The Sweetness of Liberty James (15 page)

‘To even begin to compete with the other artisans, you will want your own “starter” mix for a good sourdough. Most bakers will have been using the same mix, taking the majority for one batch and then “feeding” the starter again. This means they have even more flavour after years of fermentation. We have had the same one on the go for at least fifteen years. It would have been longer had I not gone away and forgotten to remind the oafs in the kitchen to put it somewhere cool. Damn thing exploded! But I digress.'

Liberty had the feeling there would be a lot more digressions, and wondered how long this would take, but, aware of the time her father was generously bestowing on her she sat, took notes and tried hard to be the perfect student.

There were recipes, all rough estimations. ‘Depends on your flour, the weather, the kitchen, the starter or yeast you use,' was all Alain could say. ‘Practice will make perfect.' And practise they did. He gave lots of advice, all of which she noted down and sorted out into her huge and growing files for later, should anything go wrong.

‘You will need your own signature tart or cake, something special only you make, something people maybe take home to serve as pudding, then their guests ask where they bought it,
and your reputation spreads. So start thinking about that now. And flavours – experiment. Don't be afraid of them. Specialty breads are always popular, but it's ordinary, basic bread that ordinary, basic people want to buy. Fennel and sultana breads are fabulous, but not everyone will buy them. You are not after the masses, but to get started you don't want a lot of waste; it's too expensive. Garlic, onion, and the basic Provençal flavours are wonderful in summer: tomatoes and herbs. In winter, people eat more blue cheese, so I suggest walnuts, as they go so well together. Find a walnut bread somewhere, or walnut and fig.'

‘Fig?' Liberty's nose was wrinkling.

‘Fig. Exactly. It's a wonderful fruit if used correctly. Think along the lines of connecting two seemingly random tastes, experiment with them, read everything in the cookery books endorsed by the great chefs of the world, including mine, of course, and you will eventually produce your own signature. You will be very unlikely ever to invent anything new, as chefs have been experimenting for hundreds of years and by now we know exactly what works, more or less, but your own mix and availability of flours and grains, for example, or the use of local honey in spelt bread, will alter the flavours. If you can introduce local ingredients, the bread will taste all the better for it, as somehow, eating something local gives it a certain je ne sais quoi, as you breathe in the same air which goes into the item you are eating.'

‘Like eating fish and chips outside!' Liberty giggled. ‘Everyone has always told me they taste far better eaten outside. I must go to the coast when I return to England, and see if it's true.'

‘Exactly! In a funny way, that is a really good example.' Alain smiled. ‘Just remember, everyone says eating in the fresh air is better, and it's quite true. The plants around you, the terroir, even the pollution – it all goes into the food you are eating, so in a sense you are getting a third more flavour. It's just like matching the wine to your food. The natural yeasts are great in the south-east of England. They will make your starter dough
taste wonderful, and are a good example. Eat Italian, drink Italian, eat French, drink French is always my choice. Fennel with salami and Chianti from Tuscany, where you have just been – they go well together, because the pigs grew fat on the same land that produced the wine and the fennel plucked for the salami.'

Liberty coughed and showed Alain her empty glass, which he filled for her without comment. She felt exhausted, but in a good way. Her brain was whirring with excitement, both thinking of well-known flavour combinations and imagining new ones that she wanted to try, although Alain kept insisting that in England she would find everything had to be rethought.

‘I have often written down an entire month's menus for the reopening in the autumn, only to get back from my vacation and realise that the game tastes different there, the fruits are not as rich, the dairy has had a different summer and is so much creamier than it is in France or Italy, but perhaps not as sharp, and so on.'

‘So it's all about adjusting to what produce I have to hand and being flexible, I guess,' mused Liberty.

‘Exactly!' said Alain. ‘I know you are tired, and it's the last thing you need to hear, but all the work you did with Antoine, as important as it will be, I feel is over the top now. Paloma gets great ideas in her pretty head, but there is no way you will be able to make a garden to supply your restaurant–' as he insisted on calling it ‘–in the time you want to open, which knowing you will be as soon as possible. We need to be practical, and no dreaming allowed!'

