Vanilla Salt (2 page)

“Fuck the selection, Moha. In Fez they’ll pay you a pittance, and here you’ve managed to get a decent wage and status. You’re important to this restaurant.”

This was the first time Àlex ever had a serious conversation with his kitchen hand.

“Yeah, but my fiancée—”

“You’re already henpecked, but you’re old enough to make your own mistakes. Come back when you’re ready. I’ll be here waiting for you. Good luck.”

As a joke, Àlex gave him a bottle of Aromes de Montserrat, a nice little herbal liqueur supposedly invented by the Benedictine monks. But he also presented him with the best cookbook of his collection, Brillat-Savarin’s
The Physiology of Taste
. In order to avoid any excessive sentimentality and to spare himself any emotions that might arise from the situation, he couldn’t help adding: “I’m giving you this book so you’ll learn to read and stop being such an ignorant bloody scarecrow.”

Since Moha left, Àlex hasn’t found anyone who’s shown the least bit of interest. And of course it’s always ended in a fight. A cook must be rigorous. OK, some idiot might overlook a bone in a gilt-head bream. That he can live with, but there’s no way he’ll tolerate gluey risotto.

That was what caused the row with the last lad to leave, a week ago now. With an outsize knife in his hand and jabbing the tip of the blade in the direction of the risotto, Àlex, his face red with rage, screamed at his kitchen hand.

“Give me the phone number of your first-year teacher at the cooking school. I want to ask him about the blow job you gave him. It must have
been bloody good if he passed you. You cretin! Have you actually looked at this shit you’re trying to pass off as risotto?”

Àlex believed that the odd spat like this was part and parcel of moments of stress in the kitchen, but of course his assistants didn’t see it quite the same way. He’s had three in the last two months and as soon as he had them slightly trained they pissed off.

Things are even worse in the dining room. This is a strange world for Àlex. He can’t imagine how anyone could possibly enjoy that kind of work. Of course, the turnover for dining-room staff is very high, as even the newspapers point out, and a restaurateur just has to get used to the fact.

This kind of news report soothes Àlex, cushions him. That’s why he doesn’t get too worked up when his waiters only last two weeks.

On their first day, waiters are punctual and seem keen to work, but that doesn’t last long. The first time they have to stay the whole afternoon serving a food critic who wants to drain a whole bottle of whisky, they start getting huffy, and they stay huffy until one day they tell him they’re leaving. They’re even less enchanted when they have to escort the critic in question to his car, bearing not only his weight but also his rambling account of the latest bickering over Michelin stars.

Restaurant workers nowadays don’t understand that this is a trade that requires you to listen, serve and forget about it the moment you get home. With such a high staff turnover, Àlex chooses not to remember the waiters’ names. He calls them all, male and female alike, by the same name: Gabriel. That was what his first waiter was called, the one who stayed for three years. That one really was good, as good as Moha, who was with him for eight years but, in the end, decided to go back to Morocco.

Dammit, he feels so bloody lonely.

A few days ago, Àlex’s friend Òscar, who has a very popular food blog, dropped in and asked him a favour. It was difficult to say no, especially because he’s such a good chap, though this world is full of good chaps and Àlex couldn’t give a shit about them. What he greatly appreciates about Òscar are their conversations and the classes – though Òscar calls them tutorials – where he learns how to manage a computer and about this crap they call social media.

His friend is infinitely patient when coaching him about tweets, hash tags and TripAdvisor, but Àlex quickly loses interest, saying that he’s not only unfit for logic but also computer illiterate. Then he jumps up from his chair and starts cooking, his way of showing his gratitude for Òscar’s help.

Òscar’s thirty-five, fifteen years younger than Àlex, and adores cooking with him.

Today they’re going to do sautéed vegetables with king prawns and onion cream. Snow peas, carrot and asparagus, all julienned. A splash of oil in a very hot pan in which the vegetables are shaken with a few flicks of the wrist, so they fly up and fall back again, tinged with gold outside and fresh and crunchy inside. Next, king prawns, well cleaned and, most important, the intestinal tract removed. They need just a touch of heat and then you let the sea fragrances seep into the vegetables, after which you enhance the flavours with a dash of soya sauce. Finally, the onion cream, made with juicy purple Figueres onions. The onions are browned, and then cooked in the juices of the vegetables and a touch of cream until all the flavours mingle and it is reduced to a satiny texture. It then has to be well puréed to become a light, aromatic sauce.

