One Way or Another: An absolutely hilarious laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  I look back at the dreamy way she is looking at her moustachioed soulmate. Her love for him is so easy to read, shining as it is from her eyes and her smile. I remember that Oskar died last year. And in this moment, I understand it. I understand about taking the trip and eating the cake and buying the shoes. Because joy is a gift and we should celebrate every second that we are granted. I feel so happy that Oskar Rosenblatt really lived his life philosophy, enjoying everything in the moment and not holding back on life’s pleasures because, standing here by Martha’s bed, I can tell the fun they had, from the photos and the stories, that the memories they made together are still sustaining her now. It’s these that are keeping her heart lit with hope and, all this time later, still sending her to sleep with a nostalgic smile, even though she is now without him. How she must miss him. I hope she’s had a good day.

  I write her a quick note to say hi and that I’m through to the next round of selection and leave it on her bedside locker. I reach into my bag and pull out the Tupperware of sliced banana bread with cinnamon butter that I brought for my lunch but forgot to eat. ‘Eat the Cake!’ I scribble down on the bottom of the note, and leave the box on top. I know she’ll be pleased as punch. Just as I am.

  After I’ve closed up the kitchen, I start my cycle home in the pitch dark. Now, this is eerie. There is no one around and I feel like I’m in the trailer of a Stephen King movie. When I see someone at a carwash late at night, I assume they’ve just committed murder. And that they are probably in the mood to strike again. Pedalling as fast as I can, I hear nothing but my own shallow panting magnified in the dark alley that I need to take to get me home as quickly as possible.

  I wasn’t joking when I said I was scared of the dark. Especially deserted, urban darkness, crackling with the sounds of distant arguments, flickering street lights and rustling bin bags. I keep my eyes on the path ahead, and try to banish all thoughts of hooded men, serial killers and flesh-eating clowns out of my mind. I feel my phone vibrate in my bag but dare not stop to check it. I need to get home as quickly as possible.

  When I finally turn the corner in to Alice’s road, my heart is pounding in my chest.

  I never want to do that again. I hated it even more than I imagined I would.

  I completely underestimated how terrifying that was, yet every night this week I’m going to have to repeat that dark gauntlet run. I have no money for a taxi instead and, besides, I need my bike at home to get to the Rembrandt every morning. I swallow back the fear at the thought of doing this again tomorrow night. Of everything I’m putting myself through to win the chance to work for Jean-Michel, so far, this is the hardest.

  I quickly lock up my bike by the railings and turn the key in the door, feeling along the wall for the light and that’s when I sense it, sense another person, sense that I’m not alone as I stand rooted with terror in this tiny dark doorway. There is someone running through the house towards me. OMG OMGGGGAHHHHH!

  I am screaming so hard that I can’t catch my breath. I’ve collapsed on to my knees and I’m holding two fingers up like a cross. I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen; I’m not thinking, I’m just screaming.

  The light switches on and when I open my eyes all I can see is a laughing Alice.

  ‘What the hell!’ is all I can manage to cry as I get my breath back – along with rasping snippets of, ‘Why are you even here? I thought you were at work! I thought you were a burglar! Or a feckin clown!’

  I am on my knees begging for my life, and it’s just Alice. Standing in her own doorway bra-less in her sweatshirt and shorts. Laughing. Laughing her little blonde head off.

  My hands fly to my heart which feels like it is going to erupt out of my chest. ‘Alice, it’s not funny! Never do that to me again! Why didn’t you say!’

  ‘I texted you just ten minutes ago to say that I was back, but you didn’t check it. This caseload is going to be way bigger than we thought so I figured I’d just come home and work here.’

  It must have been Alice’s text message I heard vibrating in my bag when I was cycling scared through the city. I rub my hands down my face. ‘I’m sorry. Oh my god I need to get inside. You scared the living shit out of me.’

  I collapse on to the sofa as Alice brings me a cup of tea and some of the last buttered slices of banana bread. I turn to thank her and notice her trying to cover her laughing mouth with her oversized sweatshirt sleeve.

