Andie went in search of a coffee shop, she needed caffeine to help her think. It was no use calling Jess again, she didn’t know where they were going either. There was only one person who could tell her that. She and Dominic had exchanged mobile numbers the other night – which had felt significant in itself – so she took out her phone and scrolled to find his number. She sat contemplating it as she sipped her coffee. Should she really call him to ask him what to wear? Would it sound ridiculous? Would it be better than looking ridiculous later? She conjured up a mental picture of Dominic in jeans, and her in a formal dress, or her in jeans and him in a suit. She pictured his face. Andie held her breath and pressed Call.
He picked up after a few rings. ‘Hello, Andie?’ He sounded tentative.
‘Hi.’
‘Is everything all right for tonight?’ he asked.
‘Yes and no. Please don’t think I’m silly, but I don’t know what to wear.’
Andie heard a loud sigh, and then he started to laugh.
‘Don’t laugh at me.’
‘I’m not, I’m laughing out of relief. I thought you were calling to cancel.’
He was relieved . . . He was worried she might cancel . . . that was actually quite sweet.
Hold on . . . exactly how much stock was he putting into this date?
‘Casual is fine,’ he was saying. ‘Or, actually, you can wear whatever you like, if you want to get more dressed up, I’ll —’
‘I’m happy with casual,’ she interrupted him.
‘Okay. So I’ll see you at seven?’
‘Are you sure you still want to come all the way over here?’
He had insisted the other night that he would pick her up, even after she told him where she was living. It was quite an act of chivalry, her mother would have been impressed. Then again, Andie wondered later if he was just worried about her drinking and driving.
‘It’s already settled,’ he said. ‘See you at seven.’
‘Okay.’
Andie glanced at the clock again; it was almost seven, only a minute or two away. She had been ready for forty-five minutes, and that was after several complete changes of hairstyle and one full makeup reapplication. So at a quarter past six she found herself pacing the kitchen floor, wearing the most expensive pair of jeans she had ever owned in her life, and a much more moderately priced top, and dying for a glass of wine to calm her mounting nerves. But she worried Dominic might be able to smell it on her breath, not that she was assuming he was going to get that close, but alcohol was more noticeable on someone else when you hadn’t been drinking yourself. Then she had a debate with herself for ten minutes about what was the problem anyway, and just because he obviously had a thing about drinking and driving didn’t mean he was anti-alcohol altogether – he was head chef at a licensed restaurant for godsakes – and so finally she had that glass of wine and then spent another ten minutes brushing her teeth and rinsing her mouth and applying more perfume so she didn’t smell like a toothpaste factory.
Why was she putting herself through this? Dressing up, worrying about her breath, going on a date with her boss . . . Going on a date, full stop.
Finally there was a knock at the door.
It was Dominic, not surprisingly. He was wearing jeans and a dark collared shirt . . . Okay, why was it that he seemed to be getting better looking every time she saw him? What was that about? Was her mind playing tricks on her?
‘Hi,’ he smiled at her. ‘You look . . . just right.’
Like Goldilocks.
Despite Andie’s trepidation, the conversation flowed throughout the drive over the bridge and beyond. Dominic asked her lots of questions about where she grew up, went to school, that kind of thing, with none of the intrusive tone of Christmas Day – giving her the cue to ask similar questions of him, questions that didn’t require information about past relationships or anything else potentially touchy. And so they made it all the way to Bondi without any obvious awkwardness; faux pas count – nil.
Before the road took them down to the beachfront, Dominic pulled over at a small shopping centre, right in front of a restaurant that appeared to be closed. Andie peered out through the car window at the name on the door – Elliot’s. She’d heard of this place, it had created quite a buzz. They didn’t take bookings, and had people queuing around the block on weekends. There was no queue tonight, and the building was in darkness. Maybe this was just a convenient parking spot, and they were going somewhere further along. Dominic was already walking around to the passenger side, and he held the door open as Andie stepped out onto the kerb. She looked further up the block, but it seemed very quiet. It was a Monday night after all, not exactly a big night for dining out.
