by C. J. Duggan
‘Cecile, the place looks amazing, the restaurant, the lounge reception, it all gleams, and you and Gaston and even Philippe are all so welcoming, but it can’t just be smoke and mirrors. It has to be across the board, and this big-shot chef is going to have Terminator vision for that kitchen.’
I am not sure that Cecile actually understood all of what I was saying, but I think she got my meaning.
She sighed, as if defeated by the logic. ‘Gaspard will be so mad. We cannot afford to lose him.’
I placed my hands on her shoulders, imploring her to look at me.
‘Trust me, Cecile, if you don’t do this then everyone loses.’
Chapter Eight
In order for a good deed to be done, it had to start with a little white lie.
If I was to stand any chance of actually influencing an already established team that was obviously set in its ways then I had to appear as someone with power and knowledge, not merely as a blow-in who would start dishing out orders. I had to be firm but fair, a precarious balance; it would all be in the introduction, the rather fake introduction.
Cecile stood stoically in the kitchen, her back straight and her chin lifted with an air of confidence. We’d had only a few minutes to run over a vague backstory for me, but she’d winked and said, ‘Leave it to me.’
‘Okay, everyone, I want you to officially meet Mademoiselle Claire Shorten. Claire was good enough to come all the way from Melbourne, Australia, to assist us in preparation for one of the most important episodes in Hotel Trocadéro’s existence.’
I breathed in; this was an excellent start.
‘Mademoiselle Shorten has overseen some of the leading restaurants in the world.’
Okay, that’s a bit much, just tone it down a little.
‘She has just come from London to bring her knowledge to you and train you on how to use the best practice in a professional kitchen. I have hired Mademoiselle Shorten because she aims to show Louis Delarue exactly what Hotel Trocadéro is all about.’
Cecile’s speech had them all listening, glancing at each other and straightening. Their expressions went from contempt to something resembling hope, as though I was here to solve all their problems. I felt sick.
Oh, Jesus.
‘So what is it that you will do here? Will you take over Simone’s duties?’ Cathy asked.
I opened my mouth, ready to say yes, but Cecile cut me off.
‘Claire will be our maître d’.’
My head snapped around to Cecile.
‘What?’ I asked quietly.
‘After Claire helps you in the kitchen, she will be at front of house with Cathy to greet our VIP guests for lunch.’ Cecile looked at me, as if pleading with me not to disagree.
Shit.
I smiled.
‘Okay, well, I will leave you to it, Claire. Remember, work together and let’s show them what we are capable of.’
Cecile’s departure was met with guarded silence, then all eyes rested on me.
The one thing I was grateful for was the apparent understanding of English all round. I cleared my throat to speak.
‘Are you a chef?’ Gaspard demanded.
‘No, not at all; maybe you can teach me a thing or two in the kitchen because I am flat out boiling water.’
Francois glanced at Gaspard, seemingly alarmed that I was unable to do something so simple.
‘You cannot boil water?’ Gaspard questioned, equally horrified.
‘Oh, yeah, of course, it was just a joke. I am no chef,’ I stumbled. Christ, I sucked. I calmed my nerves. ‘Listen, I’m not here to tell you what to do, or to try to turn your world upside down. I’m merely a fresh pair of eyes that can help you make things a little easier. It might not get us entirely over the line with the likes of Louis Delarue, but we have to start somewhere.’
‘Like where?’ Francois asked.
‘Well, to start, those boxes behind you, by the door. I think if we collapsed them, stored them away for recycling, there would be a huge amount of space created.’
‘Mademoiselle, this is a French kitchen, we do not have big, fancy spaces,’ said Gaspard.
‘Absolutely, this kitchen is tiny, and that’s not going to change, but we can change how we use the space, and this is where you are going to have to trust me.’
The shuttered look of unease swept over their faces again. Oh boy, this is not going to be easy.
‘Okay, what do we know about Louis Delarue, can someone tell me?’
