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

by Colleen Coleman

Oh you bastard. I’m not here to lose to Harry. Or because of him.

  I wipe my clammy hands down my apron. Despite my greatest effort to stay cool, I’m fuming, even my hands are burning up with rage. I can feel all eyes on me. If I stay quiet but look so obviously worked up, then it will look like Harry’s won, or worse still, it will look like he’s succeeded in intimidating me. I’ve got to stand up for myself, and for the line chefs and for all the other staff he loves to terrorise. My brigade will lose faith in me if I cave in to this, and without them behind me, I’m finished. I’m the only other chef in here at this time in a position to take him on, and this has to stop right now.

  ‘See, nothing more than a withering look… that’s exactly what I’m talking about, right there,’ he says with a smug smile as he turns back to his station. He thinks he has had the final word.

  I can’t let him have it. I’ve held my tongue before. But this is different. This is a time to stand up and speak out.

  ‘Harry.’ I take a deep breath to steady the tremor in my voice and I take a step towards him.

  ‘I’m busy so I’m going to keep this short. And I get that this concept may blow your mind but I am here because I’m as good if not better than you.’

  He snorts. ‘Better than me? Don’t make me laugh, neither you or sailor boy are better than me.’

  ‘Is that so? Then why did you turn up Ben’s oven during the selection? Why would you sabotage his dish?’

  Harry squints at me and his mouth closes again, he swallows back.

  ‘You’d do that despite your confidence in your own ability?’ I take another step towards him. ‘See this is what confuses me about you, Harry. All this time you’ve been screaming and shouting and agitating everyone and everything, treating all of us like we are snivelling, loathsome insects who deserve to be degraded and humiliated, but I’ve been watching you.’ I walk right into his station so we are now face to face. ‘You’re hyper because you can’t decide on what you want or who you are. All this shouting is just masking that.’

  I pick up his menu and point to the grill. ‘Look here, you’ve already changed your mind at least a hundred times. After all the drama and indecision, you are revising yet again – adding dishes, redoing others, embellishing them with caviar, truffles, foie gras. You introduced a venison main on roasted beets halfway through the day. Then an hour later, you add cabbage, then a purée of roasted parsnips along the plate rim. Then you change the scallop dish. “What about quail eggs on top, fried in goose fat?” Then: “And white truffle on top?”’

  Harry runs his fingers through his hair grabbing it at the scalp, his lips gaping like a caught fish gasping for air.

  My eyes are fixed on his. ‘Harry, you are giving us all a fucking headache.’

  I turn to the line chefs. ‘For the record, he told you to quarter those tomatoes the first time, boys, I heard him, so you’re not in the wrong. If you do want to join my brigade, you are more than welcome.’

  Harry’s eyes drift behind my shoulder, his face is now purply red. Except for the blotches of grey. His hand drifts down towards his chin but he pinches at his neck.

  I turn behind me to follow his gaze. It’s Jean-Michel and Octavia, standing together and looking grave. I realise they’ve heard every word.

  Uh oh. I don’t know how this is going to go now. Another blow up? Another meltdown? Another stand off? Or are we all going to be kicked out and sent packing?

  The two line chefs step from Harry’s station to mine. Then one by one, all his other staff follow until he is standing alone.

  Jean-Michel shakes his head. ‘Quelle catastrophe. You cannot continue without a brigade. It appears they have abandoned you.’

  Harry swivels in utter disbelief. There is no one left to work with, no one left to shout at. He bites at his fist a second. No one steps in, we all just wait for his next move.

  Octavia tuts at him like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Oh Harry, you came to win but have only succeeded in defeating yourself. Let this be a lesson to you. Truly. Learn from this.’

  With a sharp breath through his nose, Harry rips off his apron, throws it on the ground and storms through the swing doors.

  And he’s gone.

  All eyes are now on me. Octavia’s hand is clutching at her necklace and Jean-Michel is massaging his forehead, his eyes clenched shut. Are they going to expel me now? Has standing up to him made me look a tyrant, unable to manage my emotions, to stand the pressure? Have I come across all wrong? In their eyes, have I acted a little more similarly to Harry than I thought? What if Octavia and Jean-Michel think that I’m the loose cannon, the wild dog?

