Vanilla Salt (13 page)

“I myself no can. I need waiter, chef… No, I no can pay!”

“You don’t need to take anyone on for the dining room. Well, maybe someone at weekends, but not on a permanent basis. Well, yes, you’ll have to get a chef. What about Àlex?”

“This no! Never!” She’s indignant. “Àlex he go too much far.”

“He went too far,” Òscar corrects her.

“OK, OK. I say Àlex he no can enter Antic Món. His behave it very bad.”

“Well… What about it? Do you think you can take it on?” Òscar presses, trying to drag a definite “yes” out of her.

“I no able to take this. But nice idea.”

“Take it on. Repeat after me: ‘I can’t take it on.’ That means you feel you can’t meet the challenge. No one’s accusing you of taking anything. Right, so tomorrow I’ll go looking for Àlex and tell him about our plans.”

“I no can to take on it.”

“Nonsense! You’ll do a great job. Listen, Annette, you’ve been here three months now, you haven’t found a job and it’s very unlikely that you’ll find one. I hate having to remind you, but you’re of a certain age and also without a work permit. You might get a few odd jobs, waitressing in a bar, giving private English classes, cleaning and so on, but nothing serious or interesting. This restaurant is a one-off chance for you. As for the paperwork, don’t worry about that. We’ll find a way. But we can make a start: I buy it. You work there. We only need to speed up the legal side of things.”

“You no say
me
. You say
you…
” Annette pleads.

“What’s this? You’ve lost me. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“You no say Àlex about me. Say
you
buy restaurant. No say nothing of me.”

“Right, right. OK, I’ll do that. Does that mean we can go ahead?”

Òscar breathes easier. Annette seems excited about the project of reopening Antic Món, which means she’ll soon leave his flat and he can
have the peace and quiet he’s longing for. Paying fifty thousand euros for the restaurant to get rid of Annette is a very high if not inordinate price. It would have been cheaper to rent her a flat or find her a job.

But this isn’t the only reason he wants to buy Antic Món. The fact is, he’s grown fond of Annette and, then again, he feels sorry for Àlex. Òscar is well acquainted with Àlex’s career as a chef and admires him. Like most foodie bloggers he’s made a legend of him and has glossed over his bad behaviour: a chef, if only because of the fact of sweating over a stove, must be free of any guilt. However much he “disguises” it as self-interest, Òscar’s real aim in buying Antic Món is altruistic. It’s his particular way of helping Annette and Àlex. He’s sentimental, a romantic, and it’s the least he can do. Yet he still feels mean, bothered by his conscience. He can’t stop thinking that he’s kicking Annette out and, moreover, paying dearly for it.

Àlex rarely goes to Antic Món, except to sleep, and that’s hard enough. He spends his days in Barcelona. Frank often phones him to update him on the restaurant situation, but it’s always the same thing: no news. Very few people have called and nobody’s really interested. This isn’t the time for buying anything, least of all an unsuccessful restaurant.

“Someone called today and he seems serious.”

“Do whatever you think is best,” Àlex responds listlessly.

“Come on, Àlex!” Frank chides him. “It strikes me that you couldn’t care less. You say you want to sell the place and the only thing that’s occurred to you is to put a tiny sign at the door. You haven’t made a single phone call yourself or spread the word among your colleagues. Don’t you want to sell it? How will you support yourself? Maybe you’ve got a stash tucked away under your pillow. I don’t know how you keep going, man. You must be down to your last cent.”

“I don’t need much to live on. And how I survive is none of your business. Right now, I’m feeding my spirit, which was very much on the lean side. And when I’m in danger of dying of hunger I can still find a few mummified edibles in the Antic Món freezers. Who cares? Anyway, who called?”

“Some guy named Òscar. He says he’s a friend of yours and is complaining because you don’t pick up the phone at the restaurant. Òscar ‘the blogger’, he told me to tell you.”

“Bloody hell! Òscar? How come he wants to buy the restaurant? He must have gone mad. I’ll phone him right now.”

“Remember, if you sell it, you owe me a commission,” Frank reminds him.

“So the reek of money’s got to you, has it?” Àlex taunts.

“You know what? I’ve had a gutful of you and your bad moods. Byebye. Go your own way. Forget the commission. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

Well, well, well, another name scratched off his measly list of friends. So what. He’s certainly not going to try to patch up the damage he’s just done to his friendship with Frank.

