I was tempted to bellow, ‘What do you mean, we haven’t got any …’ adding a string of profanities, but what would have been the use?
The hallmark of a good chef is being able to deal with crises and I am a good chef.
‘Go out to the walk-in, get me a red pepper, an onion, a fennel bulb – and hurry up …’ I snapped, suppressing the urge to scream at him.
Francis stood there rooted to the spot.
I lost my ability to suppress my urges. Time to scream.
‘Please, HURRY UP!’
He didn’t leap into action; he ambled. There are times when I would dearly like to kill Francis.
Jess came into the kitchen and saw my expression, sensed the mood in the air.
‘You OK, Ben?’ she asked.
‘I’m savouring the moment, Jess,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘I’m very much savouring the moment in a mindful way.’
Earlier that day I had been reading an article on mindfulness. Whoever had written it had probably never worked in a commercial kitchen, but I was determined to take their comments on board, regardless.
I crashed a pan on the stove to vent some mindfulness on metal rather than Francis.
Francis returned and handed me the vegetables.
He looked stricken, his plump, red face a mask of contrition. Contrition was no good to me. I gritted my teeth and tried to enjoy the now.
Now was far from enjoyable.
So, while I cooked fifteen meals, (Francis doing the vegetables, silently, miserably, like a kicked dog) I frantically made a red pepper relish, buying time from the table by sending them some pâté and home-made parmesan and rosemary focaccia bread (chef’s compliments).
The relish is supposed to gently cook for about three-quarters of an hour – I had it ready in ten minutes, softening the vegetables in the microwave before frying them, frantically cutting corners. More by luck than judgement, it ended up just fine, but by the end of the night I was a sweaty, angry twitchy mass of nerves covered in sodden chef’s whites.
We sent the last cheque out and silence descended on the kitchen. I started turning the gas rings off on the cooker, shutting down the kitchen, tight-lipped with irritation.
‘I’m sorry, Chef, I was as much use as a chocolate teaspoon …’ Francis looked like he might cry, his lip trembling. He had taken his bandanna off and his very blond hair was plastered to his head like he had been swimming.
Francis was huge, his chef’s whites padded out with muscle.
‘That’s OK, Francis,’ I said, patting him on the back (it was like stroking a horse), ‘but please don’t do it again.’
We cleaned the kitchen down, I sent Francis home, and Jessica and I sat in the small empty restaurant and had a beer. It was becoming a bit of a tradition really, and I had come to enjoy Jess’s company since arriving in Hampden Green.
‘You look terrible,’ she remarked.
I looked at Jess. She didn’t look terrible; she looked refreshed. I wondered how she continued to look full of energy after a long day and night waitressing. Perhaps she had this mindfulness thing down? Jess gave me a look of worried concern and pushed a hand through her dark hair that she fought a constant battle against frizz with. One of the few problems I don’t have is frizzy hair – mainly because I haven’t got any.
Silver linings.
‘I was thinking exactly the same thing this morning, while I was shaving,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should start wearing foundation.’
‘Well, you’ll need more than that,’ she said as she drank some beer, and looked at me with real concern. ‘How many hours have you worked this week?’
I did some mental arithmetic – fifteen hours a day for eight days – but I was too tired to do the sums. ‘A lot.’
‘Ben,’ she said, looking me in the eye, ‘you simply can’t go on like this – you need to hire another chef.’
I took a mouthful of beer. ‘I can’t afford to hire one – if I could, I would.’
Jessica looked unconvinced. ‘You can’t afford not to hire one. Working a hundred and twenty hours in a row—’ Jess, unlike me, was good at maths ‘—is not good for you.’
I smiled, rather bleakly. I knew that we were both right.
Jess drained her beer and stood up, reaching to pull on her coat.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at ten,’ she said. ‘Try and get an early night.’
‘I will.’
She stood looking down at me. ‘Get another chef. You’re killing yourself.’
‘If a miracle happens, I will.’
I watched as she let herself out.
Miracles never happen, I told myself sorrowfully.
The next day on my morning run, I turned in to the path that bordered Ferguson’s Field (I’d been here six months, and I was gradually beginning to learn the names of places).
I was tired, I was short of money and my back ached horribly, but I ran on. I might die exhausted, penniless and in pain but at least I’d die fit and slim.
There was a sheet of blue paper, laminated against the weather and secured to a bush. It was the third such notice I’d seen. Instead of ignoring it and simply wondering what it said, as I had the first two times, I did something clever. I actually stopped and read it. It was a change of usage notification from the council for the field.
My immediate thought was that it was going to be a housing development, which surprised me. The field not only belonged to the Earl, but it also abutted on his garden. I say garden, I should have said ‘gardens’ or estate. It was pretty sizeable. Earl Hampden was well known for his opposition to housing developments, so it seemed most odd he would try to put one up next to where he lived.
I stopped and read the document properly. For three weeks in July the field would host an open-air event with licensed bars. I shrugged and jogged on – it was nothing to do with me.
I lengthened my stride and picked up the pace. It was good to be running on a day like this in the Bucks countryside. The fields bordered with neatly trimmed beech hedges looked great, the trees giving a wonderful canopy of green overhead. It beat being in the kitchen.
All too soon I was back there.
Later, during a lull in the lunchtime service, I asked Francis if he knew anything about the event.
‘Of course, everyone does.’ He looked genuinely astonished at my ignorance. He scratched his head in perplexity.
Everyone except me.
‘It’s the Marlow House Festival,’ he explained.
‘The Marlow House Festival?’
‘Opera, Chef,’ he said. Anyone else might have added this in a condescending way, but not Francis. He was condescension-free.
‘Opera?’ I repeated, somewhat stupidly.
‘Yeah, opera, singing …’ He looked at me, puzzled. I started work on a dessert cheque: a strawberry pavlova with Chantilly cream.
‘I know what opera is, Francis.’
‘Well,’ he began, walking over to the sink and starting to load plates and cutlery