‘Il est un salaud.’ Cathy laughed, causing the others to titter like school children.
‘Okay, help me out here, pretend you are translating for Simone,’ I said, trying to keep things light.
‘Half the time we didn’t translate for her,’ said Francois with a boyish smile.
Cathy sighed. ‘It means, “he is a complete bastard”.’
Just like I’d feared.
‘And how do you think he would react, coming in here and seeing the kitchen like it is now?’
‘We are cleaning out the cool room,’ said Francois.
‘Which is an excellent start, but we have to do more. In less than four hours he will be here and he will be eating and no doubt bursting through that kitchen door to meet the staff who have just served him lunch. Gaspard, do you have a menu set for him?’
‘Oui.’
‘Good. Cathy, is the room prepped – fresh linen, polished cutlery, wine glasses?’
‘The last of the breakfast guests have left. We have to clear it.’
‘Okay, well, we need lunch to be off limits to the public and available only to this VIP luncheon. Is there a way to close off the restaurant to the lounge?’
Cathy straightened, a light shining in her eyes. ‘Oui.’
‘Excellent, let’s do that; it’s only for the day. Can you go run it by Cecile and tell her what we have planned?’
Cathy didn’t hesitate, brushing past me to push through the door. I let the feeling of adrenalin wash through me as my rambling directions seemed to be producing action.
‘Francois, we’ll work on cleaning out the last of the breakfast stuff; we’ll start there and then finish with the cool room.’
Francois moved and I could feel my heart soar. It was now just me and a none-too-pleased-looking Gaspard. I steeled myself, walking over to stand before him.
‘Gaspard, let’s put your kitchen on the map.’
Something lit in his eyes, taking the darkness away, replacing it with something very sincere. He cared, I could see it; for the first time in possibly a long time someone was challenging him, ever so softly, but it was a start. All he had to do was work with me.
‘You ready?’
‘Plus que jamais,’ he said with a little smile.
I stood there trying to read if what he had said was a good or bad thing until Francois came to stand beside me with a handful of plates.
‘He said “more than ever”.’
And with that translation, I knew that this was definitely the start of something.
Chapter Nine
There was a tiny, murky window in the swinging kitchen door that I had to stand on my tiptoes to see through into the restaurant. It was how I had planned to view the entire lunch. Cecile may have painted me as a maître d’ extraordinaire, but I was nothing of the kind. I wanted to empower Cathy to take the lead: she spoke the language and this was her world. I was happy to help with keeping the benches clear so Francois could be Gaspard’s right-hand man. I knew that when the heat was on there would be no time for translating for me; they just had to do what they had to do in order to get the food up to the pass. The kitchen was almost unrecognisable in that there was now bench space, and a good mopping of the floor had made it look ten shades lighter. A bit of elbow grease and some tough-love decisions to clear out the cool room had really decluttered the space. Cecile came to inspect the final product, and by the look on her face, I think she most definitely approved.
I vigorously rubbed a stain off
the counter. ‘Cecile, are we able to get some fresh flowers from nearby? I think it would really enhance the linen.’
She smiled. ‘I will see to it,’ she said, disappearing.
As far as the lunchtime menu being any good, I couldn’t say; the extent of my food knowledge from the kitchen had been a continental breakfast. Still, the pistou soup Gaspard had been working on smelt delicious. With a new plan put in place, I could tell his spirit had been lifted. He’d even helped take out the boxes. He now stirred his soup, humming a tune and lighthearedly tapping the edge of the pot. Francois seemed suitably nervous, continuously wiping down surfaces and looking at the clock. Even Cathy seemed quiet, thoughtful. Nerves were a good sign: it meant they cared.
‘Now, remember, it’s VIP only so we have to serve – how many, Cathy?’
‘Six are coming.’
‘So that’s eighteen meals, tops. You got this, eighteen’s nothing, you probably do twice that for lunch every day.’