  What if they think I’ve cracked under the pressure? That I’m the one without a handle on my temper? I decide not to face them but just to keep my head down and get on with the job. I’ve not got the time or the mental energy for anything other than the task at hand: running this kitchen. So I straighten my hat, glance up to the clock and call for everyone’s attention.

  ‘The show must go on. Harry’s brigade, please divide yourselves up between Ben and me. The more the merrier, you are very welcome and we appreciate the extra pairs of hands. It’s one hour till service, whatever happens behind the scenes, back here in the kitchen, the bottom line is that we still have guests to serve. So let’s get to it.’

  I put my head down and start chopping, avoiding meeting Octavia or Jean-Michel’s gaze.

  Seconds later, Pip bursts through the doors, phone in hand for Jean-Michel. I hear Octavia clear her throat, and despite my best efforts, I sneak a glance upwards to try and read her expression, her body language, try to get an idea where I now stand in light of what’s happened.

  And she winks at me. And that’s all I need to know.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pip approaches me at my station, my menu in his hand. ‘Rabbit? Piccalilli? Really?’

  ‘I know it’s something you would never dream of serving in a restaurant like this, but that’s why I think it’s worth trying. Trust me, Pip, these flavours are going to blow you away. Just you wait and see.’

  ‘I’m liking this new confidence, Katie. Very best of luck. Your diners are ready, so service as soon as you can.’

  I nod and start plating up. Sara takes my starters from the pass, out the swing doors and into the dining room. And we’re on a roll. Every morsel cooked perfectly, every plate presented beautifully, everyone fed on time. Every. Single. Time.

  So far so good.

  After half an hour, Pip re-enters the kitchen, shaking his head.

  ‘The votes are in on the first dish, and Katie, you won that round, you are in the lead. You got the majority of votes over Ben’s cod and they loved it. Plates are clean, happy faces. Well done.’

  I’m thrilled but I can’t stop. I can’t let that go to my head or hold me up. I’m in the middle of plating my main, so I keep my eyes ahead of me the whole time, even though Pip stays by, half-impressed, half-bemused.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it; camping tucker that was not. It is genius, wonderful, completely unique, you’ve played with the classics and, to my mind, that is a triumph, I really like it. No, I love it. You’re mad, you know that?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I answer. ‘Maybe I am.’

  One course down, two to go. I plate up my lamb and hit the bell for Sara to start collecting the mains from the pass. Pip disappears out the door with her, but Jean-Michel comes in again to take his place. I think this is all part of the process, the selection, the test. Right when you are at your busiest, when the last thing you want is someone watching you or asking you questions, that’s when they show up.

  ‘So, explain your choice, Katie, what is the inspiration behind this dish?’

  I continue building and layering the elements on the remaining plates as I talk, aware that Jean-Michel isn’t just here to listen but also to watch.

  ‘Well, I was very quiet at school, couldn’t always find the words. They’d just get stuck in my throat, my che
eks would burn and my hands have always given me away. I’d get the shakes. I’d get very nervous speaking up or reading aloud, I’ve never felt comfortable in the spotlight or under the intense pressure of exams. And then there was a group who picked on me a bit, for being so quiet, an easy target. But you get stronger, more determined, you want to prove them wrong, do better, try harder. But with food it was different. For others it may be singing or dancing, sports, but for me it’s cooking. And the first time I served this lamb dish to my father, who was worried that I wasn’t meeting my potential, it spoke to him, helped him understand that I was serious, that I could be professional, that maybe this was something that would take my life in a new and fulfilling direction. And once I knew that he could be proud of me, that he understood that this wasn’t a hobby or a phase, I jumped in with both feet. This dish made that happen.’

  I finish my last lamb plate and hand it to Jean-Michel himself. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’ And for once Jean-Michel doesn’t say anything; he just nods and takes it away with him.

