Authors: Ada Parellada
Annette has noticed. She’s been watching him and she thinks she sees tears in his eyes. Àlex cries?
“Sweetheart, I’ll help you as much as I can with this new venture,” Carol tells Annette. “When I get back from this trip, I’ll take you out to lunch on your days off. You need to know what the competition is up to. We’ll analyse the menus of the best restaurants, adapt the most successful dishes to Roda el Món and detect the worst errors. It will be like going back to school. You’ll have the best teacher and you have to reward me you know how.” Carol’s speaking to Annette, ignoring the other two. “You’ve got a tough job ahead in Roda el Món, but you’ll do it. Especially if you’re nice to me.”
Annette doesn’t know how to fob off Carol’s barefaced propositions. She’s silent for a few seconds and Àlex, making the most of this, stands
up and offers a loud, clear, very succinct “Goodnight”. Carol ticks him off for walking out on her when she hasn’t finished what she was saying. Àlex, not bothering to respond to her belligerence, takes his plate out to the kitchen and goes upstairs.
“You two aren’t going to call it a day yet, are you?” Carol wants to keep going. “It’s very early and we’ve still got half a bottle, which is the perfect thing for a good chat.”
Òscar looks embarrassed. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get up early tomorrow to finish some work. If I don’t get it done, I won’t be able to come and help you, Annette. I’m sorry, Carol, because listening to you has been really interesting and enjoyable. Besides being a great critic and journalist, you’re an excellent raconteur.”
“Bloody hell, what a short night! You’ve turned into a bunch of bloody goody-goodies and gone all formal on me,” she sneers. “Never mind, Annette and I will finish off the bottle. I want to tell you a few tricks for managing Àlex and getting this moribund place on its feet again.”
Annette’s head feels as if it’s about to explode. It’s getting late, she’s spent the whole day running round and she’s exhausted. Trying to revive a restaurant that’s on its last legs is a complicated business, however you look at it, but when the task includes Àlex and Carol it’s all but impossible. In the last two days, just as she’s setting out on the new venture, she’s been about to throw in the towel several times.
Fortunately Òscar’s encouraged her this afternoon. He at least is a “normal” person in Annette’s view. She thinks that Àlex and Carol are weird, peculiar, incomprehensible people. Yet they’re extremely magnetic.
Annette doesn’t understand herself. She wants to get away from them, but can’t help feeling attracted by their singular, forceful personalities, which are full of inscrutable nooks and crannies and surprises that ambush her when she least expects them. They’re compelling and very dangerous, because they create the need to keep discovering the secrets
they’re hiding, like the plot of a novel that keeps you awake, even if you’re nodding off, until you get to the end. Like a good or bad story, Òscar’s normal and comforting, precisely because you can see what the end’s going to be.
“Come here gorgeous, come and sit next to me,” Carol wheedles. “You look very tired.” Her honeyed tone caresses Annette.
“Yes, I very tired.”
“Cheer up, beautiful, and have a glass of this horrible wine you’ve given me. The worse the wine, the drunker you get. It’ll do you good.”
Annette’s destroyed. She feels alone and absolutely done in. She takes the glass Carol hands her and gulps the wine, which claws at her throat. Carol blathers on non-stop, but Annette’s stopped listening. She’s dizzy and wants to throw up. She folds her arms and rests her head on them, her red hair spreading over the tablecloth. Carol caresses it.
Carol’s drunk and the word prudence has just been erased from her dictionary. She’s aroused and her hand has a will of its own, forgetting about the hair, slipping down Annette’s back, and, finding an obstacle in the bra, undoes it. Annette lets her have her way: it’s not just that she doesn’t stop her, but she finds it comforting. She’s enjoying the warm fingers caressing her nipples. She can feel Carol’s panting on the nape of her neck and, all of a sudden, the tongue describing amorous scenes in the most tucked-away parts inside her ear. She’s surprised to feel that she’s wet between her legs. Carol takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. She leads her upstairs to her room, where they undress. Annette is like a doll, resisting nothing, accepting everything… liking it, asking for more. Carol makes her wait. “Not yet.” She makes her stop. “I want you to get even more excited. I’m the boss here. You’re going to come when I say so, girlie. I’m going to play with you.” Annette squeals and, seeing how excited she is, how she’s begging for more, transports Carol to cloud nine.
