Recipe for Disaster (12 page)

'I spent a very happy boyhood in what has to be one
of the most beautiful parts of the world and now I want
to give something back,' explained Mr Hunter. 'At the
moment it has everything going for it but good
cuisine.' (Ouch, Jake – what is it with you two guys?)
'My ambitions are simple: I intend to put Easedale on
the food map.'

Jake knew the place he was referring to. It was so out of his
price range he hadn't even considered looking at it, let
alone buying it. He banged his fist so hard on the table Ken
fell off it into the flour again.

'What's wrong with this guy? Why can't he just leave me
alone? What have I ever done to him?'

'I think he hates the fact that you exist, Boss.'

'Well, surely this bloody country is big enough for the
both of us! If I emigrated to Alaska, he'd follow me. I didn't
know that he had grown up round here. I was never part of
the pack that followed him round at college, lapping up his
every word! Tell me, what the hell were the odds of me
deciding to open a restaurant here, when it could have been
anywhere – the Highlands of Scotland –'

'Too cold, for you. You're a lily-livered Londoner!'

'Well then, some peat bog in Ireland –'

'You know you loathe Guinness!'

'OK, Alaska! Now there's a place big enough –'

'Er, see Scotland – ditto too cold. Also, it's full of sex-starved
fur trappers, I think. You are too good-looking –
you'd be eaten alive.'

'Anyway, it wouldn't matter which country I picked, he'd
find some excuse to follow me there too,' said Jake
morosely.

'Look, it's just competition. You can handle that. You
thrive on it!'

'Yeah, if that was all it was. But this is different. Nastier.
It's a vendetta. You don't know this guy. I don't think he
can let a grudge go, ever. He's got his teeth into me and he's
going to carry on chewing until I'm just little bits!'

'I don't want anyone to eat you up!' wailed Angel.

'Great, that'll be the theme for this month's batch of
nightmares, then,' muttered Tess.

'Sorry.' He picked Angel up. 'No one is going to eat me.
I was just being silly.'

'If they tried, I would stomp on their toes and kick them –'

'Well, I don't think –'

'And then, I think I would hit them in their tummy, like
this!'

'Ow!'

'Sorry about that, Boss. Angelica, come here. Now look
what you've done!'

'No, I'm all right really – nothing a bit of surgery won't
fix. Anyway, maybe I need to toughen up.' He thought
about Alaska. 'It would almost be worth going there if it
meant that I didn't have to see Harry again. But it wouldn't
make any difference. He'd follow me – I know he would –
and we end up slugging it out on some frozen tundra.'

'Er, I think you are over-reacting.'

'No. I'm not. I seriously think if there was only one other
person left in the world apart from me and him, we'd have
a fight over who would give him his last bloody meal!'

The people employed to transform the establishment
formerly known as Lakeside into a top-notch, swanky
restaurant soon discovered there were a number of words
that simply weren't part of Harry's vocabulary. Words like
tea break, accident and – the builder's favourite – delay.
Mention these words to Harry and he just stared with all the
comprehension of an extremely large iceberg, but without
its patience.

Since they constituted the major part of a workman's
language, this might have posed a problem, so Harry
cleared things up.

'Basically, my family is one of the most influential in this
county. If you fuck up, you'll be lucky to find work even
changing a tap washer,' he said, wishing he still lived in the
days when the lower classes called people like himself 'sir',
and touched their forelocks.

Once this simple message got through, the conversion
proceeded with unprecedented efficiency. He was called
Mr Stalin behind his back but everyone soon realised that
the quicker they got the job done, the quicker they could
return to normal life.

Kitchen equipment was delivered, installed and
thoroughly tested by a team who arrived at the crack of
dawn and left after the streetlights were on. Painters and
decorators wielded brushes until their fingers were blue,
and not just with paint, because Harry refused to put any
heating on until there were customers to pay for it.

When the van delivering the glassware crashed into a
ditch to avoid a sheep, Harry rushed to the hospital, not to
enquire after the driver's broken leg, but to find out how
much crystal had smashed.

He went through job applications like a scythe through
corn, weeding out idiots, liars and incompetents with brutal
thoroughness. He fully intended to poach such members of
Jake's kitchen as were deemed worthy of his own, but not
just yet.

His waitresses, Tara and Annabelle, were friends of the
family. Fresh from a season chalet-maiding in Val d'Isère,
they were toned, tanned, fluent in French and stony-broke.
Having been respectively Head Girl and Captain of Games
at school, they were used to dealing with people. They both
agreed Harry was a complete bastard, but as sexy as hell and
planned to sleep with him to pass the time until they could
get back to the Alps. Harry knew all this, but didn't care.
There were plenty more fish from that particular pool.

Ronnie, his second in command in the kitchen, was a
young man with superb cooking skills and zero social
skills. Short and fat, with a complexion like mud, insults
bounced off him like they were ping-pong balls. Ronnie
wouldn't cultivate ideas above his station, because he
didn't have any. But that was fine, because Harry had
plenty of his own. His restaurant was going to be so good
it would blow Jake's crappy place right out of the water.

