Crave

by Margaret McHeyzer

  As I walk toward the restaurant, I make a solemn promise to myself that no matter how difficult and uncomfortable things get between that arrogant arse and myself, I’m not going to back down. And I won’t let him drive me away from this job.

  I get to the glass facade of Table One and see Angus inside, talking to a staff member. I knock once on the door, and when he looks over to me, he smiles and holds up a finger indicating I should wait a moment.

  Fidgeting, I straighten my skirt, make sure my jacket is buttoned and run my hand over my hair.

  “Hi, Holly,” he says as he unlocks the door and steps aside, letting me in.

  “Hi.”

  “You look really nervous,” he says, making me feel even more worried and anxious.

  I let out a small laugh, look away from him, and nod.

  “I’ll show you to the staff room, where you can leave your bag. The wait staff has started arriving, we’ll just wait for them all to get here so I can introduce you to them all at once.”

  Angus locks the front door behind me, and holds out his hand to indicate I should head toward the back of the restaurant.

  The moment I step further inside, I’m overwhelmed by strong, delicious smells. “God, that smells really good,” I say before I even realise it.

  “That’s Pierre’s tomato sauce. It’s one of the best I’ve ever had,” Angus replies.

  We walk past the open kitchen, and Pierre’s standing over a stove top adding ingredients into a huge silver pot. His hair is tied up in a small pony tail at the back, and he’s wearing a white chef’s coat with black and white checkered chef pants.

  He flicks a look over his shoulder at me, his cold eyes looking straight into mine. “Pierre,” I say with a small nod, greeting him pleasantly.

  He rolls his eyes and looks away, ignoring me.

  Oh right. This is the way it’s going to be, is it?

  “Nice to see you again,” I say louder, though much calmer and with a touch of mirth in my voice.

  Pierre turns his back and walks away.

  Immature idiot.

  “Sorry about him. He’s not much of a people person, but he really is a great chef,” Angus says, apologising for Pierre’s behaviour. I shrug and smile at him. Not Angus’s fault Pierre is an idiot.

  He leads me to the back staff area and I’m introduced to three women, Catherine, Justine and Maddie. They’re all dressed in identical uniforms, white blouses with black skirts, similar to what I am wearing, save for my jacket. All three greet me warmly.

  “We’re just waiting on Andrew and Michelle, and then we can begin the official introductions,” Angus says. “I’ll just go check with Pierre and make sure he’s ready for the staff meeting.”

  “Holly’s fine, go do your thing,” Justine says as she pulls the chair out from beside her and taps it.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to make my initiation to the rest of the staff as seamless as possible. Inside though, everything is churning nervously.

  “You’re the new maître d’, right? Don’t worry, Pierre isn’t half as scary as he tries to come across. But he does keep to himself,” Justine says with a warm smile.

  “Hmmm, Pierre. I’d do him,” Catherine interrupts with a smirk. My eyes go to hers and I’m not really sure how to react to what she just said. “Oh I would, he’s got the best eyes, and he’s always pissed off which makes me want him more,” she says, shrugging with a little laugh, clearly not embarrassed by her words.

  “Um…alright,” I answer. How does someone actually react to that?

  “He’s alright,” Maddie adds.

  “What about you, Holly? What do you think of our chef?” Catherine asks. All three sets of eyes look at me, eagerly awaiting whatever response I give them.

  “I’m just here to do my job and to do it well,” I answer diplomatically. I can’t exactly tell them I think he’s an arrogant idiot.

  “Watch out for Angus’s hands. Sometimes they like to roam,” Justine leans over and whispers, winking at me.

  “That’s s…” I don’t get a chance to finish saying if Angus does that, it’s sexual harassment and definitely something New South Wales laws would frown upon.

  Two more people walk into the staff room, followed by Angus.