Àlex and Òscar are sitting at Table 3 in the Antic Món dining room. They’re ill at ease. They used to meet up to have a good time, but today they have to talk about money, which is disagreeable, especially for Àlex.

Òscar takes in Àlex’s unkempt appearance. He can tolerate a bit of dirt, but this is more than a bit. There’s a centimetre or two of dust on the shelves and it all reeks of mustiness and the stale air of a closed space. Àlex doesn’t seem to notice.

“Do you want a glass of Mistelle and a few almonds?” Àlex asks. “No, hang on, not Mistelle! Today we’ll crack a good white, the very best, a real little gem, a Sauternes I’ve been keeping for a special occasion…
which never happened. I feel like drinking it today. Yes, and the almonds will go nicely with it. Sorry, I don’t have any foie—”

“Don’t open anything, Àlex. A glass of water will do.”

“Listen young man, I’m not opening the Sauternes for you. I’m doing it for me. I feel like it and humanity can stick that up its arse.”

“Rest assured, humanity won’t know anything about it, so there’s no need to worry. There’s just the two of us here and I don’t plan to tell anyone. Cool it, man. Do what you like. Let’s get to the point. I want to buy the restaurant. I can’t afford the amount you’re asking, but I’ll make an offer and let’s see what you have to say.”

“Just a moment, lad. I need my Sauternes. It might even happen that with the help of an exquisite, sweet, satiny white wine I’ll look kindly on your offer.”

“OK, OK, I’ll have a glass too. I’ve never had the chance try the legendary wine made of rotten grapes. What a luxury.”

“They’re not rotten grapes. Well, slightly rotten, maybe. The wine’s made of grapes affected by
Botrytis cinerea
, or noble rot if you like. It’s noble rot and it doesn’t stink… a bit like Antic Món, riddled with rot, but nobly so.”

Àlex gets two of his best Riedel crystal glasses, which he wipes with his stained shirt tail before pouring the Sauternes. Pretending not to see, Òscar steels himself. He’s feeling desperately sorry for Àlex, and it’s not just the grungy dining room or the “medals” he’s sporting on his shirt, but his general personal appearance: gaunt, skinny, badly shaven with dark rings under his eyes testifying to the fact that he’s sleeping little and badly. The owner of Antic Món looks like a hobo.

“Out with it, lad,” Àlex orders.

“I’ve got forty thousand euros for the lease and can offer six hundred a month.”

“Listen, kid, that’s much less than I’m asking for.”

“Wait, I’m not done yet. The rest of the down payment will be your participation in the restaurant, by which I mean we’ll be partners, although I’ll have more shares than you. If you want, you can keep working here.”

“Now I’ve put my foot in it,” thinks Òscar. “Annette won’t want to work here if Àlex stays.” What an idiot. What’s he gone and done? He’s so upset by Àlex’s appearance that his subconscious has taken over his tongue, which has started wagging all by itself. This wasn’t his idea, and he certainly hadn’t meant to say this, but the words tumbled out anyway.

“So you’re telling me that you’ll be my boss,” Àlex snaps. “What the hell does that mean? That I’ll be at your orders and will have to make prawn cocktails and barbecued lamb for degenerate palates? No way!”

“No, man, no! I mean you can continue living here and working in your own place, as you’ve done up to now… But some things are going to change, although with the only and laudable aim of getting this business back on its feet. Remember, you’ll always have the option of selling your share if all goes well or if you don’t like the way we run the restaurant.”

“We?” Àlex is no fool. “Who else is behind this ridiculous idea?”

Òscar’s a berk. He’s always making a mess of things. First, he’s been foolish enough to offer Àlex a job, and now he’s blabbed the plural pronoun after Annette stressed he wasn’t to mention her name in the negotiations. OK, it’s done now, so what the hell. There’s no way he can hide the fact that she’s involved. Òscar feels intimidated by Àlex’s strong personality, overwhelmed by him. The situation is making him very tense and his hands are sweating copiously, even though he’s not moving. He’s always been gutless. He only has to see a cop in the street and he’s scared he’ll be picked up even if he hasn’t done anything – good or bad. And as a small boy he always had the feeling that, if the teacher called out his name, he was going to get his head bitten off.

Staring at his hands and thus managing to avoid Àlex’s unrelenting gaze, he answers, “Look, first of all, I want to say that proposal isn’t the least bit ridiculous. On the contrary, it’s a great idea that will help you to keep going with the project you’ve given your life to – the restaurant. Then again, it’s not irreversible. If you’re not happy with it, you can leave. It’s about trying to find a way to save Antic Món.”

