Vanilla Salt (8 page)

She knows that Àlex will be back late, boozed up and tired, so she takes her little notebook of recipes from the drawer of the bedside table and goes down to the kitchen, where she dons her patchwork apron and lights the oven. As if performing some sacred liturgical rite, she gets out all the ingredients, ready to make her cake.

In a large bowl she beats two eggs with brown sugar until the mixture expands. She adds the half-melted butter, two grated carrots, a handful of walnuts, a generous spoonful of cinnamon and finally the flour and baking powder. The trick is to fold in the flour, not ill-treat it with beaters.

Half an hour, an oven on low temperature, and the fragrance is floating in the kitchen. “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy,” she sings to Ella Fitzgerald. She can’t help it. She’s singing and crying at the same time. “Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high.”

Sitting on a stool and using the shelf of the serving hatch as her table, legs swinging, she eats the cake hot from the oven, breaking off little morsels with her fingers, just like she did as a little girl at afternoon tea time, when her mother made her sit at the kitchen table under her watchful eye. “One of these mornings you’re going to rise up singing.” She keeps a hefty slice for Òscar.

Àlex and Annette meet up in the kitchen early next morning. He isn’t at all pleased to discover she’s made a carrot cake on her day off. He doesn’t even say hello.

“The day off is for everyone, right? Agreed? Is that clear?”

“Yes, that clear,” Annette answers automatically.

She’s fed up with Àlex’s tongue-lashings. He seems to revel in conflict and is always looking for a fight. Annette’s had a couple of rows with him, but now she prefers to roll with the punches. He’ll soon get tired of trying to provoke her.

“The oven has a day off too,” he raves on. “On Monday the restaurant equipment has a rest. On Monday you have to get out and clear your head, my girl, and I don’t want you messing around in my kitchen.”

She’d love to point out to Àlex that, without a cent to her name, her choices are very limited. She hasn’t been paid her first salary yet and has no idea of what her monthly wage is going to be, because the boss hasn’t deemed it worthy of mention. But she merely says, “OK. I go out the Monday.”

Àlex can’t stand the fact that she doesn’t answer back, that she’s so conciliatory, that she’s always trying to keep the peace. He believes that the kitchen needs shouting and arguments to whip up adrenalin and strengthen bonds, because when the thunder and lightning have passed a soothing sun appears. Flowers and violins are what you get in wishy-washy kitchens. This must be a female thing, he tells himself, because all the kitchen hands he’s had so far have been males who’ve responded to his yelling and insults with even louder yelling and more offensive insults. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

Resigned, he focuses his efforts on making the spinach-and-walnut filling for some cannelloni he’s going to cook. He fills the sink with water and tips a big bunch of fresh spinach leaves into it. He pounces on them mercilessly, shoving them well under the water and shaking them around vigorously.

“Look at the way I’m doing this. You’ve got to get them right under the water. They’re full of this bloody soil stuck to the leaves. If you don’t wash them properly, the customers are sure to bite on the dirt and all your work goes into the rubbish bin.”

“Why you make so many cannelloni?”

“This is a restaurant, in case you haven’t worked it out yet. We’ve got to be prepared for whatever comes up.”

“Tuesday it is quiet day,” Annette comments, because she hates to see such large amounts of food thrown away at Antic Món. There have
even been dishes that have not sold as much as a single serving and been tipped intact into the bin.

“What the fuck would you know? Get on with your work unless you want to run out of here screaming.”

“Yesterday I lunch with Carol,” she suddenly remarks.

“What! What’s this you’re saying? I don’t think I heard you rightly.”

“I yesterday lunch with Carol in Granollers. We talk about you and restaurant. Taster menu is best. No à la carte. We say this.”

“Yesterday you went to have lunch with Carol in Granollers. Well, well, well… and you had a little chat about me. And my cooking, I suppose. So now you’re suggesting that I should forget about the à-la-carte menu and offer a taster menu instead.”

“Yes, exact.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, so lovely… So, you decide to go out for lunch together and, since you’ve got nothing to talk about, because you’re a pair of bitter, twisted spinsters, you while away the time organizing my cooking and my life. That’s bloody marvellous! You can stick the degustation menu right up Miss Carol’s arse, my girl. Make sure it all goes in, right down to the last dish.”