Having assured himself that all his minions were working
at back-breaking speed, Harry settled himself in his freshly
painted and carpeted office, in front of his state-of-the-art
computer, and began to plan. He had pinched a copy of
Jake's menu and now he scanned it, snorting with derision.
Tournedos Choron
– fillet of beef garnished with artichoke
hearts and filled with asparagus tips – how many times had
that been done, he wondered, but ground his teeth because
it was one of his favourite dishes.

He would sauté his fillets and arrange them in little
tartlet shells filled with a purée of fresh peas.

His chicken dish would be stuffed with a mixture of
lambs' sweetbreads, truffles and mushrooms, bound with a
velouté sauce.

His puddings would include fruit-based soufflés with
hazelnut praline or fresh apricot purée. They were a fucking
pain to make and left staff sweating with terror in case they
didn't rise, but they were very impressive when served.

Looking at a menu wasn't a very good way of sussing out
competition, though. The real test was to eat there yourself.
Jake probably couldn't afford to turn any customers away,
even ones he hated. What could he do if Harry turned up
as a customer? Rush out and start slashing away at him with
a bread knife? No, he would have to grin and bear it, but his
blood pressure would rise to boiling point. And what a
marvellous opportunity for Harry to do a little PR for his
own place at the same time.

He then spent a pleasurable hour walking round with a
face like granite, checking on the progress of the work.
Everyone held their breath and wished they were somewhere
else. This was what Judgment Day would feel like.
Finally, his face cracked into a smile; he opened a bottle of
very cheap wine, passed it round, and they all decided he
was a great guy really.

Another day, another group of bloody customers to be nice
to, thought Kate as she walked into the restaurant. Another
ton of bread to slice and serve, another round of insults to
grin and bear and a fresh set of blisters on her feet. She had
already set up a standing order for plasters at her local
chemist. The life of an undercover waitress was not an easy
one. She should have applied for that reporting job in
Baghdad. She bloody would, when this was over.

Jake looked even grumpier than she felt. He was busy
slicing an onion like he wished it was someone's head and
his happy mood had filtered over to everyone else. Tess was
stirring a sauce and frowning so hard her eyebrows had met
in the middle. Sally was muttering what sounded like a
prayer under her breath as she made raspberry coulis.

Jake had got up early that morning so he could spend
some precious, solitary time thinking about salmon. Would
it be better to serve it impaled on skewers, coated in breadcrumbs
or à la Florentine – with spinach leaves and grated
parmesan? In the middle of this Georgia had rung from
Milan.

She was having a terrible time. She'd had to model a
dress covered with ostrich feathers, which had made her
sneeze on the runway and brought her out in a rash; her
period was late (oh, please God, no, thought Jake) and she
couldn't find a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich anywhere and
Jake knew it was the only thing she could eat to calm her
nerves before a show.

'I hope you remembered to tape
Nip/Tuck
for me?'
Blast!
I knew there was something I had to do to the telly!
'You don't
sound very cheerful – are you missing me?'
I know I should
be – but actually I haven't given you a thought for days.
'I want us
to have a weekend away when I get back.'
Are you mad,
woman? I'm like a mother with a new baby at the moment – I don't
want to take my eyes off this place for a minute
.

Then he felt guilty for always putting his work before his
relationship, though he couldn't think of a single successful
chef who didn't.

He was so tired he'd put on his boxer shorts back to front
that morning and hadn't even noticed until after lunch.
He'd knocked a cup of cold coffee over the keyboard of his
computer, which then developed a demented clicking
noise. He was just debating whether to give in to temper
and throw it out of the window, when he noticed a smell of
burning. This was traced to a batch of bread that Godfrey
had left in the oven. When he took the loaves out they were
still perfectly formed but completely carbonised, like a relic
from the ruins of Pompeii.

When he discovered that Harry had booked a table, he
felt that he would quite like to erupt himself. In theory, all
customers were good and it would be a pleasure to take
money from this one, but Harry was just a slug. Wherever
he went, he left a trail of something sticky and unpleasant.

Godfrey was used to being shouted it – for him it was just
another working day. Tess knew it wasn't personal, but
Jake was aware that Sally trod a fine line between creativity
and collapse. He didn't want to be the one who tipped her
over the edge. His bad mood wasn't her fault. It was his
problem and he should keep it to himself. This was a nice
thought, but his heavy silence was making her more
nervous than a tantrum would.

Kate was pretending she wasn't enjoying watching him
prowl round the kitchen like a hunting panther. He was far
too arrogant to deserve admiration, she decided, when he
looked up and caught her eye.

'For God's sake, tie your hair back. My customers aren't
paying to find it in their dinner,' he snarled.

'What's up with him tonight?' she whispered to Kirsty.

'A man by the name of Harry Hunter. He's reserved a
table for this evening. He's opening a restaurant down by
the lake. Jake hates him.'

