The Secret Ingredient

by Dianne Blacklock

  ‘Andie,’ she said. ‘Short for Andrea.’

  He shook his head. ‘Chef’s not going to like that.’

  He’s not going to like her name? What was she supposed to do, change it?

  ‘Doesn’t matter, he mostly uses surnames anyway.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ said Andie. ‘Is Tang your surname?’

  He smiled, flashing a perfectly even row of white teeth. ‘Lee’s my surname, but Tang is what comes last. Chinese,’ he shrugged. ‘Everyone here calls me Tang.’

  ‘Okay, Tang.’

  ‘You can leave that,’ he said, glancing at the kit she was carrying. ‘You won’t need it. Chef personally selects all the equipment, he doesn’t like anyone bringing their own gear into his kitchen.’

  So Chef was a fascist as well as pompous. Joy. Andie sighed inwardly as she placed her kit, along with her handbag, in the locker.

  ‘And you’ll have to change your jacket, we have a uniform.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Andie. She hadn’t even succeeded in looking the part.

  Tang gave Andie a quick appraisal up and down, and walked over to a double-fronted cabinet, opening the doors back. He scanned the shelves inside, drawing out a folded jacket wrapped in plastic, then a hat from the top shelf.

  ‘Here you go, these should fit,’ he said.

  Andie looked doubtfully at the pillbox-style hat. She had already plaited her hair back at home, using about a thousand bobby pins to try to flatten it against her head. ‘You don’t have any of the snood-style hats?’ she asked.

  Tang shook his head. ‘Chef doesn’t like them, he thinks they look sloppy.’

  Chef sounded like a pain in the arse.

  ‘Come find me outside when you’re ready,’ Tang said as he headed for the door.

  ‘Thank you, Tang.’

  Andie changed quickly, shoving her things into the locker. The pillbox hat was a snug fit, but she eventually forced it into place. If this worked out, she really should think about getting her hair cut. Ross wouldn’t like it, but it was impractical for a chef to have hair this long. Oh God, she was going to be a chef again. She hurried back out to the kitchen, relieved to see that Tang was hovering close by, waiting for her, and that the haughty Dominic Gerou was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Okay, Andie,’ said Tang, ‘let’s put you to work.’

  He set her up at a station at the end of a bench, with a pile of onions in front of her. She sighed again, but quietly, to herself. This was an apprentice’s job, a first-year apprentice at that. She realised she had to start somewhere, but why, oh why, did it have to be onions?

  ‘Sliced or diced?’ she asked Tang.

  ‘Dice for now,’ he replied. ‘I’ll keep an eye on you, let you know when you can move on to something else. Just depends which sections get busy. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything, I’ll be floating around.’

  Andie turned to the pile of onions. She picked up a knife from the magnetic strip running the length of the wall behind, glancing along the bench. She was one of four chefs in the row, all dutifully chopping vegetables as though their lives depended on it. She reached for an onion and scored the outer layer. Andie really hated chopping onions, though she supposed nobody actually enjoyed it. It took her a while to get into a rhythm, chopping almost as fast as she’d learned more than a decade ago. She should have practised at home. Her eyes started to sting. She paused, pressing them together for a moment.

  ‘Everything okay?’ said Tang, passing behind her.

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Half an hour later she had a tidy mound of chopped onions on her board, and tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough.’

  It was the plummy voice. Andie turned slowly and looked up. Chef was regarding her efforts with unconcealed disdain.

  ‘How long has it been since you’ve worked in a commercial kitchen?’ he demanded.

  She swallowed. ‘Oh, it’s been . . . a while.’

  Tang appeared beside him. ‘Move her along, get someone to take over here,’ he snapped, before walking off.

  Thank goodness for that.

  ‘Okay,’ Tang said. ‘Let’s get you some practice.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ she said gratefully.