  “Tonight’s going to be a busy night, first because we have two parties of fifteen coming in, but secondly because I’m going to be training Holly. She’s our new maître d’, and this week I’ll be showing her around. She’ll also be shadowing with you all individually, so you can all show her what you do as well. Catherine, I want you on tables’ one through four. Justine and Michelle, I want you on the two parties plus tables five and six. Maddie, you’ve got tables seven through ten and Andrew, you have the rest. Holly and I will be serving drinks and helping where it’s necessary.”

  I watch as everyone nods in agreement.

  “I am here,” Pierre says in his French accent, as if he expects applause.

  My eyes go to Catherine and her cheeks turn a soft pink as her gaze travels down Pierre’s body.

  “The special of the day is roasted pheasant with steamed baby green beans, truffle oil, and heirloom potatoes. The pheasant has been sourced from a farm in Lithgow, and the vegetables are local from Mulgoa. The dessert of the day is deconstructed lemon meringue pie.”

  “And where are the lemons from?” asks Andrew.

  “From my yard. I will bring in the plates for you to try,” Pierre responds as he walks out of the staff room.

  Within a few seconds he comes back in, carrying two plates and another younger guy follows him holding several sets of cutlery.

  “Go back to the kitchen and check the sauce,” Pierre instructs the younger chef.

  “Yes, Chef,” he responds timidly and scurries away.

  Everyone picks up a fork and a knife, and begins to taste the dish. Pierre looks at me and raises an eyebrow, silently asking me why I’m not trying it.

  “You do not like pheasant?” he asks me, pronouncing every word slowly.

  “How is it prepared?”

  “It is a game meat, not too much fat on bird. Must be cooked right or it will dry out,” he answers me, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  Soft moans of appreciation are heard from the others, while knives are scraped across the plate as they try the sides.

  “That’s great, but that’s not an answer to the question I asked. How is it prepared?” I ask again.

  At that moment, the room falls deadly silent, so quiet a hoot of a ferry horn can be heard loud and clear in the restaurant.

  “Holy shit,” I hear one of the girls mumble under her breath.

  “Je vous demande pardon?” Pierre straightens to his full height. He puffs his chest out and lifts his chin. Clearly he’s pissed off with me. I think he just said ‘I beg your pardon’, though I’m not entirely sure.

  “Did you sous-vide it, or smoke it? How did you cook it?” I ask again. Everything inside me tightens in anticipation, fear and nerves both rolling together. But I must not show fear.

  All the eyes in the room swivel between the two of us, waiting for something to be said or happen.

  “It is lightly smoked.”

  “Did you smoke it with wood chips?”

  I see a small twitch of Pierre’s lip, and watch as he runs his tongue over his teeth beneath the skin of his mouth while he arches one eyebrow at me.

  “It is smoked with hot smoke, not cold, for three hours with maple. It adds to the intensity when mixed with the truffle oil. Perhaps if you try it and not ask all these ridiculous questions you will see just how good it is.”

  I hear one of the girls gasp, though my eyes don’t leave Pierre’s.

  “They aren’t ridiculous questions, seeing as our guests may ask the very questions I’m asking you,” I say as I sweep my hand across the room, indicating any of us may be presented that very question when recommending the dish.

  “I will address the customer if they want an in-depth answer.�
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  “If they ask for you, then I’m sure you’d make the time.”

  “Jeez,” Andrew murmurs in a tight, small voice.

  “I am the chef here. I am Chef Pierre. People come here for my food.” I can tell I’m hitting on a sensitive, raw nerve of his.

  “And I don’t dispute that, but we need to be able to answer basic questions, if our guests ask.”

  “Non! You will come and get me and I will answer all questions,” he says, his face is red, his voice is elevated and he looks like he’s teetering on the edge of anger.

  Now I see why this restaurant lost its Michelin star. He’s not focussed on the food, but more on how good he looks to the people dining.

  “I see,” I say, with a small nod of the head.

  “Good, try before it goes cold,” he says as he waves his hand toward the mostly consumed dish.