They eat the sautéed vegetables and Àlex quaffs almost a whole bottle of Terra Alta wine. Òscar tells him how he makes Parmentier potatoes. He thinks they’d go very well with the vegetables.

“This Parmentier nonsense might please a few farm animals,” Àlex snaps. “It might make great pig slop, but people with any decent level of gastronomic culture would never stoop so low as to eat potatoes. Potatoes are for barbarians, like those pigs, that rabble over there in Can Bret.”

Àlex spurns all food coming from the Americas. It’s not that he’s exclusively into local medieval cuisine, because he uses products from other cultures and cutting-edge techniques. He believes that Catalan cuisine was rich enough in ingredients before Columbus came along, so he’s not going to serve imported food pillaged from a continent subjugated by firearms and rape and thus steeped in blood. Furthermore, in his stringent view, these items have no culinary merit. He doesn’t want to know about them.

This stubborn determination has earned him considerable prestige among connoisseurs because of the problems it entails. It has also lost him a large number of customers. After all, Antic Món is in Bigues i Riells, a nondescript town of second homes, and these families don’t understand why he can’t do fried potatoes to go with little Johnny’s veal cutlets, even if he offers caramelized turnip instead.

What use are Àlex’s prizes if he has no customers?

The previous night, after having to wait on the single table of a pair of architects, he locked himself in his cubbyhole of an office and started to do the sums: income, overheads, suppliers, wages, social security and all the rest. He can no longer afford to pay an accountant, so he has to do the books himself. Truth to tell, he hasn’t got a clue. To begin with, he couldn’t give a damn about management and, to cap it all, there’s not a drop left in the gin bottle. By two in the morning a bass drum is pounding in his head. His mum always said “Don’t mix”, but he’s gone and mixed sums and gin, a lethal combination. His head is foggy, but the conclusion is crystal clear: his clientele is
dwindling fast and the Antic Món’s coffers are getting emptier and emptier by the day.

He’s had the restaurant for ten years. Business used to be quite good, but he’s having a lean time of it now. He’s too outspoken, he knows, and inflexible and unapproachable too but… but isn’t this about cooking? Why should he be friendly? What does sociability have to do with good food? People come to the restaurant to eat, not to have someone running after them, hovering over them and licking their arses. The food critics, yes, they know how to value his work. They love his kind of cooking and are always impressed by his daring, innovative ideas. In fact, he’s been awarded numerous prizes and is always being asked to speak at food congresses. Hmm, well, he used to be, perhaps. It’s quite a while since they’ve phoned him. Thanks to the prizes and other forms of recognition he’s managed to attract customers from far away, gourmets who would never have set foot in Bigues i Riells otherwise. They’ve come expressly to taste his dishes and they’ve left very well satisfied.

People love his food, dammit! But this type of customer, the epicure, tends not to return. Normally they only come once, because they like flitting round all kinds of restaurants and are loath to go back to one they’ve already tried. The second-home owners in the town are more faithful, but they don’t feel comfortable in Antic Món. Àlex is all but alone, without clients and without staff.

Òscar asked him a favour, namely to take on a friend of his. This is one of these strange acquaintances that bloggers make, a borderless friendship with someone he met in the online community, as he puts it. The girl is called Annette, she’s from Quebec and Òscar met her on Facebook, Àlex seems to recall, or one of those social networks, the usefulness of which escapes him. And what the fuck is a virtual relationship anyway? When Òscar raised the matter, Àlex tried to get him to understand that he couldn’t afford to pay a professional,
but Òscar assured him that Annette wasn’t motivated by money. She needed to work, that was true, and she wanted to settle in Catalonia. She’d decided to learn the language and embrace the culture. That was her goal.

“Annette’s a foodie,” Òscar innocently remarked.

“Listen, lad, you come up with a new word every day and I can’t stand it. I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about and, frankly, I couldn’t give a shit. I don’t want to know about computers! I have no idea what a foodie is and I don’t give a damn. As for your friend, I only want to know if she’s willing to work, if she’s not in a hurry to be paid, where she’s going to sleep and if she’s a proper woman with tits and all.”

