Vanilla Salt (28 page)

“Yes, yes, Òscar. We plan this. After party we give you first payment.”

“As long as you’re planning to do so, that’s fine by me. The only thing that worries me is that you’re spending money on unnecessary things or you’re overstepping your limits, which is why Antic Món crashed. But let’s leave this subject for now, because you’ve got the big party now and I’m here as a journalist. My blogger friends would give an arm and a leg to have this experience. I’ll write something that will have the whole world drooling and dying to come here to meet you.”

Annette jokes, “Well, for whole world will to come you must to write in English, Chinese, Japanese and Urdu in addition of Catalan, Spanish and French. You have big job here!”

“No probs. I’m going to use the universal language of images without writing as much as a single line. That’s old-fashioned! I’ll post a video. It’ll be really cool, eh? I’ll work out how to do it. It’s going to be experimental.”

“You will pass all party for to make film? But you like so much eat and drink, in ten minutes you leave camera on tray… then… where it is? And we find in dishwasher with champagne glasses and dirty forks,” she teases.

“Me? Film? No way! I’m going to give my total attention to this fantastic menu you’ve come up with. This is an experimental video, as I told you. No one’s ever done anything like it. I’ll leave the camera
filming above the kitchen door and it can do its own thing. Then it will show what’s being cooked and how, Àlex’s movements, waitresses going in and out, friends and journalists saying hello to Àlex, the atmosphere at the stove… It will be the ultimate reality show. I’m going to edit it, eh. Make it about ten minutes long. I love the idea. This will be my first foodie short based on a real-life situation,” he explains, looking very pleased with himself.

There’s chaos around the stove. The journalists, some of them good friends of Àlex’s, come in and out of the kitchen, making themselves too much at home. They greet Àlex, try a mouthful directly from the pot and exchange gossip and secrets among the saucepans. Although the dining room has been made ready with their maximum comfort in mind, they prefer to be behind the scenes in the kitchen. The stove provides an ideal cosy atmosphere for their hush-hush exchanges, taking them back to the days of fireside chats and grannies who added new details to their stories night after night. They complain that they have to attend too many boring social functions, but they never say no when Àlex or Carol calls, because they always know it will be fun. This time they don’t know the half of it, as tonight’s show is going to be really over the top.

Àlex is very alert, expectant, monitoring Carol’s every move. He’s certain that she hasn’t given him all her poison and that she’s kept some – or a lot – to use herself, waiting until Àlex is distracted by something to drop it into one of the saucepans. Àlex and Eric are coating some pork spare ribs with soya sauce and honey before putting them in the oven to cook. Three journalists are in a huddle alongside them, buzzing into each other’s ears. Àlex catches snippets.

“I’ve had it up to here with Carol. She doesn’t leave space for anyone else.”

“She’s the spoilt brat of the newspaper. They’d even print her farts.”

“She’s lost any taste she ever had. Now she can’t tell a lemon from a mandarin.”

Àlex hasn’t been talking to his journalist friends recently, so he’s not up to date with their current frame of mind. So they’re pissed off with Carol. Now that’s really news!

“Eric, come here a moment. I want to show you the wines we’re serving tonight.” Àlex wants to get Eric away from the journalists’ sharp ears.

“But, boss, I haven’t finished this and, anyway, I hate wine. It’s disgusting. Give me beer any day, and right now I’d drink a whole bottle.”

“Come with me, you blockhead. OK, you deserve a beer.” And Àlex, who’s starting to get tetchy, drags the boy into the dining room.

“Listen, lad – that’s if you’ve washed your ears a few times these last fifteen years and can still hear me – I want to give you a mission tonight and hope your brain can register two orders at the same time. First, forget about the kitchen. I mean from now on you don’t have to help me with getting the food ready. Second, I want you to keep very careful watch on one woman, the one who was the first to arrive. You know who I mean? That one, that tall, older woman with long black hair who’s throwing her weight around.”

“An older woman? I’m only interested in the hot ones my age. What about the beer, boss?”

“Will you kindly pay attention! The woman I mean is wearing a long, flower-patterned dress, and you can pick her out because she’s talking to everyone and carrying on like she’s the queen of the party.”

“There are plenty of women with long hair here.”