‘Actually, we don’t do many lunches, or dinners. Most people choose to eat out,’ added Francois.
Okay, now was not the time for him to be telling me this. I really didn’t want to think about how unprepared they really were.
‘Well, now’s our chance to really put on a show,’ I said.
‘Well, Mr Flash Man better not come into this kitchen insulting my food, otherwise I will sit him on his backside,’ Gaspard said, waving his wooden spoon. Gaspard was probably five foot three at most; I doubt he would be sitting anyone on their arse, wooden spoon or not.
‘Remember, Gaspard, even if he comes in saying the nastiest things about your great-great-grandmother’s secret recipe, you will be nice, polite and courteous.’
Francois smiled at Gaspard, who waved me away.
‘I mean it, I want you all to be nice. Francois what is “nice” in French?’
‘Agrèable.’
‘Agre-a-ble,’ I repeated in my worst French accent.
Francois nodded. ‘Bien joui – well done.’
I lifted my shoulder like it was no big deal. I could get a handle on this whole French language, I thought, feeling a new level of confidence surge inside me, until the swinging of the kitchen door collected me and a breathless Philippe appeared.
‘He’s here. Louis Delarue is here.’
‘Oh God.’ I swallowed, turning to the equally frozen, wide-eyed staff. ‘If we get through this – I mean, when we get through this, remind me to get you to teach me some swear words in French.’
Gaspard laughed. ‘Mademoiselle Shorten, something tells me you are going to know a few before the day is out.’
‘Of that, Gaspard, I have no doubt.’
None whatsoever.
‘Battle stations, everyone’ seemed like a bit of a dramatic thing to announce, but it’s exactly what it felt like: a battle. For me it was a faceless battle; I’d convinced myself it was an advantage to not know who the hell this tyrant Louis Delarue was. I was nervous because the atmosphere not just in the kitchen but in the entire hotel had been so toxic. I could see the fear in their eyes, the anxious glances at clocks and the shifting into panicked chaos, knowing he was here. That Louis Delarue had arrived.
I asked Cathy, ‘Are you okay to do this?’
She nodded a bit too eagerly, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
‘You got this, Cathy; remember, this is your restaurant, you know it better than anyone. We’re all here behind this door ready to do whatever you tell us, and remember, he’s just man, a normal man underneath the act. Just be cool.’
She looked at me as if I were a raving lunatic. ‘He is not just a man, Claire. He is a god,’ she said, shaking her head. She took a moment to calm herself before pushing through into the restaurant. There was nothing I could do or say now, to her or anyone; the chips would fall where they would fall.
I wanted desperately to look through the window, but knew that was very unprofessional. With only the quiet bubbling of the soup pot on the stove, I could hear the muffled voices in the restaurant – more importantly, I could hear the upbeat welcome of Cathy’s voice, so light and breezy. I swear she never spoke to me that way at breakfast. She was really turning on the charm – excellent.
Francois and Gaspard were wedged right next to me at the door, trying to listen in.
‘Okay,’ I whispered. ‘In this Renovation or Detonation show, what usually happens? Does he come into the kitchen and introduce himself or does he eat first?’
‘Well, they don’t show him meeting like this, but when the show happens he always eats first,’ said Francois.
‘Okay, and are there times when the food is not to his liking?’
Francois eyed a grim-faced Gaspard before looking back. ‘He never likes the food.’
‘What? Like, ever?’
‘Ever.’
Okay, probably not the best conversation to kick things off with.
I swallowed. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’
And just as I was about to give them another ‘you got this’ speech, the kitchen door was flung open, affording me the briefest glimpse of suited men and one woman seated at the table.
Cathy came into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed and her hands shaking as she held her notepad – a blank notepad.
‘You haven’t written any orders down?’ I asked.
‘He said I shouldn’t use a notepad, that it screamed of incompetence,’ she said, trying not to let the tears well in her eyes.
‘What, does he expect you to memorise their order?’ asked Gaspard, outraged.