“Must you always be so crass? She’s a friend of mine and, even if I haven’t seen her in person, I can tell you she’s a proper woman. Yes, she does want to work, and yes, she’ll have to be paid something. But money isn’t her priority, as I told you.”

“OK, but what’s this ‘foodie’ bullshit about?”

“A foodie is someone who likes anything to do with food – keen on cooking, eating in restaurants, discovering gourmet boutiques, exploring markets, tasting different products, gastronomic tourism, reading recipe books, and so on and so forth. Basically, anything to do with food. Hence the word ‘foodie’. Well, Annette’s a foodie, so she reads my blog and we chat from time to time. She likes eating and says she’s a great cook too. She’s done lots of courses on food from all round the world, so she’s mad about discovering new spices, different products and special dishes. That’s why I thought of you. You’re the most special among the special.”

Àlex wasn’t sure about all this but couldn’t think of a riposte. Nothing occurred to him, no withering remark, no smart-arse comment. The words just didn’t come, and, to cover up, or to change the subject, or because he was hungry, he downed two bits of carrot and a king prawn.
“Before you fill your mouth with claptrap, fill it with tasty morsels,” he reminded himself.

Recalling the encounter, Àlex thinks he wouldn’t lose anything by contracting this woman, especially right now when he has no one to help out in the restaurant. That can’t go on.

While he himself washes the dishes from a lunchtime table of five, the only people who’ve turned up the entire Saturday, a strange fragrance sneaks through a crack in one of the windows. Perfumed portents, airs wafting in to turn his life upside down.

2

SOUR

Àlex is jumpy. The truth, the pure truth of the matter, is that he’s never had a female kitchen hand. Something tells him it’s not going to be easy.

The two of them are sitting facing one another at a table in the restaurant.

She’s different, this woman – or should he say girl? She must be about thirty-five, and she’s got long red hair. Her curls are eye-catching, as are all those freckles on her face. There’ll be hairs in the soup for sure… and who’s going to fish them out? Maybe she should get it cut… And he’s not at all sure about this citrusy fragrance of hers. It’s going to spoil the aroma of his dishes.

Yes, well, she’s got lovely round tits.

“I’ll get to the point. I’ve got some kid roasting in the oven and I’ve got to keep an eye on it. I’ll sum it up in a few words. In this restaurant, cooking is king. That’s the essential thing. I’m not interested in fancy stuff and this frivolous froth they’re churning out all round the country. Here, the food is sound. You cook things as slow or as fast as needed, so that every dish is pure perfection. It’s hard, rigorous work. Everything you make has to be impeccably brought off, with an exquisite presentation. It must be served at the
table without delay. If you agree to these conditions, you can get to work right now.”

“I sorry, Senyor Àlex. Mon Catalan très petit. I only study half-year in Quebec. C’est pareil à French, little bit, but I mix with English. No understand conditions.”

This is too bloody much, Àlex thinks indignantly. This damn woman can’t understand Catalan and doesn’t speak Spanish either. This really complicates things, but cool it, cool it, he tells himself. It’s no big deal either. Moha hardly knew any Catalan when he started to work in Antic Món, but after Àlex yelled at him enough he soon caught on.

“OK, I’ll speak slowly and say it in just a few words. There’s one condition: hard work. You get it?” The veins in his neck are bulging.

He hasn’t realized that he’s switched from the familiar
tu
to the formal
vostè
, but it’s a sure sign that he’s enraged. He only uses
vostè
when things get out of hand. It expresses a mixture of indignation and uneasiness.

“I no fraid work hard. I very worker. Today premier day, Senyor Àlex?”

“Yes, yes, right now. Have you got your chef wear? I’ll take you to the changing room and show you the restaurant.”

“I bring suitcase ici. Òscar say I sleep ici. I no have house.”

That’s true. Òscar had asked him if he could let Annette have a room, as she had nowhere to stay and no money to rent somewhere. Àlex had forgotten this, because when Òscar was telling him his brain was swirling in the aromatic mists of the sensational Terra Alta wine. He was also sleepy by then so he’d said yes. In fact, the restaurant is in a big old house and there’s a sort of spare room on the second floor. It’s not exactly luxurious, but it’s well ventilated and even has a small bathroom with a shower. It’ll do for the two weeks that this woman will last in his kitchen.