‘So, here we are,’ Dominic announced, turning to face the restaurant.
‘It doesn’t look like it’s open,’ said Andie.
He gave her a smile. ‘It isn’t, at least not to the general public.’
He led her around to the side of the building where a light shone above an alcove and another entrance. Dominic knocked loudly on the door, and Andie heard a muffled call from inside. Presently the door burst open.
‘It’s about bloody time,’ declared the man who appeared in the doorway.
‘What are you talking about? It’s just on seven-thirty now,’ Dominic protested, glancing at his watch.
‘I’m saying it’s about bloody time you finally bothered to make an appearance at my restaurant,’ he said, with a friendly thump on Dominic’s shoulder, to which Dominic responded with a shove, and which finally morphed into a man-hug with the whole mandatory backslapping thing.
Look at that . . . Dominic had a mate?
His friend turned to Andie. ‘And you are a bonus, my dear,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘To whom do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Andie Lonergan,’ said Dominic, ‘I would like to introduce my very charming, and oldest friend in the world, Elliot Mason.’
Andie shook his hand. ‘It’s great to meet you, Elliot,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard wonderful things about this place.’
‘Why thank you, and for that I’ll even let you inside.’
They bypassed the restaurant proper and followed Elliot into the brightly lit kitchen.
‘My, my,’ he said, smiling at Andie. ‘I can see why you’ve waited so long, Dom, you were obviously holding out for someone perfect.’
Andie felt herself blushing, and she didn’t know where to look.
‘Happy now?’ said Dominic. ‘You’ve embarrassed my date.’
‘Sorry, Andie,’ said Elliot. ‘I’ve always been a sucker for a beautiful woman. You didn’t tell me how beautiful, Dom.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t really noticed.’
Andie smiled at that.
‘But speaking of beautiful women, how are Sally and Ava?’
‘Exceptional,’ Elliot replied. ‘Sal wants to know when you’re coming to visit your goddaughter, before she grows so much you won’t recognise her.’
Dominic turned to Andie. ‘Sally is Elliot’s wife, she’s far too good for him, but thankfully their baby girl, Ava, takes entirely after her mother.’
‘You have a baby?’ Andie cooed.
‘That’s code for “you want to see a photo” right?’ said Elliot, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He flipped it open and passed it to Andie.
She gazed at the picture of the blonde blue-eyed infant. ‘Oh my God, she’s so gorgeous.’
‘Told you, she takes after her mother.’
‘You’ll keep,’ Elliot said to Dominic.
‘I feel bad that you’re here cooking for us on your night off,’ said Andie. ‘You should be home with your wife and baby.’
‘I had the day with them,’ he assured her, ‘and this boofhead hasn’t set foot in my restaurant yet so I had to get him here while I had the chance. But Sal said next time you’ll both have to come to our place for dinner.’
Andie glanced sideways at Dominic. What did he think about all this talk o
f ‘next time’ and cosy dinners with other couples? He seemed unfazed.
‘So what are you going to feed us tonight?’ he was asking Elliot.
‘Well, I hope you don’t mind, Andie, I was planning to experiment a little,’ he said. ‘It’s too good an opportunity with him here, I have to make the most of it.’
‘When you say experiment . . .’ Dominic said warily.
Elliot launched into a rapturous account of the milk-fed venison he had lately sourced, the cheek of which he planned to gently poach in a stock made from its own marrow, and serve with a crème fraîche blended with Jerusalem artichokes on a bed of truffle soil.
Andie was speechless.
‘You enjoyed that, did you, El?’ said Dominic. ‘Little joke at my expense?’
Now Andie was confused.
‘What are you really cooking?’ Dominic persisted.
‘Paella . . . with my own inimitable twist, of course.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Dominic.
‘So there’s no milk-fed venison cheek?’ asked Andie.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Elliot, ‘we shouldn’t be having private jokes.’