  * * *

  Pip returns into the kitchen. ‘The verdict is in. A quote from Celia Sanderson who sends her compliments to the chef. “You’ve taken a traditional dish and turned it on its head. These are meals to give you comfort, they illicit feeling as well as deliver tremendous flavour. That’s why they’re favourites; they just work. I loved every mouthful.” Well done, Katie.’

  Praise from Celia Sanderson! Oh Mum! How you would love to hear this! Good old Celia was always your favourite; I can picture her recipe book perched by the stove as you made our Sunday dinner as clearly as if I saw it yesterday. Tears are close. God, could I sit and cry now. Floods of proud, happy tears. But I bite my lips and blink a few times and escort that idea right to the back of my heart for a little while longer. There’ll be time for tears later. Right now, I’ve got to be strong and keep my eyes on the prize.

  ‘So who won that course?’ I ask.

  Ben is on the other side of the kitchen, a partition between my station and his, so our brigades run parallel. The fact that we are kept apart and I can’t see him and he can’t see me is the only merciful part of this process so far. I’m really relieved that we don’t have to compete right under each other’s noses. Or hear the results, the votes as they come in after each course. I imagine it’s Octavia or Jean-Michel who is delivering the same news to Ben right now. Bet he’s just as nervous as me. I know we can’t both win, but I don’t want either of us to lose.

  Pip smiles into his clenched fist. ‘A tie! It was straight down the middle. Exactly the same number of votes for your lamb and Ben’s oysters. So, here’s where it gets interesting. You’ve got one course in the bag already so everything is riding on this course, Katie. No pressure.’

  A tie! Oh my god. Right well, I haven’t got a millisecond to think on that. I’ve got one last course and I’ve got make it count.

  Octavia arrives this time to interview me as I prepare my dessert, despite the fact that any of these questions could have been asked earlier when I submitted my menu in the first instance. But I know they want to stay close, see how we respond under pressure. And I guess after Harry’s episode earlier, it’s important. Besides the food itself, it might be the most important thing of all.

  ‘Sherry trifle? What an extraordinary choice, Katie. Please, talk me through it.’

  There’s a big reason behind this one. I’m relieved I can explain it to Octavia. Knowing that she lost her husband, she may understand a little more easily what I mean.

  I clear my throat. ‘Sherry trifle was at the centre of the table, at the centre of my family, at the centre of every happy occasion I can remember. But times and families change, and sometimes, grief sticks out its leg and takes you off your feet. Today is a day I would love to share with my mother. She would really be proud of me. But today I’m not crying. Today I’m grateful. I was blessed with the best. She taught me how to follow my beliefs – kindly. How to be known as a person who is true and trustworthy. To work hard and try to have fun. She taught me that I was wonderful and to never let anyone treat me as anything less than that. But more importantly she taught me to treat others as wonderful too. My mum didn’t come from privilege but from hard work. She gave to charity: her money and her time. She put others before herself. She loved my father, me and my siblings. If I could give a gift to others it would be to have the foundation of love that I had. She was special, but, thank goodness, she was not unique.’ I smile as I think of Martha. ‘There are many wonderful people who have shown me great kindness, and this dessert is a celebration of that.’

  And I hand Octavia a bowl of trifle for herself. The last dish of the last course. And I notice a glistening in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. She blinks back and thanks me, and then she’s gone. And now there’s nothing to do but wait.

  * * *

  Sara walks through the double swing doors and tells me it’s time. It’s time to come out of the kitchen and step in to the light, the spotlight and scrutiny of the dining room.

  I take off my hat, shake some volume into my hair and follow her through.

  Ben walks out the opposite door from his station at the same time, and he looks like he’s been just as absorbed in the process as I have; the steam in the kitchen leaving a sheen across his forehead and cheekbones. He has a look on his face I recognise. Hot, intense, his heart racing, his chest rising and falling with fast breaths.