Àlex continues, ignoring the boy’s callowness. “All the guests will go to the dining room now. It’s highly likely that this woman will hang around in the kitchen and fiddle with the pots and pans. That’s when you’ve got to watch her, but you have to dissemble. Do you know what that means?”

“Course I do! I’ve spent the last ten years dissembling when I’m supposed to be studying!” He sniggers.

“Well, you have to watch everything she does, OK? And tell me later.”

“Right, boss. And what about the beer?”

Àlex takes a warm beer from a crate, opens it and hands it to Eric. “Here, you can have a swig at this, but only one mouthful. If you do a good job, I’ll let you finish it later on. If you don’t do as you’re told, you’ll still get your beer, but with the bottle too, right on top of your head.” He’s under no illusions about Eric, but he’s the only person who might be able to help him.

When he goes back to the kitchen, the last journalists are on their way to the dining room, Carol taking up the rear. She whispers to Àlex, “Which is the star dish? Which is the one I’d better not eat, so there’ll be enough left for the others?”

“The sea urchins. They’re fantastic,” he murmurs.

The plan was that Àlex had to tell her which dish he’s poisoned, but she’s going to eat them all, because she knows he hasn’t used her product. But she’ll certainly use it, and has enough of it in her bag to make an elephant extremely ill.

A television crew is waiting for Àlex in the kitchen, ready to ask him some questions. The sound technician asks him to move away from the stove and background noise, but the cameraman wants to have the pots and pans in the background. It’s to be a short piece, without too much talking. Àlex loves being interviewed, though he’d never admit it. Indeed, whenever it happens, he tends to describe the journalists in his usual “affectionate” way: “that idiot journalist”, “that cretin” and his favourite of all, “that starving hack”.

However, when he’s with the interviewer it’s a very different matter, with a beaming Àlex offering glasses of cava to facilitate the conversation and, should the journalist bring out a camera, his performance is worthy
of a psychologist’s scrutiny. Before a television camera, Àlex becomes Julio Iglesias, Mick Jagger and Cindy Crawford all rolled into one. His coy glances and the way he preens and pouts for the camera are hilarious. He completely forgets himself, forgets about the world and surrenders himself body and soul to the journalist and, in particular, the camera.

Eric is still at work, washing herbs to be added for a last-minute touch of freshness just before serving. He’s annoyed and he doesn’t see why he has to watch this old woman. His first day of work is very strange. He’s been taken on to help with the cooking and, after working non-stop all day long without even time to go for a piss, he’s now been told to stop cooking and keep an eye on this woman. He’s not at all keen on the idea of becoming a detective, but it would be worse to have a bottle of beer broken over his head… This chef has a foul temper.

Àlex is busy playing to the camera, and Carol is in the dining room drinking cava with the journalists. But hey, Eric sees her sneaking into the kitchen and going over to a pot of cream-of-watercress soup to which the mascarpone has been added, as it’s about to be served. The woman with long black hair puts her hand in her bag. Eric feels very nervous and does his best to pretend he’s engrossed in cleaning the herbs. Carol tips the contents of a small packet into the watercress soup, stirs it in with the wooden spoon, and pretends to taste it, looking at Eric and winking. She returns to the dining room just as Àlex is answering a couple of questions from the hostess of a TV food programme who’s interviewing him.

The guests are getting impatient. They’ve been waiting at their tables for a while and nothing seems to be happening in the kitchen. Annette looks in several times to see if they can bring out something to eat. Eric is clueless and Àlex is still being interviewed, but if they wait any longer they’ll have a disaster on their hands. Annette sees that the easiest thing to serve now is the watercress soup.

“Come on, Eric. You put plates make line and I put soup in all them. You know what go on top?”

“These herbs and truffled cheese.”

“OK, we do it. Àlex he still with interview and guests have hungry.”

Annette and Graça serve the soup to their guests and then clear up the bowls and spoons afterwards. Surprised by its intense green colour and silky texture, they all pronounce it an excellent first course and are full of praise for Àlex. “He’s really shone with this soup.” Carol hasn’t tasted hers.

“You are OK? You feel bad?” Annette asks. “Àlex he make this especial for you, because you write always that good meal it must to start with the soup.”