‘You see, Andie,’ Dominic explained, ‘Elliot favours a rustic style of cooking —’
‘Good, honest, time-honoured recipes using real food,’ he broke in. ‘Whereas Dom is into food as art, the kitchen as laboratory . . .’
‘I’m not into it,’ Dominic defended. ‘It’s what people expect at the top end of fine dining.’
‘If we’re going to have this argument again, I better get us drinks first.’
‘I’m driving,’ said Dominic. ‘I’ll wait for dinner.’
‘Then I hope you’ll have a drink with me, Andie?’ said Elliot. ‘Why didn’t you guys just come by cab?’
‘That’s my fault,’ said Andie. ‘I live miles away, up in Roseville, though I hope not for much longer.’
‘White, red, bubbles?’ Elliot asked her, standing in front of the glass-fronted refrigerator.
‘You choose, I’ll drink anything,’ said Andie, before she could stop herself. ‘Anything in moderation, of course,’ she added lamely.
‘Anything it is, then,’ said Elliot, grabbing a bottle of white wine. ‘So why do you hope you won’t be in Roseville for much longer?’
Andie explained the situation in brief, her father dying, and the house needing to be sold, while neatly sidestepping any mention of her marriage collapsing.
‘So now I have a few weeks to find somewhere to live,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t give you much time,’ said Elliot, passing her a glass of wine.
‘I know, but there wasn’t any point looking over Christmas, especially around here.’
‘You want to move over this way?’
Andie nodded, taking a sip of her wine. ‘This is lovely, thank you.’
‘I might have a lead for you,’ said Elliot. ‘Right here in Bondi.’
‘Seriously?’ said Andie.
‘Yeah, one of the young guys working here, he wants to move in with his girlfriend. Her flatmate just left, and she can’t afford the place on her own, but he can’t break his lease. So they’re stuck paying for both places, and she’s going to have to get someone in to share again.’
‘Why doesn’t she just move in with him?’
‘Place is too small.’ Then Elliot winced. ‘Ah, sorry, I should have said, it’s only a studio.’
‘No, that’s perfect,’ Andie exclaimed. ‘That’s exactly what I was looking for.’
‘Serendipity,’ he declared. ‘Well, I can’t promise anything, but last I heard he was putting the word out for someone to take over his lease. Give me your number before you leave tonight, I’ll see what’s going on tomorrow and get back to you.’
‘That’d be so great, Elliot. Thank you.’
He smiled. ‘I aim to please.’
‘Do you aim to start cooking any time soon?’ asked Dominic.
‘If you get off your lazy arse and give me a hand.’
‘Can I do anything?’ Andie asked.
‘No, you sit, relax,’ said Elliot. ‘Traditionally paella is made by men, on a Sunday, to give the women a day off from cooking.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Andie.
‘It’s really peasant food,’ Elliot was saying. ‘They used to cook it up in a big paella pan – the paellera – over an open fire outside, and they’d put in anything they had on hand, or that they’d caught in the fields. Originally it included chicken, rabbit, ground snails, even field rats.’
‘Oh God, what are you planning to put in it?’ Dominic looked suspicious.
Elliot grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t been catching rats out in the back alley. Whenever paella is made by the sea, it includes seafood, so as we are by the sea, this paella will have prawns.’
‘Not mussels? Aren’t they traditional?’ said Dominic. ‘I remember having paella with mussels in Spain.’
‘I’m not as fussed on mussels,’ said Elliot. ‘I mean they look great in the dish, but then you’ve got to make a mess pulling them apart. Really, the three most important elements are the broth, the rice, which has to be calasparra, and the saffron. If you get them right, you can bung in anything you like. So along with these fantastic tiger prawns, I’m also going to add chorizo, and – wait to be impressed, Dom – jamón ibérico de bellota.’
‘Okay, I’m impressed.’
‘I’d like to be impressed too,’ said Andie, feeling like they were speaking in a foreign language. Which they were, come to think of it.