  ‘Get lost,’ I smile at her, drinking in the hot milky sweetness that instantly dissolves some of the tension still in my neck and shoulders.

  Alice throws her head back, letting all her giggles loose. She starts to mimic me screaming with two bulging eyes and a huge o-shaped mouth.

  ‘You should have seen yourself! I swear I have never heard anyone scream so loud. It’s like you saw a ghost.’

  Now that I’ve regained my breath and know the door is safely locked behind me, I sink into the corner of the sofa. And I start laughing. ‘Shut up. I hate you,’ I tell her, kicking her arm.

  ‘And you of all people are never jumpy!’ Alice pours herself a cup of tea and snuggles in beside me on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her. ‘So come on, I want the lowdown on everything I’ve missed. I can tell it’s already shaken you up. I’m not surprised that Jean-Michel has you jumping out of your skin like a nervous wreck. Nobody can work with that man.’

  I shake my head. ‘Worse.’

  She raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Ben.’ I tell her.

  Alice’s mouth slowly drops and she shakes her head quizzically.

  ‘Ben’s also been selected. He’s going for the same job.’

  Alice puts down her cup of tea and turns to me fully, looking straight at me so there is no room for misinterpretation. ‘Have I got this right: you and Ben are in the same kitchen, working side by side, in competition with each other.’

  I nod.

  ‘Whoa.’ And she blows out her cheeks. ‘So it really is like you’ve seen a ghost. Good luck with that.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs.’ Jean greets me and the three remaining male chefs as we fall in behind our individual stations like military officers awaiting command.

  Octavia nods her head towards us all. I am so glad to see her here today. Without her it would be just me and six men including the judges and maître d’; it’s easy enough to be overwhelmed by the pressure without feeling in the minority as well. Her eyes stay on me a beat longer than the rest and a smidgen of a smile raises the corner of her lip. I feel a swell of pride carry through from my stomach to my throat, and I want to run over and wrap my arms around her and say, ‘I’m still here! Thank you for believing in me!’ But regal and dignified Octavia doesn’t seem the sort to appreciate hugs and hollering. I blink my gratitude but I dare not put a foot out of line; as every day progresses, this gets more serious. As we’ve seen the competition whittled down to just four of us, we know that it will take every ounce of concentration, of imagination and of strength of will to make it through today. And if I make it through today, then I’m in touching distance of a brand new life as a Jean-Michel’s grand chef: my career rescued, my status redeemed, my self-respect restored. I straighten my back and focus. Today is big. In this world, it doesn’t get much bigger.

  ‘Like every creative, every visionary, we are not always wonderful in a team,’ says Jean-Michel. ‘The vision makes sense to us, we know how to realise it ourselves, and it frustrates and delays us to involve other people in the process. Chefs are just the same and as a result can be the world’s worst delegators. As perfectionists, we want to do it all ourselves. Not possible.

  ‘We have these recipes in our minds that we are not patient enough to write down, and therefore we run the risk of becoming inconsistent. This cannot happen. Assembling the recipe, fine-tuning it, establishes a consistent high mark in terms of standard. This is paramount. This is what makes a great restaurant a Michelin-starred restaurant. Unfailing
consistency. Every. Single. Time. Not just for the Times reviewer or the high-profile client, not just the signature dish or when the grand chef is watching. But every forkful, at every sitting. Perfection without fail.’

  Octavia nods towards Jean-Michel and places both hands at the pass. ‘So before you can cook perfection, you must taste it. If you don’t know how it is supposed to taste, then you shouldn’t be cooking it. But if you know how it tastes perfectly, then you will cook it one hundred times better. So today we will begin in an old-school way, focussing on taste. The ultimate culinary test, today you will be replicating a highly technical Jean-Michel dish.’

  Jean-Michel steps out from behind the pass and begins to walk towards a vacant station. ‘I am not going to tell you what to do. I am going to show you. You will have to rely on your eyes and your palate to recreate it – as I will not give you a recipe or a list of the ingredients I am using, nor will I answer any questions. I will cook it. Then it will be your turn.’

