the first thing either,
but it should always be there, a sort of permanent memo to
self – you know, number four on a to-do list: must have a
shag.'

'I'll bear that in mind.'

'Aim higher this time. Jonathan is a clever man, but you
are brighter.'

'It
was
a bit of a turn-off to discover that the sole topic of
his post-coital conversation was the endlessly fascinating
subject of himself,' said Kate ruefully. 'The thing was, I
think I was drawn to him because we are both obsessed by
our careers. But maybe that was the only thing we had in
common.'

Lydia ordered tequila shots. 'A toast – to a new start!'

'Toast! That reminds me, I'm starving!'

'Shut up and drink up. We can eat later.'

'Come on – let's find somewhere with a menu.'

Unfortunately the next bar didn't serve food. While Kate
was finding this out, Lydia had spotted a karaoke machine
and insisted they waited for her turn.

'But no more shots. I shall stick to wine, so much more
sensible,' said Kate.

They ran into some friends and spent a pleasant hour
chatting. Then Lydia got up, put on her glasses, peered
down at the microphone and gave the bar her unique
interpretation of two Shirley Bassey numbers.

'That was word perfect!' said Kate when she had sat
down to huge applause. 'Not really note perfect, but with
your legs, I don't think anyone cared.' For some reason she
found this very funny and laughed so hard she started
choking.

'That wasn't your glass of water you've just downed in
one, that was wine,' said Lydia.

'I know!' said Kate, now very drunk. 'Come on, time for
a change of scene.'

They said goodbye to the girls and, as Kate weaved her
way between the tables, it occurred to her that she hadn't
actually managed to eat anything yet. As an eating companion
Lydia was a useless choice. Her idea of a healthy diet
was coming home to three gin and tonics and a packet of
Twiglets. When she went out for a meal she spent most of
her time smoking and eyeing up the waiters. Really, for her,
a good restaurant was an ashtray and a man who wore an
apron well.

'I'm in charge of this evening now,' said Kate, staggering
as the fresh air collided with her large intake of wine and
tequila. 'Now we really have to find a mule . . . I mean, a
meal.' Bloody hell! How much had she drunk? She began
counting on her fingers, but kept forgetting which drink
she was up to. Rather blurrily she began scanning the street.
'Restaurant at ten o'clock – look!' and she grabbed Lydia,
who was trying to reapply her lipstick.

'Oops, sorry. Don't think it's meant to go down your
chin.'

Lydia looked at her sternly. 'Honestly, you are such a
lightweight.'

'I've drunk about half a barrel of grapes on a empty
stomach, that's why. Do you think that counts for my five
fruit and veg a day? she said, tripping over the kerb.
Her boots suddenly felt too big and she started to giggle
again.

The menu outside the restaurant, which was called
Cuisine, seemed to be written in a language she wasn't
familiar with and the letters just wouldn't stay put on the
page.

'Yum. Dover shole baked with spinach. No, that can't be
right, I mean – spole – no . . . oh hell, let's just go in.'
They sat down at the bar, or, in Kate's case, tried to.
Eventually Lydia managed to hoist her up.

'Where's the manager? I'd like to make a complaint – his
stools are too slippery!'

The young guy behind the bar said his name was Hans
and could he help, but Kate had lost interest and was trying
to focus on the menu.

'My God, it's expensive here!'

'That's because you are seeing everything, including the
prices, in triplicate,' explained Lydia patiently. Her diet of
gin and Twiglets had made her fairly resistant to getting
drunk.

Completely cross-eyed now, Kate was trying to read a
notice pinned up behind the bar.

'Giraffe wanted,' she read out laboriously. 'What do they
want a giraffe for? They'd have a hell of a job fitting it in the
oven, y'know.'

'Staff. Not giraffe.' Lydia was becoming aware that Kate,
like all drunks, was talking far too loudly and people were
glancing their way.

Kate nodded solemnly. Leaning over the bar, she said in
what she clearly thought was a quiet tone: 'Hello, Hansel . . .
Gretel . . . oh, whatever. Do you know that your eyes are
tiny little pinpricks in your face? I think you had a
whopping great joint before coming to work. But why? Is
your boss a beast? Does he maintain discipline through the
use of a rolling pin? Does he make your life hell?'
Automatically, she felt in her pocket for her notebook.

'No. I save all that for idiotic customers,' said an icy voice
behind her.

Kate swivelled round, a bad move. A glass skittered onto
the floor and she lost her balance. But just before the
ground rushed up to make contact with her nose, the man
grabbed her and hoisted her upright. For a minute, their
faces were so close she could have kissed him. Wanted to,
she decided. OK, his eyes were looking absolutely furious at
this moment, but they were very nice eyes, even though
they were shadowed with tiredness. Furious, but gorgeous
– a dazzling combination. Oh God, she hadn't said that out
loud, had she?

'Are you going to go quietly, or do I have to shove you?'
said the man, looking as if he would much prefer to do the
latter.

Kate grabbed Lydia's arm and said, 'Please.'

'Absolutely,' said Lydia, who completely understood this
to mean, roughly: I am as drunk as a skunk – get me out of
here, now!

'Thank you so much . . . delightful menu . . . wonderful
ambience . . . will certainly be back. Or not, whichever you
prefer . . . I mean, it's absolutely up to you,' she mumbled
as she was dragged out.

Lydia's arm wasn't enough, so she clasped the nearest
lamppost with fervour. 'I feel sick. Too much drink and
lusht – sorry, mean lust. He was stern but sexy. I like men
like that. Don't you agree? Why is that, then?'