  ‘Practice’ involved more chopping, slicing, tearing lettuce, transferring baked bread to a wire rack, and just about any menial unskilled task Tang could find for her. Chef appeared every so often, frowning at her and ordering Tang to find her something else to do. Andie was getting anxious, he seemed to be judging her without giving her much of a chance. Okay, so her speed wasn’t great, but her technique was fine, and she was doing her best. It was only a tryout, after all, her first night. She needed time to get into the swing of things. At least Tang was kind and polite, but she could detect a hint of mild curiosity on his face, as if to say, what the hell are you doing here?

  Andie was wondering the same thing. Her legs ached, her arms were sore, she’d forgotten how much plain, hard, monotonous work was involved in a commercial kitchen, especially one this size. The restaurant had a hundred seats, and there were two sittings a night. There were also private dining rooms and two function rooms, both of which had been booked for cocktail parties that night, so a small team was preparing canapés. Tang told her it was particularly busy for a Thursday. Once dinner service had commenced, Andie was stationed in front of vast vats of oil that kept spitting at her, lifting heavy racks whenever the timer went off, and hooking them on the edge to drain. She was hot and tired and dishevelled. She could be at home right now, relaxing with a glass of wine. What was she trying to prove? Maybe she was too old to go back to train as a chef. Jess was right, it wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be.

  ‘Andie,’ Tang said from behind her.

  Thank God, he was moving her on again. She turned around, pushing a stray strand of hair off her face.

  ‘Now you’ll have to wash your hands.’ Dominic Gerou was standing beside Tang, glaring down at her. ‘And fix your hat so it doesn’t happen again.’

  He charged off, and Tang cocked his head urgently for her to follow after him. She caught up with Chef at the sink, where he stood, barely disguising a scowl, his arms crossed in front of him. She looked up at him expectantly.

  ‘So fix your hat first,’ he said impatiently, ‘then wash your hands.’

  Andie started to readjust her hat, tucking her hair right up out of the way. Blasted hair had a will of its own.

  ‘There’s a very precise chain of command here,’ Chef barked at her. ‘I am at the top, and you are at the bottom, which means you take orders from everyone, and I mean everyone, in between.’

  She nodded. It’s not as though she’d been arguing the point with anyone. She finished with her hair and turned around to the sink, flicking on the tap.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Andie.’

  ‘What sort of a name is that?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s my name.’

  ‘If you were an eight-year-old boy.’

  ‘It’s short for Andrea.’

  ‘What’s your surname?’

  ‘Corcoran.’

  She thought she heard him swear under his breath.

  ‘I am a fully qualified chef,’ Andie said. ‘Just so you know,’ she added timidly.

  ‘What are you trying to say, that what you’ve been doing so far is beneath you?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t saying that,’ she said, reaching for the paper towel. ‘I just thought you should be aware of my qualifications.’

  ‘Oh I should, should I?’ he returned. ‘Perhaps you don’t realise what a trial is all about. I have to be assured that you can do all the basics, that you have the requisite skills.’

  ‘I’m just saying, these seem to be first-year apprentice tasks.’

  ‘And yet you’re not handling them all that well.’

  ‘I’m a little rusty, a little slow, that’s all.’

  He paused,
considering her. ‘So you can debone a chicken?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘A qualified chef should be able to debone a chicken,’ he said brusquely. ‘Follow me.’

  Andie tossed the paper towel into the bin and scuttled after him.

  ‘Cosmo,’ he called ahead.

  Cosmo, she presumed, turned around. ‘Yes, Chef.’

  ‘Corky here tells me she’s a qualified chef,’ he said. ‘She can work your section for a while.’ He turned and walked away.

  Corky? Where did he get off?

  ‘Hello, Cosmo,’ she said. ‘My name’s actually Andie.’

  He gave her a knowing smile. ‘Okay, Andie. Let’s get you set up.’