And on it went, father to daughter, teacher to pupil, on into the night, which would end cruelly. Almost before her head touched the pillow, Alain woke her for practical lessons.

13

Liberty's arms ached from hand-kneading kilos of dough a day. ‘Of course,' her father had told her, ‘you will have a machine in your kitchen, but you have to get to know and to understand dough, how it lives and breathes as we do.'

Thankfully, her father's passion was contagious, and she had definitely caught a dose of it. Normal, balanced mortals would have told him just to shut up and go away, as he could talk about food twenty-four/seven. Alain had also been chatting to Paloma.

‘She is still having the most terrible nightmares. The screams from her room are gut-wrenching, and some of the surrounding boats have complained!' He tried to make light of it, but did add, ‘It is lucky I don't let her sleep long. God knows what they would say after eight hours.'

Paloma knew, however, how worried he really was, and said she would speak with Deirdre. ‘I think she should go home, deal with her private life. But I understand her need for a diversion. Give her some time off. You don't want to make her ill on top of everything else!'

The following day Paloma, Alain and Liberty met up for an aperitif.

‘Perhaps that is why you choose such silly girls to bed,' laughed Paloma. ‘So you can concentrate on your first love – food! They can listen to you chattering on, while thinking about their next pedicure, so they don't need to comment. Nor are they able to, of course.'

Even Alain had to admit that one girl he spent a week with
in Amalfi had been an excellent sounding board for menus; so good, in fact, at listening that when, at the end of the week (spent mostly making love and writing down new food ideas on his laptop in the boat's cabin), he had asked her to return to London for a party with him the following weekend, she replied,
‘Quoi?'
It turned out she actually spoke no English at all, not one word. Nor did she understand the language.

When he related this to his daughter and his friend they both fell about laughing, but had to admit that his passion for food had benefited them hugely, to the exclusion of others who took no interest in it.

‘But how can people ignore what fuels them and gives them the energy to get through their day?' asked Liberty.

‘You, my girl, have done exactly that for years.' Liberty's father looked at her, feeling grateful. Both he and Paloma were thankful that her sense of what was so important to them both had returned.

Liberty sat back and thought about that statement.

‘I suppose I have,' she riposted. ‘But my family have always been so immersed in food, either writing about it or cooking it, and I think I have just not appreciated its importance. But now I do, and I am living the dream. So I am going to cook supper for you both. Won't be long!' And with that she swept off into the kitchen to make an omelette.

Paloma and Alain looked at each other. Both were thinking the same thing. This time a year ago Liberty was simply another stunning young woman, who took people's breath away with her captivating eyes and grace, and who could hold a conversation with anyone from the local dry cleaner to the Greek ambassador, as she treated everyone with empathy and intelligence. But now she gleamed, as though her pilot light had been switched on. Like a young horse turning from a riding school hack into a thoroughbred, her eyes sparkled and her skin gleamed. Passion flooded through her, and it was obvious. Her interest in food had only increased her womanly curves rather than adding
unsightly pounds to her hips, and the hard work in the kitchens had given her a bit more strength and form.

Liberty soon rejoined them, bringing plates that held
omelettes aux fines herbes
, and a green salad tossed with olive oil and lemon juice in an earthenware bowl. They ate quickly and silently, Paloma because she had to return to her kitchen, the others because Liberty was terrified of the criticism bound to flow from Alain's mouth, and Alain because he was amazed at the perfect seasoning and delicate flavours on his plate.

‘You do have a natural ability to taste what you are cooking,' Alain said when he laid down his cutlery and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘You can add a pinch of something here and a sliver of that there, until the combination of flavours in the mixture is exactly right. Not everyone can do that. Not everyone has the ability or the need or the passion to do it. I have no qualms at all about your cooking. You already have business skills, so I say, go ahead with your venture. You need to find your property and to prepare it for your opening, and I need to get back to work.' And Alain hugged her.