‘It’s Spanish ham,’ Dominic explained. ‘Arguably the best in the world.’
‘But that’s not all, Andie,’ said Elliot. ‘It only comes from black Iberian pigs that range free in the oak forests on the border of Spain and Portugal, and for the final period before slaughter they are fed solely on acorns.’
Andie frowned. ‘Okay, so this is another one of your private jokes?’
They both laughed. ‘No,’ Elliot assured her. ‘Although I know it sounds like something wanky that’d be served in Dom’s kitchen, just wait until you taste it.’
Andie sat back, sipping her wine and watching the two men cook, as they riffed off each other, bouncing insults and one-liners with the synchronicity that came only after years of friendship.
‘Now, the final secret of a good paella is the layer of toasted rice at the bottom of the pan,’ said Elliot. ‘At the end of cooking, you place the pan over a high flame and listen for the rice toasting. Once the aroma wafts upwards, remove it from the heat,’ he said, lifting the pan and setting it down on the bench. He covered it with a tea towel. ‘The towel will absorb the remaining broth, and it’ll be ready to eat in about five minutes.’
He placed it on the centre of the chef’s table and passed around bowls so they could dish up themselves.
‘I’d like to serve it like this in the restaurant,’ said Elliot. ‘To have parties of four or even six order it for the table. I don’t know if it’ll work.’
‘This is so good,’ Andie said, savouring her first forkful.
‘What’d I tell you?’ said Elliot. ‘This is real, unadulterated —’
‘You can’t say it’s unadulterated,’ Dominic scoffed. ‘It has been cooked, it’s what separates us from the animals.’
‘But, Andie,’ Elliot appealed to her, ‘isn’t this better than eating some indistinguishable, tortured piece of something or other, placed on the plate like a work of sculpture rather than a meal?’
‘If you’re referring to Dominic’s food, I’m the wrong person to ask, because I think it’s extraordinary,’ said Andie.
‘Ha, good choice of word – “extra-ordinary”. Out of this world. Like sci-fi, or postmodern art.’
‘So what if it’s like art?’ she said. ‘The best art fills the senses, excites, makes you see things in a different way.’
Dominic nudged Elliot. ‘What she said.’
‘All due respect, I don’t know
that I agree,’ said Elliot. ‘I reckon fine dining has become more like those fashion shows. Regular people wouldn’t be seen dead in what they parade on the catwalk, in fact, most of it’s unwearable.’
‘Maybe,’ said Andie, ‘but surely there’s room for both – food that nurtures and satisfies and feels comforting and familiar. And food that pushes the boundaries, and offers an experience that simpler food can never achieve?’
Elliot looked at Dominic. ‘She’s very diplomatic.’
Andie smiled. ‘So how do you two know each other?’ she asked.
‘I had the misfortune of meeting Elliot at high school,’ said Dominic.
‘What are you talking about?’ he retorted. ‘You only survived high school because of me.’
‘That’s true actually.’
‘He was such a nancy boy,’ said Elliot, ‘straight off the boat from England. If not for me he would have been beaten up on a daily basis.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Dominic admitted. ‘I had to pay him protection money.’
‘No,’ said Andie, ‘I mean, you immigrated from England when you were in high school?’ So that really was an accent, he wasn’t just being pompous. ‘Were you one of those Ten Pound Poms?’
‘How old do you think I am?’ he objected.
But Elliot just laughed. ‘Can you imagine if your old man heard that? That’d make his aristocratic blood boil.’
‘Gerou doesn’t sound very English?’ Andie asked, curious.
‘It isn’t,’ said Dominic. ‘It’s my mother’s name, actually. An odd blend of French and Greek, of all things, but a long way back.’
‘He was still Dominic Chamberlain when I first met him,’ said Elliot.
‘Why did you change it?’
He hesitated. ‘My father and I didn’t see eye to eye on much back then. So in a fit of youthful petulance, I dropped his name for my mother’s. Just to piss him off, really.’
The Secret Ingredient Page 27