  Jean-Michel slips an apron over his head and begins to cook. He’s mesmerising to watch, moving with such speed and confidence, the likes of which I’ve never before seen. He uses so many ingredients, moves so fast, so smoothly. He places a fillet of white fish – Is it halibut? Sea bass? – into a pan. On another gas ring he is making a sauce, light, opaque and fragrant. Lemon and dill? Garlic and fennel? My mind is racing as I try to take in and analyse everything whilst listening to Jean-Michel’s commentary at the same time.

  ‘This is the exciting part,’ he says as he nears the end. ‘Plating up.’ He stops and considers the round white plate. ‘For me there is nothing so exciting as an empty plate. It is like a clean piece of paper, a blank canvas, naked, new, it is ready for your creation, ready to become. Just like your own life, it is up to you what you will do with it… You are the creator, the expression is yours, just like any artist.’ Slowly, with eyes narrowed, he arranges his leaves. ‘Using the plate as a canvas is key in mastering the art of presentation. Use sauces, sprouts and other garnishes to frame the focal point. It’s all about proportions and really following your instincts. Sometimes I need to take a few steps back to look at the plate like a work of art; sometimes you need a bit of distance.’

  He continues to build and layer. ‘Simplicity is always beautiful. But it must be executed perfectly. Can you imagine Van Gogh with an unfinished brushstroke? Jimi Hendrix playing even one wrong chord, Pavarotti’s voice splitting on a high note? You would be disgusted. Even minute imperfection renders everything imperfect. Food is our medium. This is the standard expected.’ He gently lifts the final various exotic vegetables from the pan to the plate, with the accuracy and sensitivity of a surgeon.

  I watch him build the plate, complete his canvas. It is a masterpiece. In terms of colour, shape and balance. And I haven’t even eaten the thing yet.

  My eyes drift from the dish to the man himself. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to actually study Jean-Michel up close, almost touching distance. Usually it is us in the spotlight, under his scrutiny, and we have no time to look up, no time to get a sense of who this crazy genius actually is. He has a large head, ruffled unkempt black hair, pointing now in all directions, and a face of deep lines, like childhood scars. You don’t see lines like these on a man who has just turned forty. Jean-Michel doesn’t smoke, and is a mountain marathon runner. The lines betray something that exercise can’t melt: Stress? Fear? Fury? Guilt?

  He wipes the sides of the plate with a clean dishcloth and raises his hands in the air. ‘C’est fini. Bon appetit.’

  We each marvel at the intricate fish dish in front of us.

  ‘Food should be created with passion, thought and technique, but plated with a light hand, with direction from nature. Colours should reflect the seasons, with contrasting light and dark shades that evoke emotion. In the end, keep it simple and let the ingredients be the stars. Now, taste.’

  Each of us takes a fork and digs in. The first mouthful is absolutely divine. Light, lemony, aromatic, slightly fruity with a real kick from the fresh herbs. How I would love to sit down with this and a nice, crisp glass of white wine! But I must remember that I am here as a student, as an apprentice. I dive in for another bite. Carefully, I try to decipher all the flavours I can identify. The fish is halibut, I’m certain. The sauce is a delicate combination of wine, stock and olive oil with a hint of marjoram and lemon for a light citrus tang. Okay, I think I’ve got it.

  Octavia speaks. ‘We need to see you working in a team. How you communicate with each other, how you reach a decision, how you delegate and deliver. So, Harry and Joe, you are Team A. Katie and Ben you are Team B. You have one hour to select your ingredients from the pantry and replicate Jean-Michel’s dish. Your time starts now.’

  I turn to Ben. He looks as shocked as I am.

  ‘Katie and Ben, together again. Who’d have thought?’ he says, rubbing his neck, eyes lowered to the floor.

  We shuffle on the spot a second, unsure of where to start. How to restart.

  In the background I hear Harry’s voice screaming orders at mild-mannered Joe. Team A ain’t waiting around bonding. And I cannot let Harry beat us. I clap my hands together and take a deep breath. It is on.