“I’m fine, really fine. I must confess I was in the kitchen, like the other journalists, and couldn’t resist serving myself a cupful because I was very hungry. You’ve made us wait a long time, sweetheart. If I have any more I won’t be able to enjoy the other wonderful delicacies you’ve prepared for us, let alone your dessert.”

Àlex finishes the interview. He’s had a great time and has been asked exactly the kind of questions he loves answering. He revels in telling the story of how he learnt the trade, the high point of the interview for him, in which he can play the victim recalling the tough times of being cold and hungry, working fifteen hours a day for a pittance.

“You couldn’t have been too hungry,” the interviewer challenges him on his slip, because, well, actually, the one thing cooks don’t suffer from is hunger. But overall he’s really shone. He goes back to the stove.

“Shit! Have you already served the watercress soup? Are you crazy or what? How dare you! Why didn’t you tell me? What did you put in it? Did you remember to serve it with the truffled cheese, you imbecile?” he yells at Eric in alarm.

“Yes, yes, I put in the truffled cheese. We didn’t wait for you, because Annette decided to go ahead, because people were hungry, but they said it was fab, yeah, great,” the petrified boy answers.

Àlex sticks his head out to see what’s happening with the journalists. They seem happy. Phew! He hates not being able to keep an eye on every last detail, since he knows how much attention the gourmet press pays to the finer points of the appearance of the dishes, which must look beautiful, as they take photos and may even publish them. He can’t afford to take the risk of letting a sixteen-year-old kid with his brain addled by drugs, beer, heavy metal and the obnoxiously loud exhaust of a souped-up motorcycle serve his food. He can see Carol’s black mane of hair from the doorway. She’s surrounded by the best-known journalists and tossing down the wine like it’s going out of fashion. This woman never leaves a drop in any bottle, he thinks. Then, he almost has a seizure. Fuck! Carol! He’s totally forgotten about her because of the bloody interview.

“Eric, Eric!” he shouts.

“What’s the matter, boss?”

“That woman, Carol, did she come into the kitchen?”

“Yeah, while you were doing that interview. When are they going to show it? Wow! When my mates see it I’ll be more famous than Michael Jackson.”

“Shut up, will you! That’s enough of your nonsense. Tell me what she did. What?” Àlex is almost hysterical.

“She put something in the pot.”

“What pot?”

“The watercress soup. The pot’s in the sink now.”

“Bloody hell!”

He paces round the kitchen. He’s desperate. What can he do? And Annette – please, please, no, don’t let her have tasted it, he begs some deity.

*  *  *

The party’s been a great success. The journalists have left more than happy after eating and drinking to their hearts’ content, and the write-ups will certainly be fulsome, Annette thinks. She’s very tired, that’s for sure. She could never have imagined that a formal opening could be so much work and cause so much stress, especially when she had to make her little speech. She didn’t say everything she wanted, but she didn’t do badly, given that she was trembling like a reed in the wind and, in her nervousness, she spoke half in French, half in English, providing the journalists with the anecdote of the night. She would really have stolen the show if she’d finished off in Graça’s languages, Portuguese and Swahili! Graça and Eric have gone home, as has Òscar, who, after reclaiming his camera from its perch, is thrilled with his film, although it’s going to be difficult to make a short out of it when he has enough material for a feature.

Annette and Àlex sit down at the kitchen table and drink a bottle of cava. Although they’re both doing the same thing, their moods are very different. Annette savours her cava with delight, sighing contentedly over the bubbles and gabbling on non-stop. Àlex sips his in silence, also sighing, but it comes out more as whimpers from the depths of his heart and mind. Annette’s so thrilled she doesn’t notice his silence at first, but then she stares at him. “What happen you? You no are happy? It go very well and they love menu you make, especially sea urchins, and Carol she praise very much the watercress soup.”

“Bloody bitch…” he mumbles.

“What you say?”

“Nothing, nothing. Yes, it went very well… Annette, listen…”

“Yes?” She’s intrigued.

“We have to work on the aromatic salts. I think it’s a brilliant idea and I’m sure they’ll sell very well. Maybe the business will let us forget about the restaurant, and you know what I’d really like to do? Close the
place down and go somewhere else, a long way from here. How about accepting the Can Bret offer?”