'Why?'

'Well, apparently . . .' and Kirsty filled her in.

Kate's eyes widened in shock and, it has to be said,
pleasure. Poor Jake, obviously, but what a great story, and
now here they both were, in the same town, still slugging it
out like a couple of Wild West cowboys, though with
cooking knives instead of guns. With a bit of luck Harry
would be as photogenic as Jake. Good pictures did round
off a story nicely.

Two hours later Harry swaggered into Cuisine like a
prizefighter before a big bout. Of course he was late, a
nicely judged fifteen minutes, just to give Jake a bit more
time to work himself up into a stew.

Jake was wound up like a demented spinning top, and
Kate and Kirsty found it was catching. They also had to
pretend to listen quietly to advice Jake should have been
giving himself.

'No matter how much this guy winds you up – and he will
– do not rise to the bait. You will be courteous and helpful,
however much he provokes you. He is going to have the
best eating experience in his unpleasant and undeserving
little life – whether he likes it or not.'

'So, we're not going to spit in his dinner then?' asked
Godfrey, smirking, and was given a look so black he
retreated to the safety of the dishwasher.

'Listen to me very carefully,' said Jake, through gritted
teeth. 'We are professionals, not half-wits, and this is a
restaurant, not a football terrace. We NEVER, whatever the
provocation, stoop to the level of third-rate canteens. It is
exactly what this idiot is looking for and it is exactly what he
will not get. He is going to be hideously surprised by the total
brilliance of his eating experience here – do you all get that?'

'Yes, Chef,' they all chorused, though as soon as they
were out of earshot, Kate hissed: 'Blimey, I thought this was
just a restaurant, not a bloody scene out of
Gladiator
.'

But Kirsty had been working in catering since she was
fourteen. 'Chefs are all mad. They're all as competitive as
crazy. There's always loads of bitching and back-stabbing in
this business. Actually, Jake is one of the good guys and if
he says this guy is a bastard, then I believe him.'

But Kate, well aware of her other life as a journalist, was
determined to be objective and impartial, and she was
bound to need some quotes from him in the future.

Harry had a very pretty girl with him, whom he almost
completely ignored. He was far too busy scanning the room
for imperfections, like a heat-seeking missile homing in on
its target. Kirsty, as the more experienced, was supposed to
serve him, but she was delayed by a couple at another table
who needed taking through the menu very slowly.

Kate walked over cautiously, annoyed with herself for
being nervous. He wasn't a gangster, for heaven's sake. She
was also incensed that he looked at her like he wanted to
leap on her and gobble her up.

Oh God, she thought, another unreconstructed male.

But then he smiled and his blue eyes crinkled attractively,
and instead of being a bastard, he was terribly polite. It made
a nice change to go through the menu and wine list with
someone who knew what they were talking about. Actually,
he knew more than she did, but he was very nice about it.

'Well, what does he want?' growled Jake as she came in
with the order.

Your head, on a plate, apparently, thought Kate, but she
said: 'Calves' liver salad followed by two bloody fillets.'

She didn't think it was a good time to say that Harry had
pressed her arm with anxious concern and asked: 'They can
do a properly rare fillet here, can't they?' as if Jake were
some callow youth just out of catering college.

Jake had every confidence in himself, but he felt as
nervous as if he were cooking for food critics Michael
Winner and A. A. Gill, and a pack of Michelin inspectors
in one sitting. He knew Harry had deliberately picked
a plain steak because there was nowhere to hide behind
it. Jake also knew his crew were good but that didn't stop
him hovering anxiously over their every move like a
midwife presiding over a difficult birth.

Every leaf of the watercress salad was inspected, and the
calves' liver, which had been briefly introduced to the pan,
was laid on top as tenderly as if it were a baby. He quashed
the fantasy of adding ground-up glass to it and asked Kirsty
to serve it, which really annoyed Kate, who felt she was
quite capable of carrying two small plates to a table without
bringing his restaurant into disrepute.

But there were plenty of other customers to think about
and the time slid by. That was the good thing – the only
good thing – about this job, she thought. There simply
wasn't enough time to dwell on the awfulness of it until it
was all over.

Harry insisted on saying thank you to Jake in person
after his meal. 'Don't bother him – I'll just pop down to the
kitchen.'

'No bloody way,' growled Jake, already shrugging on a
clean chef's jacket. The kitchen was his lair and Harry
would only set foot here again over his dead body. He
would meet him in the arena, sorry, restaurant where
Harry would have to curb his tongue.

The other customers were gratifyingly pleased to see
him. Jake was generally too reserved to do the sort of
walkabout some chefs revelled in, but it was nice to hear so
many compliments. Chefs soaked up praise like a sponge;
there could never be enough of it. He gritted his teeth, took
his hands out of his pockets and then put them back in
again because they looked more relaxed there, and tried to
saunter over to Harry's table, repeating silently to himself:
'Remember we are in public.'