  ‘Right, let’s do this. You raid the pantry for the vegetables and seasoning, I’ll take care of the fish and get the stove on.’

  ‘Yes, chef,’ he says with a smile. And just like that, we are on our way.

  Ben and I work like dancers. I move forward, he moves back. It is like there is a music that only we can hear. Everything that Ben brought from the pantry is exactly what I thought. Right down to the length and arrangement of our courgette ribbons. A sideways glance towards the pan, a slight eyebrow raise, a licking of the lips and we understand each other. Everything makes sense. And we just know what the other is thinking, we are perfectly aligned.

  Unlike Team A.

  Harry is pounding through the kitchen in a sprint-walk, disturbing everyone, taking over at least three stations, chopping carrots whilst muttering curses, tasting the sauce Joe has prepped (‘We’re not going with that! Get some water into you now! You must be dehydrated, your palate is fucked.’), wilting an endive (‘No, this is how you do it – you start with a really hot pan, right? What the hell is wrong with you?’).

  I feel for poor Joe, just twenty-three, adolescently thin, long-limbed, with big ears and the quick-twitch temperament of a racing animal.

  ‘You are cooking like a robot,’ shouts Harry into his ear. ‘How could you think that was OK? Use your head.’ Then, seeing Joe start to become flustered, Harry claps him on the back, massaging his shoulder. ‘It’s okay. Stay calm. We are going to win this, Joe. Hands down. We are going to wipe the floor with Team B.’

  Ben gives me a nudge but we don’t take our eyes off the stove. This is too important. We need to stay focussed. We need to make this right.

  Harry’s last words to Joe should have been reassuring, but then he whips his dishcloth angrily on to the floor, slamming his hand on the steel table. ‘You are making me so nervous, man,’ he says.

  Joe stiffens visibly, which inflames Harry yet again.

  ‘Did you hear me? You are making me very fucking nervous.’ He stares at Joe and, not getting a reply, screams, ‘Will you just fucking relax!’

  Joe’s ears turn deep red.

  Once Harry has allowed himself to get angry, he seems to look around for other things to stay angry about, as though something has been switched on that he can’t control. For Joe, the next task involves the fish. He’s cooking it in a sauté pan.

  Harry walks over and stands inches away. ‘More oil in your pan! You’re not cooking it. You’re scorching it. Did you hear me? You’re ruining the dish.’

  ‘Yes, chef.’ Joe quickly adds oil to his pan.

  ‘Why are you scorching it?’

  ‘I don’t know, chef.’

  ‘You don’t know! Will you get a grip?’

  ‘Yes, chef.’

  ‘Wi
ll you focus?’

  ‘Yes, chef.’

  Harry continues to stare. ‘You are so fucking insular. It’s like you’re wearing a straitjacket. Will you fucking loosen up?’

  Joe seems, understandably, unable to loosen up while being screamed at.

  We work hard to the final minute, plating up with the same surgeon-like accuracy we saw Jean-Michel use.

  ‘Three, two, one. Stop!’

  Both Ben and I raise our hands in the air and exhale for what feels like the first time in sixty minutes.

  Octavia approaches the pass, where we stand beside our plate and Harry and Joe stand beside theirs. I try to catch Joe’s eye, to reassure him, to give him some moral support. But he won’t look anywhere but at his feet. I understand. His face has puffed up with held-back tears. He doesn’t want sympathy or pity. He’s humiliated enough by the end of a long and relentless haranguing by Harry.

  Jean-Michel approaches the pass after Octavia, both of them with forks at the ready. Both our dishes are presentable. Both look elegant, balanced: a good replication of Jean-Michel’s own dish.

  He tastes ours first.

  He finishes his mouthful. And points his index finger to the sky.

  ‘Bravo.’ He glances down to our plate. ‘Stunning. You nailed it. Flavours, balance, presentation. It is like a symphony.’

  I can’t help but catch Ben smiling, which makes me smile too.

  Then he turns his attention to Harry and Joe and tucks in.