“Òscar Hood, rescuer of down-and-out chefs!” Àlex laughs. “But what’s got into you? Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you think you can do it better than me?” He’s silent for a moment, taking advantage of the pause to take in and consider the offer he’s just received. “Well, let me think it over. I can’t give you an answer right now. First of all I want to know the identity of this enigmatic person who’s prepared to embark on such a ruinous project.”

“Annette,” Òscar whispers, without daring to look up from his trembling hands.

“Fuck, fuck, holy fuck! This is really incestuous. We can’t break away from the circle. It’s as if we’re the only people who exist in this world and the rest are mere extras. Annette will be my boss? This whole damn thing’s so complicated. Give me a few days to think about it.”

He doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand himself any more and why his heart broke into a mad gallop when it heard Annette’s name. Everything inside him, all his viscera have been writhing in treacherous convulsions ever since Òscar pronounced the magic word: Annette.

With his heart still in overdrive, his powers of reason kick in, trying to think and stabilize his emotions. This is utter madness and it can never succeed, which they’ve already proved. They’ve worked together before and it’s obvious the venture will fail. Now, moreover, the tables are turned and he’ll be the dogsbody. The mere thought is enough to make his hair stand on end.

Yet Annette has once again occupied his brain and everything has taken on a softer, smoother, more velvety appearance. He’s just got another whiff of the fragrance he picked up the very first time they spoke about her, slightly acid, spicy, like fresh lemons.

Àlex looks in the mirror and sees a pathetic, lonely, morose, emotionally shrivelled old man. Diving into his memories, he finds someone made up of layers, like an onion: a happy kid, silent adolescent, young rebel, prosperous chef… and broken man. He spits copiously at his reflection and wipes the mirror with his dirty shirtsleeve.

He looks again, opens his eyes wide and glimpses a long road ahead. The joy of starting afresh with his interrupted dream prods him to overcome all obstacles. It’s time to do some exercise. He doesn’t want to know anything about the past. He’ll pick up one of those Milan rubbers, the ones that smell like cream, and erase all bad memories from his unpublished biography. With a nice, new, well-sharpened pencil he’ll make a note in his best handwriting of all the experiences that give sense to things. Yes, he wants to try again. He’ll accept Òscar’s offer.

“Carol? Where are you? It’s been days since I’ve had any news of you.”

“Days? Months more like it! I’ve haven’t heard a peep out of you lot for weeks, and it’s not because I haven’t tried. I’ve phoned you both. You and Annette. Well, the truth is I’ve phoned her more often than you and, when no one answered, I started to imagine all kinds of situations: you’d run off to Quebec together; you’d committed suicide by diving into a cauldron of broth; you’ve become a Mormon and are wandering around signing up all the immigrants in the Maresme. Àlex? Àlex?… Are you there? Have you hung up?”

“I’m here.”

“Why don’t you say anything?”

“You won’t let me. You’ve been ranting on to yourself for ages. Listen, why don’t you come over and have dinner with me?”

“Where?”

“Antic Món. I’ll defrost something.”

“What ‘something’ are we going to eat, may I ask? You’ve been closed for three months. By the way, thanks for letting me know you were closing. I had to find out in the newspapers and I was gobsmacked. That lunatic Montsià saw it. That poor sod’s so up himself, running round all over the place, sniffing at his wines and writing that imbecilic crap that people actually believe! Anyway, this cretin broke the story in his column. My God! That set off a torrent of articles, comments and opinions in all the media. You were the flavour of the week, my boy.”

“Was I? I didn’t know.”

“I kept phoning you, but to no avail. Anyway, it was better like that, I assure you. They weren’t remotely nice about you. They wanted to see you burnt at the stake. That gang of critics and food writers are bloody predators. By the way, how’s Annette? Has she gone back to Canada? Wow, that woman is damn rude, and I was so good to her. I even bought her clothes. I haven’t heard a word from her. She never even said thank you!”

“OK! That’s enough. Stop. I forgot about your non-stop babble. Get your act together and come over and have dinner with me. We’ll open one of those wines I’ve been keeping for great events, we’ll get pissed, and I’ll tell you about the next chapter of my life. Don’t tell me that that’s not a scintillating plan for this dreary Tuesday night.”