‘You also have to find somewhere to live, and to sort things out with Percy,' said Paloma tentatively.

For the first time since she had left her husband, Liberty suddenly felt very frightened. ‘I have to go back,' she said in a small voice. ‘I know. I have to. It's time.'

‘Call your friends and your mother, and go and stay with her,' advised Paloma. ‘It is definitely not a good idea for you to live in a hotel on your own for the time being. You should see your in-laws, too. You were always very close to them, and they deserve your explanation, because goodness knows what Percy has told them about your split.'

‘They may not want to see me,' replied Liberty.

‘No need for negatives. You don't know that until you phone and ask if you can go to visit. You have never been a coward, so don't start now.'

Paloma felt as though she was losing a daughter. She felt the
tears pricking the back of her eyes, so instead stood up and suggested having ‘a small party' to send her off. ‘I haven't had a party since I was sixty and we decorated the restaurant and garden with Chinese lanterns.'

Liberty tried to insist she didn't want any fuss made over her, but Paloma only replied, ‘Do let me, darling, for my sake if not for yours. You will be very much missed by all of us. It has been my great pleasure having you to stay for a few weeks.'

14

Alain and Liberty flew home after a very late party, into that grey that only Heathrow can reflect after one has returned from sunnier climates. Each thought ‘Why do we love England so much?' as they gazed out of the plane window. But by the time they were ensconced at the Ritz by a roaring fire, eating dainty sandwiches and drinking champagne, they were smiling again.

Liberty felt awful for taking her father away from The Dark Horse, knowing he felt it unfair for people to turn up, expecting him to be behind the stoves. She also felt bad for heaping herself on to Paloma. She relayed her apologies, but he simply said, ‘Don't be so silly. We were only too pleased to be the ones you could ask for help. Your mother will be fuming, but I know Paloma has spoken to her and explained that I insisted on turning up.'

However, he had to be up and out at four the next morning, so as to drive back to Fickledown, his village, his true love, his kitchen, to throw a bit of a tantrum to show he was back in charge. He admitted to Liberty he was a little miffed at how well they seemed to cope without him. ‘All these years of sweat, tears and never a day off, and they simply coast along as though I'm not needed!' Liberty knew he had an excellent staff of sous-chefs, commis chefs and a whole pastry section, but she understood he needed to feel at the helm, to be in control at all times. She smiled at her dear daddy and said, ‘You are a control freak, but I am so proud of what you have achieved. If I can manage to accomplish a fifth of what you have done, I will be pleased.'

Alain took her hand and explained, ‘As much as I look forward to my time off, I crave and miss the buzz and excitement of the
kitchen, the mad rush of my days, just as much as the day I opened the restaurant all those years ago.'

Now he was picking up messages every five minutes and sending emails and texts on his BlackBerry. He made sure supplies were ready for delivery, checking with his restaurant manager and sommelier, who had reported several thefts over the past weeks. It never failed to amaze him how much people would remove, from whole place settings, to ashtrays, to glasses. Once a painting had disappeared from the hallway. Alain had assumed it had been taken by a member of staff, until after an embarrassing and upsetting police investigation it was proved it must have been a customer. After several waiting staff – and good ones are a little like hens' teeth – had left, an expensive alarm system and CCTV cameras had been installed .

‘I can't believe that people are happy to pay £500 for lunch for four people and then steal a loo roll, but it happens,' he had once explained in an interview.

Liberty sipped her champagne and watched her father go red in the face as he heard the news that, due to inclement weather, some of his fresh produce was stuck in a refrigerated lorry somewhere in the Channel, and his garlic from the Isle of Wight hadn't been delivered for the garlic soup to be served as part of the amuse-bouches at tomorrow's lunch. She realised how attention to detail was so important, and how much she would have to maintain control of every single tiny thing if she were to obtain anywhere near the results her father did, year after year. She didn't want a Michelin star, but she wanted to give her little place and her customers the impression that she was capable of one, if that was what she desired!