  I remind myself that I’m not here to look at him. That there’s important business afoot. I straighten up and look to the diners sitting around the circular tables. There are faces here, smiling up at me, chancing an encouraging nod, that I imagined I’d only ever see on screen or in print. My hand jolts upwards and I venture a quick wave as I spot Celia Sanderson sitting by the window. She beams back at me and gives me a double thumbs up.

  Celia Sanderson! She brought so many meals into our house. I am honoured and privileged and overwhelmed to be here now, serving her. I bite back tears. I’ve got to stay composed, professional. The big announcement is about to come. And one way or another, I’m going to need all the strength I can find for that.

  Jean-Michel steps forward and stands between Ben and I. He takes a moment to think, to choose his words. First he turns to Ben.

  ‘Ben Cole. I’ll remember your name. Simply stunning. You could serve your menu at a Michelin-star restaurant and no one would blink an eye. You are a star in the making. Some things in life you have to learn and some you are born with, and you, Ben, are born with a gift. Stunning… Well done.’

  Everyone in the dining room applauds and for a moment I think that maybe I missed it. That Ben has been crowned grand chef and somehow I’ve got mixed up, because I didn’t hear him say the exact words. But this is Jean-Michel. It’s not like he’s going to stick to the script. I clap along with everybody else in the room, still unsure if I’m standing here as first loser.

  And then Pip turns to me.

  ‘Katie’s menu, we loved it. It really is very, very clever. I’d order this just to see if you could pull it off, and wow, you’ve done that. It’s wonderful, it’s joyous, it’s refreshing, it’s exceptional. You are a chef completely and utterly in love with your craft; you understand the connection between life and food, and it shows. You recognise that what grows together, goes together, and that works in terms of flavour and colour palettes. Your combinations are divine. The thought process, the execution, the presentation. It is all there.’

  He nods over to Octavia, she stands from her seat and walks towards me.

  ‘For me, your dessert was the absolute highlight of the evening. Sensational, a time-honoured pudding at its most glorious, many-layered best: the jam-slashed and sherry-sodden sponge, the sharp fruity layer of syrup-oozing berries, the lashings of custard with smooth, cool whipped cream. On top, my favourite colour combination: the Victorian pink of crystallised rose petals with the tender green of chopped pistachios. Perfection.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say bu
t I’m still so confused! When are they going tell us who the winner is?

  All of these flattering comments are great, I’m blown away. But is it enough to win? How is it going to feel to hear all this and then be told ‘It’s not you!’? What’s going to happen now if, after everything, they tell me: ‘Sorry, Katie, but it wasn’t enough’? If, after everything, I’ve got to walk away from all this without being selected I will be devastated. It’s unthinkable, unbearable. But it is possible.

  Jean-Michel claps his hands. A hush descends. This is it. This has to be it.

  ‘Take excellent ingredients, key techniques passed down through the generations, add a table full of family and friends, and a good meal should ensue. As people become busier and busier, the appeal of a cuisine that celebrates the culture of the table – not just the eating, but the ingredients, the preparation, the company – is ever stronger. “Balance is the key to life,” they say, “You need family, food and time.” And therefore, there is one clear winner. There is one chef here tonight that brought all of that.’

  Jean-Michel looks to Ben first and then to me. And then he takes a step in my direction, stretches out his hand and says:

  ‘Katie, félicitations. You are my new grand chef.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Grand chef! My heartfelt congratulations,’ Ben says as he offers me more champagne. ‘I’m really happy for you, Katie. You did it and you deserve it, you really do. And now, all this, living and working in a five-star hotel, that’s a pretty good reward for all your hard work.’

  ‘Thanks. It hasn’t quite sunken in yet… And congratulations to you too,’ I say as he tops up my glass. ‘I heard Pip made you an offer.’

  He shrugs, smiling. ‘Can’t complain, running a restaurant for Pip Taylor in New York isn’t a bad second place.’

  We clink our glasses and sip the cold, crisp bubbly, surrounded by the most glamourous and well-connected professionals in the industry. This is haute cuisine heaven. In fact, it’s not just chef heaven, it’s my heaven.