Annette knows that what will wind Àlex up more than anything else is her remaining silent and calmly getting on with the job. In the time she’s worked with him, she’s learnt that this is something he can’t stand, because he doesn’t know how to react. Then again, she’s hurt and she’s had enough of his shouting.

She takes off her patchwork apron, carefully folds it, gazes steadily at him and says very firmly, “I finish. Thank you for all. I no want nothing. You no pay even salary. You no have money. Antic Món is finish. Game over!”

She goes up to her room, throws everything into her suitcase and leaves.

She’s in the street, dragging the heavy suitcase. She has no money except for twenty euros she’s taken from the cash register at the restaurant.
She doesn’t know where to go. She must make a decision. She doesn’t want to phone Carol, no, not Carol. Òscar? No, not him either, poor fellow. He’s already done enough to help her.

She walks aimlessly down the road and then goes into a bar to have a cup of tea. It will give her time to think about how to deal with this new situation. She’s in a country she doesn’t know, where she has no real friends.

She sits down at a small table, asks for her tea, which she sips, staring at a corner of the bar with the unfocused look of someone who’s lost their marbles. Frank Gabo comes in, an apparition bearing a huge box of fish.

“Hello, what are you doing here with that mad look in your eye? Has something happened to you?” he asks, flashing his incredibly white teeth.

“I drink tea.”

“Yes, I can see that. Are you OK? Are you going back home?” He points at her suitcase.

“I’m OK, but no sure what I must to do. I think.”

“Aha! So you’ve had a row with that damn cook, have you? Like everyone else.”

“Yes, he intolerable.”

“Can I sit down with you?” he asks, sitting down opposite her, perfectly at ease.

“I no know what I must to do, Frank. I alone and no have money. I no can to go home.”

“I can’t do much to help, but if you need a roof over your head you can come to my place. There are eight of us and the flat’s tiny. You can stay a couple of nights till you decide what to do. You can sleep in the dining room. We’ll put a mattress on the floor. That’s where my cousins sleep when they come from Mozambique, and they stay a whole month! Of course, they’re used to roughing it. I’ll give you my phone number
and, if you have no other option, just call me. My wife makes a millet soup to die for.”

“Thank you Frank, thank you so much… and thank you so much also for fish.”

“What fish?”

“Door of restaurant. Every day the box. That you!”

“Àlex is OK. He’s had lots of bad luck. Then again, my boss is rich and hasn’t even twigged that a couple of kilos of small fish go missing every day. It’s cheap fish, but it’s better that nobody finds out about this, OK?”

“OK. Nobody. I no know nobody. Fish very good. Clients like very much. Àlex cook very good and fish very tasty, very good.”

“I have to go. I’ve got a horrific list of deliveries to get through. Come to my place. We’ll be expecting you.”

Àlex tastes the carrot cake. “Bloody hell,” he thinks, “this is impressive. Very rustic, very authentic. Mmm, delicious!”

5

DEATH

The last thing Annette could have imagined was that she’d be taken in by an African family. Frank’s wife’s Catalan is very rudimentary, and Annette’s even more so. Their conversation would be the source of some great gags for a comedy film.

This is an outlandish situation. For all Frank’s efforts to tell her who’s who in his family structure, Annette can’t work it out. The house is filled with a tangle of children of brothers and sisters, children who are his wife’s uncles, children who don’t seem to belong to anyone in particular, and brothers and sisters passed off as offspring.

Frank is practically Catalan. He came as a small child, but his wife arrived in Catalonia relatively recently and, thanks to her, he’s gone back to the old Mozambican ways of doing things. Graça wears brightly coloured dresses, typical of her country. She’s a woman of ancestral traditions, even though she’s adapted quite well to living in Catalonia. The hardest thing for her is finding the ingredients she needs for cooking, and when she does get hold of them she stows them away and ekes them out like priceless treasures.