  I could push him further and tell him I don’t like pheasant, but I think the distinct pulsating vein in his neck may erupt from rage.

  “Thank you,” I say, picking up the last remaining cutlery and cutting a small piece of pheasant.

  The moment the pheasant makes contact with my mouth, the sweet smoke of the maple and the earthy flavour of the truffle oil marry together so smoothly they explode in my mouth. I still feel something’s missing though, an element I can’t quite identify.

  All eyes are on me, eagerly waiting for my reaction.

  “It’s good,” I say as I set my cutlery down.

  “Good?” Pierre furrows his brows together.

  “Yes, very good. Thank you.”

  “Very good?” he questions.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  His jaw tightens, his hands flex for a split second and his shoulders completely tense. “What do you not like about it?” He brings his hand up and rubs his chin.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. What I said was it’s ‘very good’.”

  “There is a difference between very good and exceptional.” He nods toward the rest of the staff. “They all think it is exceptional with groans of appreciation, you take one bite and say it is very good.”

  “It is very good, and thank you for allowing me to try it.”

  “You are difficult and insufferable,” he says and turns his back to me, sliding the deconstructed lemon meringue toward the eager spectators.

  No one tries it; instead their eyes are glued on us. The ruthless onlookers waiting to see what will be said next.

  “You will try, and tell me what you think.” Pierre picks up a dessert fork and hands it to me.

  I take the offered dessert fork and combine all the elements together so I can have a complete taste of the lemon meringue.

  Wow, the intensity and sharpness of the lemons, mixed with airy lightness of the meringue is simply sublime. One of the best sweets I’ve ever tasted.

  “You like?” Pierre asks me.

  Of course it’s impossible to hide my reaction, and truthfully I don’t even try to conceal it. “It’s probably one of the most exquisite desserts I’ve ever tried. The depth of the combination on the plate is nothing less than delectable,” I say, really wanting to dive in and eat the entire thing.

  “Good.” Pierre turns and walks away, going back to his kitchen.

  He’s such an arrogant arse.

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 4

  Pierre

  She dared to question me. And to question me in front of the wait staff? Who the hell does she think she is?

  The tumbler of scotch I’m nursing empties rather quickly.

  I sit in my chair and stare at Eva’s picture. “Can you believe her, mon amour? She is a fool, pretending to be someone she is not. She is just a waitress, nothing more, not a food critic. She knows not what she tastes or she would’ve loved the pheasant, not looked so disappointed when she tasted it.”

  My wife’s eyes smile at me, her body curved toward the camera, her lips turned up in a gentle, carefree grin.

  Closing my eyes I can smell her, the mild aroma of her floral perfume wafts across my nose. Moving me with a tender touch, sparking my blood to remember her and recognise what a beauty she was.

  “I want us to have a baby,” she once whispered to me. “I would love for a little Pierre to join us.” She kissed me, her body melding into mine, telling me how much she wanted to be a mother.

  My eyes open as I reach for the bottle of scotch, pouring more into my now empty tumbler, savouring the sting of the liquid as I once again seek its dulling ways.

  It’s just after 2 a.m. The warmth of the day evaporated some time ago, and a thin blanket of cool air has fallen over the city. Eva’s and my home in Glebe is rather old and sits nestled along a tree-lined road. We bought it because she fell in love with it, saying it had character. The kitchen needed replacing, the bathroom was small and pokey, the carpet throughout was stained and worn, and the walls were all timber panelled. A typical Aussie home renovated in the 70’s.

  “We can renovate and you can have your fancy kitchen,” she said when we were looking through it at the inspection. She twirled in her light yellow sundress and gave me a cheeky peek over her shoulder when she sauntered out of the outdated kitchen.

  Her laughter spoke to me, told me she wanted this house. This is where we were going to have a family and grow old together.

  Now I look around the family room and I’m met with silence, emptiness. No children, no Eva, no love.