Carol leaves early next morning, leaving a naked Annette asleep. What a great night she’s had. “Wow, this woman really turns me on,” she thinks as she drives away listening to Nat King Cole: “When I fall in love it will be for ever / Or I’ll never fall in love.”
Yes, she’ll help the new boss of Roda el Món. She deserves it. This name she’s given the restaurant… yes, it has a certain charm. As soon as they open again she’ll write a good review. Carol is determined to do whatever it takes to support Annette and make her happy. She’s impressive, this woman from Quebec, and it’s more than evident that she has latent lesbian passions.
Now that Carol has decided that this is the start of a long relationship, she’s exultant, happy, because at last she can see herself with a stable partner. About time too! She’s had such a collection of butterflies it’s horrible to think about: married housewives about to celebrate their silver anniversary, intellectuals with airs of Victorian novelists, betrayed women who’ve just come out of failed relationships, adventuresses who’ve used her in their quest for new sensations. She’s had enough of that. She wants Annette, whatever it takes.
Annette’s brain is well and truly befogged this morning, the price she must pay for last night’s wine. A cup of tea will comfort her. Àlex, immaculate in his chef’s uniform, is already at work in the kitchen, cooking up today’s menu.
“Good morning,” Annette says as she makes herself a large mug of tea.
Àlex doesn’t look up from the
champignons
he’s cleaning in readiness for a soufflé, which is exactly the kind of cooking Annette wants to serve in the restaurant – something sophisticated with a faint flavour of mushrooms.
She sits down at the kitchen table, wanting just ten minutes for a quiet mug of tea and to think about the agenda for the intense day lying ahead
and everything that has to be done. She remembers one of her father’s sayings. He was a friendly, cheerful man with all the self-assurance that comes with the solid fortune of a prosperous industrialist. He demonstrated his bonhomie by hugging people tightly and cracking jokes at every opportunity. From time to time he regaled the family with lessons in his theory of life, for which solemn purpose he used a deeper and more serious voice.
Annette found it funny when, with the sober air of a Zen master, her father came out with one of his platitudes, for example: “You don’t need to be a Formula One driver to get where you’re going fast. It’s more effective if you know the way.” Then he’d go on in great detail to explain the precise meaning of his “masterly” words, so that nobody would be left in any doubt whatsoever. You can go a long way on foot. You don’t need a car, but first of all you have to sit down and work out where you want to go and what the aim of the exercise is. If you start by moving, it’s more than likely you’ll go round in circles and end up arriving late, even if you’re a Formula One driver. His cliché is very useful today. Before she starts running, she must sit down and think about what she has to do.
She puts two lumps of sugar in her tea, watches them disappear down into the depths of the mug, then stirs them in with a teaspoon. Her head is heavy and her memories of last night are like the sugar lumps sinking in tea without dissolving. Images of Carol and their conversations have turned into stones in her head, heavy stones dragging her down into the abysmal depths of contradiction, so that, rather than staying afloat, she’s drowning in a sea of doubts, fear and guilty feelings. Why did she do it? Why did she let Carol seduce her? She knows the answer, but having to accept it really annoys her. She was looking for comfort in Carol’s arms, an extremely flimsy excuse that doesn’t absolve her of her stupidity in having got into this mess. Getting involved with Carol is the most dangerous thing she could have done. Heaven knows how
she’s going to get out of this. She’s not a lesbian and has no intention of keeping Carol happy. Not in bed anyway.
Certainly, that was the main reason: wanting to be cherished. The anxiety of not knowing whether she’s capable of running the restaurant, her tense relationship with Àlex, the feeling of helplessness in a country she doesn’t know, the harrowing story of Àlex’s son and the threat that keeps her constantly alert have undermined her capacity for resistance. OK, maybe she’s got an iron will, which is how she likes to be seen, but her outside covering is tissue paper, which tears easily. That’s when water gets in and rusts the metal. Carol’s caresses were balm for her wounds, a delightful hot bath after a hard day’s work in the snow.
“Hey, boss, you’re turning into a dormouse! Wake up! I’m going to make
champignon
soufflé for your menu today as the
cuisine d’auteur
dish. I hope we don’t get any customers with the slightest idea of good food, because they’ll piss themselves laughing,” Àlex says too loudly. He’s trying to snap her out of her reverie.
“
Champignon
soufflé? Good idea!” she responds.