  A few minutes later Andie stood contemplating a whole chicken on the bench in front of her, a deboning knife in one hand, and a lump the size of Tasmania lodged in her throat. Why did she have to go and open her big mouth? They had learned how to debone a chicken at TAFE. She recalled making a bit of a mess of it, but she’d passed her assessment and she’d never had to do it again. Well, she’d cut the flesh from a chicken before, of course, many times, to finish with eight to ten separate fillets. But Cosmo instructed that she had to end with a single, perfectly opened butterfly. Shit, she really should have put some practice in at home. But even if she had, she was doubtful that she would have thought to practise deboning a chicken. Shit!

  Okay, Andie, let logic and common sense prevail. Proceed slowly, with care . . .

  But her mother’s voice echoed in her head . . . If you just took your time and used your head, Andrea, you wouldn’t make so many mistakes . . . You know the thing I find most disappointing? You never really push yourself, do you? It’s all very well to be pretty, Andrea, but it’ll only get you so far . . .

  Andie blinked back tears as she cut into the chicken flesh, trying to slide the point of the knife as close to the bone as she could manage. She wasn’t that bad, she kept telling herself, she was just a little rusty, that’s all . . . Dominic Gerou was an arrogant arse. This was too much pressure, she needed to ease herself in . . . a smaller kitchen . . . a nicer head chef. Where was Tang?

  ‘What in Christ’s name are you doing?’

  It was Chef again, looming over her.

  ‘You’re supposed to debone it, not massacre it.’ He snatched it up, almost waving the mangled carcass in her face. ‘You’ve ruined it, look! The flesh is all bruised and hacked. We can’t use this. Cosmo!’ he boomed.

  ‘Chef!’

  ‘See if you can salvage anything out of this, some fillets maybe.’

  ‘Right, Chef.’

  ‘And you —’

  But Andie was already walking away.

  ‘Miss!’ He called after her, but she pushed on, weaving and ducking around the other chefs as fast as she could without breaking into a run.

  ‘Andie, where are you going?’

  That was Tang, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t look back, she raced out to the storeroom, reefing off the jacket and dropping it on the floor. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed her stuff out of the locker. She ducked back over to the doorway, pausing to glance down the corridor, fully expecting to see the towering, glowering figure of Dominic Gerou bearing down upon her, but there was no one in sight. Andie didn’t hesitate a moment longer, she made a dash for the exit, pushing down on the heavy metal rail. The door released, and she was free and clear.

  Potts Point

  ‘So, this is it,’ said Ross, standing back as Tasha walked past him into the main room. He was visibly uncomfortable. ‘Okay, you wanted to see the place, now you’ve seen it, so let’s get going.’

  Tasha considered him with an indulgent smile. ‘Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She won’t be back for hours, Rossie, what are you so afraid of?’

  ‘I’m not afraid, Tash. I just think we could be at your place right now . . .’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Fine, I’ll get you a drink,’ he surrendered, walking over to the kitchen.

  Tasha was the one who’d insisted on coming here. She had so little insight into Ross’s real life, she had been desperate to see if it lived up to her imagination. She wandered around, surveying the room. She liked the space. Converted warehouses were becoming passé, but a good decorator could bring it up to date. Some of the furnishings were a little conservative for her taste; that brown chesterfield would definitely have to go.

  ‘Vodka tonic for the lady,’ Ross announced, coming up behind her.

  She turned around as he handed her a glass.

  ‘You’re not having one?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m driving, remember, to your place, as soon as you finish that.’

  She took a sip. ‘Honestly, what is the rush? You haven’t even shown me the bedroom yet.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But I will show you the view.’

  She pouted as she let him lead her over to the window. It was an okay view of the city, but Tasha wasn’t sold. Potts Point was full of old fags, artists and crazy people. The eastern suburbs were sexier. An apartment in Bondi or Tamarama, overlooking the beach, now that she could get used to. The very idea made her hot.

  She turned to Ross, pressing her body into him and looping her arms up around his neck. She felt his hands slide down to cup her butt as she drew his head close and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he murmured against her lips.

  ‘Okay,’ she breathed. ‘Let me just use the bathroom first.’