‘I can’t memorise them now: the menu has just changed,’ she said, on the verge of hysteria.
‘Okay, Cathy, listen to me. This is a test, he is testing you, pushing you, okay? Write down the orders, and take every bit of criticism on the chin and smile like you mean it. Thank him for any piece of wisdom he parts with. The sooner you get the orders, the sooner we can get them fed and out of here.’
Cathy listened to each of my words in a way she had never done before. I was proud that she was becoming more visibly calm.
‘Here, Cathy.’ Francois passed her a basket of bread.
She took it, brushing her fringe out of her eyes and straightening her spine.
‘Good girl, now go get those orders,’ I said, rubbing her shoulder as she pushed back into the restaurant; this time I made sure to get a better look at the table. Even at a glimpse I knew which one Louis was – I could tell merely by the body language. He sat at the head of the table, his back toward the kitchen; every other person at the table was turned to him, captivated by his presence. He waved his hand animatedly in conversation, and the door closed just as laughter erupted, no doubt from a witty little anecdote about his life. I rolled my eyes. What a bunch of kiss arses.
I didn’t know exactly why his reputation preceded him, but the fact that he had everyone so rattled was enough for me to despise the man. And then I had to remind myself, be nice – be agre-a-ble – and I had almost convinced myself that I could be just that, until Cathy walked back through the door and burst into tears.
Agre-a-ble was about to go out the window.
Chapter Ten
How was this happening? How was the ship sinking so fast? Not one order had been taken, not one ounce of food was being prepped.
‘He wants to know where the fresh fish is from.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said under my breath. It was also a detail that had me kicking myself; of course he wanted to know about the produce. I had been so determined that the kitchen not be a health violation there had been no time to talk about memorising menus or where produce came from. Turning to Gaspard, I said, ‘Where do you get your fish from, Gaspard?’
He shifted, as if deeply uncomfortable by the question.
‘Do you get it from the local fish monger or the market? Where?’
‘It gets delivered.’
‘Okay, by whom?’
‘I can’t remember the name
.’
I felt dread building inside me. ‘But it’s fresh, yeah? Where is it kept? I didn’t see it in the cool room.’
‘It’s in the box freezer in the courtyard,’ added Francois, rather sheepishly.
‘What?’ I said, snatching the menu from Cathy’s hands and reading what I was afraid of reading. ‘It says fresh fish on the menu.’
‘Oui, it is fresh when it is frozen,’ defended Gaspard.
I closed my eyes, turning away, only to open them and stare at the kitchen door. ‘My God, we are going to be absolutely crucified.’
‘What do I tell him?’ asked Cathy, her eyes wide with panic, as she was the one who had to face the firing squad.
‘Tell him the truth.’
‘What? That I don’t know where it comes from?’
A chill ran through me, hearing her saying it out loud.
‘Why does he need to know the specifics?’ asked Francois.
‘Because something tells me he is the kind of man who would have great pleasure in finding out the truth behind a lie.’
Cathy’s hand rested on the door; she was looking at me as if she was waiting for me to change my mind. I shrugged. ‘Tell him.’
Poor Cathy entered the firing line again, and again she was sent back with a question about the menu. Each time she returned, a little piece of me died. The morale in the kitchen was at an all-time low. I was preparing myself for Gaspard, who was taking his rage out on his pot set, to untie his apron and tell Louis Delarue exactly where he could shove his questions.
‘Keep it down,’ I told him. ‘If you have anyone you want to be angry at, try looking in the mirror. If your staff aren’t trained because you don’t know the answers to your menu then don’t go chucking a hissy fit. You’re the one who is responsible.’
I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth. Gaspard looked at me as if he wanted to cut me into tiny pieces, and with his access to sharp knives I thought he might do just that, before the door opened once more. We all turned, almost accustomed to the dread of Cathy’s next question, but there was something different this time; she was almost smiling as she waved the forbidden handwritten order in her hand.
