Read Recipe for Disaster Online
Authors: Miriam Morrison
'Ah, so you're a city boy – that's why you work at a manic
pace,' said Kate.
'No, that's because I'm a chef,' grinned Jake. 'OK,
everyone – eat!'
After the meal, when Kate stood up to go, her legs felt
so brittle she thought they might snap. She was going for
her coat with the tottering gait of a very old woman, when
Jake said: 'See you bright and early tomorrow – oh, sorry
– I mean later on today!' There was an unpleasant glint in
his eye. The bastard, he had enjoyed seeing her suffer! It
was only the thought of a very long, hot bath that got her
home.
'Soothing relief for tired muscles' read the label on the
box of bubble bath. Hmm, it was going to have to work
harder than that. What she really needed was another,
better pair of legs.
Easing herself into the bath – yes, there was a huge bruise
on her thigh from that bloody table at the start of the
evening – she made some essential mental notes. Not for
her story – sod that. This was survival stuff.
Then she was asleep.
The next day Kate couldn't believe how sore her feet still
were. She had blisters the size of shallots on both heels and
she had washed her hair three times to try to get the food
smells out of it. After the third go she had given up. She
would have to resign herself to smelling like a frying pan for
ever.
Her legs ached. She was in far too much pain to switch
her laptop on.
Bollocks. That was a terrible excuse, even for her. You
wrote with your hands, not with your feet, and anyway, you
did it sitting down.
Take some bloody aspirin and get to work, she told
herself fiercely.
She had to jot down some impressions of last night before
she forgot them. She wished, actually, that she could forget
them.
She had meant to do some work the night before, but
when she woke up in the cooling bath she knew she was
being way over-ambitious. 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow . . .' she had muttered to herself, before falling
into bed.
But when you are a writer tomorrow really does come.
Deadlines, editor's threats or simple poverty – one of these
will eventually force you to put pen to paper.
But she hated this moment, staring at a blank screen that
should be filled with words.
What was the time? Damn, only ten minutes since she
had last looked. Was there a delaying tactic she could use?
The windows of her flat could certainly do with being
cleaned because, to Kate's knowledge, they never had been.
Her plants, which had long ago learned, as does a camel,
that water was something they wouldn't see much of, were
in their perpetual state of nearly dead. But watering them
would mean getting up and she wasn't going to do that until
she absolutely had to. Besides, if she started watering them,
they were going to expect this sort of treatment all the time.
What could she write anyway? Something along the lines
of how crap a waitress she had been, probably.
She hadn't been in any way prepared for the urgency,
stress and aggression you need just to feed a few people.
Everyone got caught up in it apart from Kate, a pathetic
and incompetent straggler. But Jake was at the centre, the
eye of the storm, as it were, an all-seeing eye that could spot
faults, cook and bark orders all at the same time. It made
her tired just thinking about it, though it was also quite
compelling, like getting hooked by a film or a book you
never thought you would enjoy.
Jake himself was quite compelling, though undoubtedly
a masochist. You had to be to work under such hideous
conditions. But she liked the gleam of humour that ran
under the surface of his tantrums and she liked the fact that
he was so obviously driven. If he looked at his women the
way he had looked at that piece of steak last night, it could
be quite exciting. This, despite being an absorbing train of
thought, would cut no ice with the readers of the
Easedale
Gazette
, though one of the tabloids might take a short piece
on 'Shagging the Chef'.
She sighed, wriggled her toes, just to confirm that they
still hurt like hell, and proceeded to fill her screen with what
she later decided was the biggest load of drivel she had ever
written.
Steak was also on Jake's mind that afternoon. He cradled
the phone against his ear so he could examine a new blister
on his left hand and insult his supplier at the same time.
'Mr Bleasdon, I really don't care if you removed that fillet
off the cow with your own bare hands, I don't care if it was
hand-reared from grass in your own garden. The meat you
sent me was tougher than a rugby player's jockstrap. You
would need teeth made of steel to get through it and the sort
of digestive tract that my customers, being human, simply
don't possess . . . Yes, there is every need to talk like that.