  I look back to the bottle and can feel the thump in my heart. It doesn’t mean what it used to when Eva was alive. It only beats out of necessity now and not because it yearns for its life partner.

  “We can make one of the spare rooms into the baby’s bedroom. If it’s a little girl we can paint it purple, and if it’s a little boy we can paint it green,” she said, her eyes full of love as she leaned on my chest with her hands under her chin.

  I remember thinking just how lucky I was, to have such an extraordinary woman to come home to every night.

  “Can we start trying soon?” she asked. Her big green eyes were so full of hope, her face extremely expressive as she bit on her bottom lip eagerly awaiting my answer.

  My selfish answer. Why was I so selfish?

  The bottomless oblivion sucks me in further, an endless darkness surrounding me and keeping me inside the black hole of despair.

  Sleep is something which usually comes to me only after I’ve downed a bottle of scotch or half a packet of pills. But I’ve not touched the tablets for a while. I found they affect the way I think while I’m awake. My reactions are slower and my brain can’t think properly, whereas the alcohol just takes the sting out of living.

  However, sleep has been elusive. It’s something I once enjoyed. I recall a time when I would wake with my wife’s arm over my chest and her leg over my thigh. Or I’d be woken with warm, wet lips making a trail down my body. Stopping to tease me, twirling her raspy tongue on my skin, exciting me and sending me crazy with goose bumps.

  But now, now I sit in the dark and nurse a bottle of scotch, waiting until it’s time to get ready for work.

  It’s the only thing stopping me from ending this thing called life, from giving up on trying to keep my head above water, though my feet are nowhere near the ground.

  A job I go to day in and day out, now the only constant in my life.

  A place where I can forget what I once had, and focus on what I love to do.

  My life is now nothing more than a flickering candle. The wax is melting and the flame is a small, quivering spark. Soon it’ll simply vanish, and I’ll finally collapse into the black hole of eternal peace.

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 5

  Holly

  It’s the last night of training and as of tomorrow, I’m on my own.

  By that, I mean Angus will mostly stay in his office while I take the reins out in the front of the house.

  Tonight has been nothing short of hectic. We’ve had a few large parties that have already come through and we’re waiting for another t
o arrive in half an hour. Our reservation list is at maximum capacity, and tonight everyone’s emotions seem to be running incredibly high.

  I go to the pass-through to make sure all the orders are being collected promptly, and I see a huge smudge of sauce that’s been carelessly dripped on the plate.

  “Chef,” I try and discreetly call Pierre.

  He turns and looks at me, raises an eyebrow and chews on the inside of his cheek.

  “Oui,” he says.

  “This plate is messy.” I push the plate toward him on the pass-through.

  “Impossible, I checked them all myself,” he grumbles while he crosses his arms in front of his chest, defiantly.

  “Please check again, Chef. It appears this one has been missed.”

  “I will not check.”

  “And I won’t let my staff serve it like this, which means it will go cold and you’ll have to remake it.” I pull my shoulders back and stare him down. I’m the mother of a seven-year-old. If he wants a stubborn match, I can damned sure give him that plus more.

  “It is my job to make the food and it is your people’s job to serve the food. Now, go be a good little waitress and deliver the food,” he snaps at me.

  “After you look at the plate and clean it.”

  “You are just making trouble.”

  “Alright, chef, I’ll serve this plate of food. However your reputation is on the line, not mine. Clearly you don’t want that star back.” I pick up the plate and step away from the pass-through to bring it out to Maddie.

  “Wait!” he yells at me.

  I look back over my shoulder at him. “Yes?”

  “Put the plate down,” he says, his French accent appearing much thicker when he’s angry.

  I put it down on the pass-through, turning it so the blob of sauce will be clearly visible, and he takes a few slow steps toward the counter top.

  With his arms still crossed in front of his chest, and one eyebrow cocked, he glances down at the plate.

  His face tells me exactly what he’s thinking. A sharp intake of breath, then his mouth pops open and his eyes narrow as he examines the plate.