  Ross had called out once already, she was taking so long. Next time he would come looking. Which was the plan.

  Tasha fluffed out her hair and adjusted herself. Her tits looked great in this corset, they were almost tumbling out of it. The whole ensemble was a knockout. Ross hadn’t seen it yet, she was about to blow his mind.

  ‘Tash, what are you doing?’

  She heard his footsteps approaching. She leaned back on her elbows and uncrossed her legs. She was perched on the corner of the bed – their bed – facing the doorway, her stiletto-clad feet planted on the floor.

  Ross stepped into the room. ‘Tash . . .’

  Andie pulled into the garage of their building and her heart sank when she saw Ross’s car. She had been desperately hoping he wouldn’t be home yet. He’d muttered something about catching up on some work, seeing as she’d be late anyway. She had thought about going somewhere else first, biding her time. But where? Jess had scored another shift at Dalgety’s tonight, and Andie didn’t want to bother Donna and Toby, it was probably Max’s bedtime. In truth she just didn’t want to embarrass herself any further. She wanted to crawl into bed and go to sleep before Ross got home. Or pretend to be asleep so she didn’t have to deal with it tonight. She was mortified. She kept reliving the moment, all the possible alternative endings there could have been to this evening aside from just walking out. Not even walking, nothing so dignified or adult. No, she had run off like a little girl, a frightened, stupid little girl, hopelessly out of her depth.

  Why couldn’t she have just toughed it out? Dominic Gerou was not the first arrogant chef she’d ever worked for, though he was arguably the worst. But she didn’t have to whine ‘I’m a qualified chef’ like a total twit. No wonder he put her to her word. She should have just shut up and taken it on the chin. Things would have got better, gradually, if she had decided to go back. Which was always her choice, after all. She could have taken the mature approach, left a polite message with whoever was appropriate – the owner probably, Ross’s contact – thanking him for his trouble, but advising she was not going to continue. After all, it was only a trial, she was checking the place out as much as being checked out.

  Ross was not going to be happy about this, and Andie couldn’t blame him, she wasn’t happy about it either. But after all the effort he’d made to set it up . . .

  And now she had no choice but to face him
. But maybe he wasn’t home – he didn’t always take his car to work, if he had an early meeting out of the office he often took a cab. She cast her mind back to this morning; he’d left before her, and he hadn’t said anything about calling a cab . . . Andie sighed inwardly. She was only delaying the inevitable with wishful thinking. She was just going to have to walk in there and see the look on his face as it dawned on him that she was home a lot earlier than she should have been.

  She quietly unlocked the door to their apartment, and tiptoed in. She didn’t know why, it’s not as though Ross would be asleep at this time of the night, it was barely eight. She supposed she was subconsciously trying not to be noticed. If only.

  The place was in darkness, the only illumination coming from streetlights outside. She could virtually see the entire apartment from the entrance; it was all one space, except for the bedroom and bathroom. There was a dim light coming from under the bedroom door; Ross might be in the bathroom, or he might be lying on the bed working on his laptop.

  She walked across the living area. ‘Ross?’ she said tentatively.

  No reply.

  She stepped closer, she could hear movement on the bed, then a voice . . . more of a grunt. He was here. She sighed. He had probably nodded off over his laptop, stirring at the sound of her voice. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  It took Andie a minute – would it have been a full minute? – to comprehend the sight that confronted her as she stepped into their bedroom. It was the woman who grabbed her immediate attention, not surprisingly. She was straddled on the bed, stark-naked, bouncing up and down, her dark mop of hair flying all over the place, boobs jiggling in the breeze. It wasn’t until Andie heard Ross’s voice that she realised he was the thing she was straddling.

  He said ‘Andie’, then he said ‘Fuck’. Well, she thought that’s what he said, he kind of gasped the words. He might have been having a heart attack for all she knew, because she had already turned and fled from the room. It occurred to her, as she bolted back across the apartment to the front door, that this was the second time she had run away today, tonight, in the space of an hour probably. It was bizarre.