Frankly, I'm surprised you've not heard it before. . . . Well,
there's always a first time, isn't there? . . . But I know exactly
what can be done about it if you –' He waited patiently for a
few minutes until the blustering had died down. 'No, Mr
Bleasdon, this is what you are going to do. You are going to
send me another fillet. It will arrive in my kitchen in half an
hour. It will be free, as a sincere apology for trying to fob me
off with inedible crap the first time. Then it might be
possible for us to continue to do business together.'
Jake then quietly put the phone down on Mr Bleasdon
(family butchers since 1886 and never a customer as picky
as this) and winced. The blister was now a small wound and
about to drip blood onto next week's menu plan. He went
into the kitchen to find a plaster and someone else to shout
at.
Godfrey was usually a safe bet, though he was coming on
in leaps and bounds. There was no way Jake was even
considering telling him that yet. This was partly because his
enthusiasm was bounding way ahead of his knowledge. He
had discovered a recipe for squid that he was dead keen to
try out, so Jake let him. Godfrey had interpreted flash-frying
it (to keep it tender) as leaving it in the pan for twenty-five
minutes while he chopped vegetables. The result was so
tough that everyone said the next time they wanted to eat
their own shoes they would let him know, thank you.
Now Godfrey was busy telling Sally how oysters screamed
in agony when you poured lemon juice on them. 'If they
don't squeal you know they're not fresh,' he blundered on,
while poor Sally looked on in horror. She was as tender and
delicate as the delicious confections she made for dessert
and always had to look the other way when the lobsters
came in.
Luckily Jake's attention was diverted by the sight of Tess,
who looked as though she had been in a fight. Her mouth
was very swollen and she was obviously in pain.
'What happened to you?'
'Toothache. It wasn't that bad this morning,' she said
with difficulty, out of the corner of her mouth.
'Well, go to the dentist then, woman. You're no use to me
like this.'
'Can't.'
'If it's the cost, I can lend you some money,' said Jake,
who couldn't, really, but he would find it from somewhere.
''S not that – it's Angel. No one else to look after her.
Can't take her with me. She bit the dentist the last time we
went, and he had to go to hospital.'
Jake thought about all the work he had to do, trying to
juggle his meagre finances so they would cover next week's
wages and last week's bills.
'Tell you what, drop her off here. I'll look after her. She
won't be any trouble.'
'You still haven't learned anything about kids, have you,
Boss?'
Angel was very pleased to be with Jake. After Tess had
gone he found out why. She had Barbie and Ken tucked
under each arm.
'Barbie's hungry, Uncle Jake.'
'I'm not surprised. With a figure like that, she looks like
she's never had a decent meal in her life.'
'We have to cook her a meal then, Uncle Jake. I want to
do what Mummy does.'
Jake looked round his immaculate kitchen and sighed. 'I
suppose we could do something simple.'
'What?'
'Er . . . we could make surprise lemon pudding.'
'What's the surprise?' asked Angel suspiciously.
'Well, the lemon, actually,' he admitted.
'I'm not surprised by that at all. I want to make
doughnuts. With jam. With lots of jam.'
He could see that this was a plan that had been
fermenting for a long time. 'OK. But on one condition . . .
no, a condition is . . . oh, never mind. You are NOT to go
anywhere near the fryer.'
'But I want to plop them in. Mummy lets me,' she added
craftily.
'Mummy is not here. I am. This is my kitchen. There will
be no plopping. Take it or leave it.'
He waited while Angel debated with herself whether to
give in or fling herself to the floor in a paroxysm of rage and
grief. Greed won.
'Yes, then. But I am the stirrer.'
Given the size of the cook it would be better to do this on
the floor, which was where most of the flour was going to
end up anyway. He would just have to hope the Health
Department didn't pick today to pay him a surprise visit.
They were due one.
He was quite right about the flour. Angel's shiny red
sandals were soon submerged in a sea of white and a fair
amount went up her nose. She sneezed enormously into the
mixing bowl.
'It doesn't matter, does it, Uncle Jake?'
'Well, God forbid anyone should hear me say this, but
just this once, it doesn't.'
Angel stirred with vigour, shouting 'God forbid' at the
top of her voice until he had to beg her to stop.
'Now sit on this stool and don't move. I've got to do the
sizzling bit. Then you can do the jam. . . . Angelica, what
part of "do not move" do you not understand?'
'All of it?'
'Don't be silly.'
'Are they ready yet?'
'No, they have to sizzle a bit longer.'
'Can Barbie watch?'