For Àlex, a mushroom soufflé is painfully, insultingly simple. Once the
champignons
are cooked, he mixes them into a béchamel sauce and adds the egg yolks. He beats the egg whites until they’re stiff and gently folds them into the mixture he’s prepared. He carefully butters a few individual ramekins, fills them with his concoction, ready to be kept in the fridge until some customer asks for the dish. He’ll then cook them in a very hot oven until the beaten egg whites take effect and puff up the soufflé. One serving of this dish doesn’t cost more than fifty cents to produce, and they can charge ten times more on the menu. Good business. If they have customers.
This is the Roda el Món’s first day and they’re not expecting anyone. Annette has covered the door with blackboards and signs announcing
a ten-euro menu, a special offer on the occasion of the “reopening”. Customers can choose from ten dishes. The culinary range is diverse and, in Àlex’s view, incoherent. It’s a potpourri menu to please all tastes, with everything from
cuisine d’auteur
to ethnic dishes and grilled meat. There’s no clear line, as Annette’s main aim is to listen to the customer, after which she’ll work out which are the most popular dishes. Then they’ll only cook what sells.
Naturally, Àlex doesn’t agree with this jumble, but he’s resolutely promised himself that he won’t interfere in the “philosophy” of Roda el Món. Let them do what they like and fuck it up all by themselves. He’s just a cook. He doesn’t have to offer an opinion and nobody cares what he thinks anyway.
“You look tired, Annette. Haven’t you slept well?” His tone is spiteful. He heard snippets of the intimate party in Annette’s room. His was a long night of insomnia mixed with unspeakable nightmares in which he was the main ingredient in a dish smothered in tomato sauce. Hordes of carnivorous insects were nibbling at him. This nightmare was mixed up with another one in which some freckled redheads tied him hand and foot and, holding his nose, made him eat red and green peppers, whole and still covered with dirt from the garden.
Discovering that his beloved Annette is involved with his “partner in crime” has only heightened the effects of the nightmare, tormenting him with a feeling of irrecoverable loss. He thought, was convinced, that Annette fancied him, that he’d sown in her a tender seed that, with care and attention, would keep growing until it flowered into brilliant love. That’s what he thought and now he’s wounded at having been as naive as a secondary-school kid. It’s not so much that he’s lost the woman he desires, but he’s fallen into the trap of the illusion of love. He tries to mask his disappointment in irony.
“Yes, I feel tired. I sleep little,” Annette says laconically.
“And Carol? I suppose she hardly slept either,” he insinuates. “She must have left very late.”
“Yes, little bit late.” Annette is serious. “You listen, Àlex. My life it for me. You, your life for you.” She tries to bring the conversation to an end. “Yesterday night you no eat blueberry crumble.”
“You’re right. I didn’t feel like it yesterday. Is there any left? I’ll try some now. It’s not a very beautiful dessert. The colours are too dark and it looks clunky. Do you plan to serve it in the restaurant?”
“Yes, of course. This my favourite dessert. It very gorgeous. You try. Plenty remain.”
Àlex takes a mouthful, savours it, ponders it and finally pronounces, “Your desserts are very good, Madame. They have a certain appeal, so authentic, so rustic. If you’ll let me, we could add some walnut ice cream. Mint sauce would go well with it too. Your style would look very English.”
His tongue has run away with him. He had no intention of showing any interest in the desserts and still less in suggesting any improvements. But he’s blurted it out. He thinks the recipe is very interesting, different, fun, with its juicy base of tart blueberries and the sweet crunchy topping, which holds out so many possibilities. Realizing that he’s been too nice, he finishes with one of his crasser outbursts. “Be careful. I might just throw myself at you any minute. I’m sure you mixed aphrodisiacs into the flour and blueberries and Carol innocently wolfed them down. You’re very cunning.”
Àlex is having a great time shooting his poison arrows. He wants war, which Annette knows all too well, but she’s not going to give him the pleasure. She wants mutual respect and achieving it is an extremely arduous task.
“I very tired. You no sing now when you cook.”
That’s true. Àlex has made his soufflés in silence, which means that for all his sarcasm, something’s bothering him. Annette’s words are
now being replayed in an endless loop in his head: “You no sing now when you cook.” He doesn’t want to be so easy to read, and she’s seen through him thanks to one small detail. He’ll have to make an effort to sing so the boss won’t be able to diagnose his state of mind. He thinks about it, concentrates on the problem, as if working out an equation with three factors dancing round: Laiex, restaurant and Annette. Now he’s got to identify the hidden element, namely what’s bugging him.