Annette can think of nothing more enjoyable than going to the market with Graça. Then they cook together for all the children in the minuscule
space reserved for the stove. She’s sure that they don’t see her as an extra mouth to feed, but doesn’t want to outstay her welcome. She hates feeling that she’s a burden, as she has no money to contribute towards her upkeep. Moreover, the awkwardness of sleeping on the floor and sharing the miniscule flat with so many people is beyond her capacity for adaptation, despite the wonderful hospitality of the Gabo family. Privacy is non-existent, and her large suitcase gets in everyone’s way. She can’t even get out her computer for the simple reason that there’s no space on the table. She’s got to come up with some solution.

Meanwhile, things aren’t going well for Àlex in Antic Món. He has no help whatsoever, no waiter, no cleaning lady and, naturally, no kitchen hand. He tries to do everything himself, but isn’t up to it.

Surprisingly, despite all the problems, more and more people are turning up, day after day. Business is looking better but, if he doesn’t take on someone soon, they’ll never come back again. The service is bad. He can’t be slaving at the stove, recommending a wine, and putting new paper in the toilet all at once. That’s physically impossible.

He needs a waiter right now! A waiter who’ll also clean the dining room, manage the cash register, see to public relations, do the books, decorate the place, wash up, manage all this stuff about social networks, cope with payroll, and be a polyglot to boot. Actually, he needs someone like Annette or, more specifically, he needs Annette. But he can’t even think about that.

Today, when he’s done the lunchtime shift, he’ll phone his contacts and try to sort it out. Right now, he’s too busy. He’s got to finish the artichokes he’s cooking with some clams he found in the box of fish that lands on his doorstep every day. Frank Gabo has never let him down, always bringing some small, bony fish, but from time to time he throws in some delicacy, like the clams he’s found today. Then Àlex prepares a feast.

Now he’s cleaning the artichokes, the noblest of vegetables despite their apparent Carthusian austerity. They are flowers, but they don’t resort to the wily strategies of the species, seducing with bright colours and assertive perfumes. Artichokes don’t exhale fragrances because they don’t have any, and their colour is a sort of matt greenish brown. They seem to be dressed for war… or survival maybe, Àlex thinks. Not even the name is beautiful.
ARTICHOKE
. He spells it out slowly to confirm the vegetable’s unmelodious nature. You have to close your eyes and believe in an artichoke. It’s not about appearances, not a question of looking like a hand grenade about to explode, or of judging it by its stiff, stringy outer leaves. You’ve got to believe in it, probe it and find its heart. It’s just a matter of time to remove the tough fortress of its outside layers. There inside, protected from all of life’s buffeting and blows, lies the gift, a bonus of bliss, a tender, tasty, intense and honest core. No surprises, no tricks, a refined heart. If you eat an artichoke heart and drink a glass of water with it, the flavour is doubled. Two for the price of one. That’s how generous it is, if you know how to find its heart.

What kindred spirits they are, Àlex and the artichoke.

The telephone’s ringing, interrupting his train of thought. It’s Òscar.

“Hi, Àlex, how are you?”

“Very busy, mate… I’ve got a lot of work and don’t know how to manage it all.”

“What about Annette? Isn’t she pulling her weight? I’m phoning to see how you are, but also to have a chat with her. I’ve called her number but she’s not answering. I’d feel bad if she’s upset because I didn’t turn up the other day. Not that she’d have any reason to be angry with me. I don’t know why, but I’m a bit worried about her. She hasn’t been on Facebook for days, or updated the Friends of Antic Món page. It’s very strange.”

“What do you mean, the Friends of Antic Món page? What the hell are you talking about?” Àlex asks in a tone somewhere between aggrieved and intrigued.

Oops. Òscar’s let the cat out of the bag. Evidently, Annette still hasn’t said anything to her boss. Now he’s really put his foot in it.

Àlex starts putting two and two together. Those comments from customers that he didn’t understand, when they asked for a free whisky after correctly guessing the ingredients in his dishes… They said they’d read about it on Facebook, and he, being so busy, didn’t pay much attention. Of course he didn’t give away any drinks. The customers were quite irked when they left, but at least they congratulated him on his cooking.

“Àlex, I see that Annette hasn’t told you anything. I can’t fill you in because I think she’s the one who’s got to tell you. But when she tells you, don’t blow your top or patronize her, because she’s done this with the best of intentions,” a contrite Òscar says.