'Yes, but not there, she might fall in.'
'She could go for a swim.'
'Not in boiling hot fat, she couldn't. Angel, why has Ken
done that?'
'He's died of hunger.'
'Blooming customers – they just can't wait. No, don't
bury him, pick him up out of the flour. . . . Yes, it does look
a bit like a snowstorm when you shake him so please don't
do it . . . attishoo!'
When Jake had stopped sneezing he wiped his streaming
eyes to see Angel trying to eat a half-cooked doughnut off
the floor and Tess walking in at the same time. Tess's eyes
were wide open in shock and horror and she seemed
beyond speech, though her arms were waving frantically.
He could see how it must look to her. She had left her
daughter in his care, her precious offspring, who was now
busily ingesting a number of interesting germs from the
floor, just inches away from a vat of boiling fat. He was a
tough man, but he quailed. She would probably kill him,
after she had handed in her notice.
It was obviously difficult still for her to speak, but she
managed an anguished, 'Oh my God!'
'I know, I know, I'm not fit to be left alone with your
offspring –'
'No, it's not that!'
Then he realised.
Walking in behind her, clad in a very natty Armani suit
(probably not from a charity shop, Jake thought wryly) and
making no effort to hide the fact that he considered he was
slumming it, was Harry.
Jake stared at him, his mouth suddenly dry. This was the
person who had done his best to ruin Jake's career. A
number of fantasies whipped through his head. They all
involved ritual torture and humiliation. They all involved
Harry screaming for mercy. Jake abandoned these with
some regret. He had to deal with reality. He wasn't a young
student any more and he didn't really want to torture
anyone, even Harry. Anyway, he was a successful businessman
now and Harry couldn't hurt him.
'Have you taken up child-minding to supplement your
paltry income from the restaurant?' asked Harry, and he
laughed.
'We're closed, so get out,' Jake said coldly. Not that that
ever stopped anyone in this bloody county.
'Now is that any way to treat an old friend? I met your
lovely commis chef just now . . .'
'No, you didn't! You stalked me all the way from the
dentist's!' said a furious Tess.
'I've never stalked a woman in my life. Never had to,
actually,' snapped Harry, his big smile slipping just a little.
'I've been meaning to call on you for the last few days, but
what with one thing or another . . .' All the time he talked,
his eyes were scanning the kitchen, taking in information,
judging and finding fault.
There was plenty to find fault with. The kitchen, which
only a short time before had been polished to an
immaculate post-shift gloss, was now mostly covered in
flour, and the bits which weren't had blobs of jam sticking
to them. The doughnuts were frying to a deep shade of
burned and Jake was aware that he didn't look his best. But
then, compared to Harry, he never did.
Angel advanced, holding something sticky and revolting
in her hand.
'Would you like a doughnut?'
Harry retreated in horror, his hands clasped protectively
over his suit.
From the safety of the doorway he looked with completely
unconcealed pleasure at his rival. As well as a slight dusting
of flour, Jake was wearing jeans with holes in them that
hadn't been put there by the manufacturer, and his hair had
been very inexpertly cut by himself the week before. He
looked a bit like Edward Scissorhands. Harry would see all
this as a sign of weakness. Maybe it was, thought Jake. Harry
was like a leech, sapping away all your self-confidence.
'I just thought I would call in, now that we are going to
be neighbours, but I can see you are busy.'
'Bollocks – you've never made a purely friendly gesture
in your life!' What did he mean, neighbours?
Harry sighed, saddened but not surprised at the
appalling manners of the lower classes.
'I'll leave you to it. Oh, by the way, please pass on my
regards to your lovely girlfriend. We got on so well when we
met recently. What must she make of all this? Here, I've
brought you something to read – it might interest you.' He
flung a magazine down on the table as if it were a gauntlet,
and left.
Tess covered Angel's ears for a minute while Jake gave
free rein to his feelings.
When he had finished she read out the article in the
magazine before he could chuck it into the hot oil.
Do London's chefs know something about the capital
that we don't? Hot on the heels of Jake Goldman's
defection comes the news that his one-time colleague
Harry Hunter is 'going home'.
He has just bought a very swish little place in the
Lake District. It's in a fabulous location on the edge of
the lake and very near the station so you will be able to
hop on a train at Euston and join him for dinner.