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

by Colleen Coleman

  Jean-Michel looked up, staggered that I was still standing in front of him. But I was not going to budge.

  ‘What time are you meeting her?’

  ‘Nine p.m, at Heathrow, just for an hour, then she takes her connecting flight.’

  He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. ‘Book a taxi. Leave here at 8.30 be back for 10.30. Two hours, no longer.’

  And I thanked him, knowing that these measly two hours was the best offer I was going to get. So we’re getting there, steadily if not smoothly.

  ‘Right. That’s it,’ I say as I put the phone down and try not to think about how I’m going to find a pastry chef at this time of night. ‘This kitchen is now closed.’

  Alice jumps down off her stool and pivots on the spot. ‘Excellent! Cocktail time!’

  I drop her off at the hotel lounge on the top floor whilst I quickly run to my room to shower and change. When I catch up with her she is sitting at the bar, giggling flirtatiously with the barman as she sweeps her hair over her shoulder. She looks wonderful, happy and confident and for a second, I think, yes! We are here! This is exactly what we always dreamt of, this is what we came to London for in the first place, excitement, glamour, fun. She waves over to me and points to the Martini she’s ordered for us.

  ‘Something’s different with you. Tell me everything,’ I say. ‘I want to know all.’

  ‘Well, you know how I’ve hated work since forever.’

  I nod.

  ‘And you know how much I admire you for going after your dream no matter what.’

  I take a big slurpy sip of my cocktail whilst nodding. The last thing I want to do is start complaining about how life in The Marchand is not all it’s cracked up to be so I just smile and play along. Did she get a promotion? Is she transferring to a different office? A different country? Whatever it is, it has brought Alice right back to the girl I knew, a sparkle in her eye and laughter in her smile. ‘So?’

  ‘I told my boss to stick his job. I’m done. I walked,’ she says with a shimmy.

  I double-take. ‘Alice, you did what?’

  ‘I marched straight in to the office, and gave it to him, Jerry Maguire style. I told him I hated the job, hated the culture, hated the meaninglessness of everything they stood for. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. It was quite the spectacle, even if I do say so myself.’ She is saying this so gleefully it’s as if someone has imposed a voiceover.

  ‘And you said this directly to his face?’

  ‘Repeatedly. And in front of the other board members. And in an email. That I cc’d to everyone else in the company.’

  I flatten my hands on the table, my mouth wide open. ‘No, tell me, you didn’t…’

  ‘Katie, I did! I did it! I thought you’d be proud of me!’

  I take a gigantic deep breath and lean into the bar counter for support. ‘I am. Of course I am proud of you that you made a change, but… To do it so dramatically, they may not give you a reference.’

  She finishes her Martini in one slurp. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘But how are you going to live? How will you get by?’

  Another gleeful smile as she wiggles her shoulders. ‘I sold my flat!’

  Oh my god. ‘Alice, what’s going on with you?’

  She takes a deep breath and clasps her hands together. ‘I felt like I wasn’t really living. If I’m honest with myself, I was just hanging on here because I thought it was the right thing to do. Lawyer in London sounds great, right? So it took me a long time to realise that just because it’s something I can do, doesn’t mean it’s something I should do. And then when you moved out, I realised how lonely and sad and tragic my life had become. So just like you, I figured, I’m going to make it better, I’m going to make a change.’

  Alice opens up her bag and takes out a card.

  ‘Remember Ryan, the HR guy?’

  I nod.

  ‘We’re both doing this course together, well-being in the workplace type of thing. Soon I’m going to have passed my first module: Coaching and Stress Management.’

  I nearly spit out my drink. ‘You! Stress Management! Seriously, Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle—’

  Alice laughs so hard she snorts, her hands flying up to her nose as she checks if anyone else at the bar has heard. ‘I know! Who’d have guessed right! But I can’t tell you how much better I feel. How much better I am. And I just can’t wait to do this.’

  I raise my hand to the barman and order two more drinks as I realise how much I’ve neglected Alice since I took on this crazy journey to working for Jean-Michel. How could all this have been going on with her and I didn’t know? So, even though I am utterly exhausted and need to be up again to buy fresh scallops at Billingsgate in six hours, I don’t care.

  I genuinely don’t care. Jean-Michel won’t be happy of course. But I’m starting to care less about that too.

  Because I need to toast my brilliant, beautiful, beaming best friend.

  Because we’ve got to take these rare moments with the people who are special to us, as who knows when I’ll get the chance to see her like this again.

  I raise my glass and make a silent toast to Martha. Feeling her winking her approval at me from on high.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Right, Georgia, you can take over Pastry. Lewis, you can move into hot sides and garnishes.’

  Lewis nods and gathers his knives. Georgia stands to look at me with narrowed eyes, her hands on her hips. This is all I need. Two drinks with Alice turned in to six and it felt like my head barely touched the pillow before it was time to get up again. But I did; I threw myself under a cold shower and buoyed myself by remembering that today I’m seeing my baby sister, up close and face to face.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I ask Georgia, our recently appointed sous-chef.

  ‘Pastry? The whole reason I agreed to drop everything and come and work here is so that I could come out of pastry! Why on earth would I do exactly the same thing that I did at The Buckingham?’

  ‘Firstly, the reason you agreed to drop everything was that you were clearly unhappy at The Buckingham, otherwise you wouldn’t drop the job as soon as a better offer came along. And this is a better offer, Georgia. You wanted to work in Jean-Michel’s kitchen and now here you are. However, we need a pastry chef tonight, as in right now, your strength is in pastry so that’s the way I’ve decided to reshuffle the team.’

  Georgia bites down on her lip.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ I ask her.

  ‘It’s just that everyone thinks the crappest chefs do pastry. You know what they call it at The Buckingham? They call it the Pink Kitchen. They think it’s all we can do, rolling and piping. I wanted to show them that I can do more than that.’

  I take a deep breath, I get it. ‘Do you like pastry?’

  She widens her eyes slightly. ‘Of course, I love it but that’s not the point.’

  ‘That is the point. This is where your strength is. I can’t say which came first; did your love of it lead to your talent or the talent lead to love? But it doesn’t matter now because you have both. No doubt about it, Georgia, you are one of the best in the business. And nothing anyone thinks or says should push you out of that if you are doing a great job and you are happy. Don’t feel you need to prove anything – to anyone. Pastry is where you shine, be proud of that.’

  Georgia’s face softens and she picks up her apron and dusts off her hands. ‘Pastry chef for Jean-Michel, it’s not too bad really, is it?’

  I hand her the menu and a smile breaks her face.

  ‘Dark chocolate cylinder with smoked hazelnut praline and salted milk ice cream and our signature trifle with Barbadillo sherry. Wow!’

  I can see her fingers starting to twitch as she looks around her new station for ingredients, for equipment, planning how she’s going to approach making a trio of all these marvellous sweet creations for our hotly anticipated brand new, taster menu.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say, knowin
g this is a much higher skill level than she was working at The Buckingham. ‘You can do this, Georgia, pour all your love into it and knock Jean-Michel’s socks off.’

  She beams at me. ‘Yes, chef.’

  Jean-Michel is in a dark mood when he bursts into the kitchen. It could be because I’m nipping off to meet Rachel, but then again, it could be something entirely unrelated. Family? Business? Dill shortage? It could be anything. I feel sorry for him. Sympathy for Jean-Michel? It’s like having sympathy for the devil. I know, not something you hear every day.

  But being with him all this time, observing his moods, his bad days, the unwavering, relentless dedication he sinks into every tiny detail, over such long hours, with such intensity, I have to say he’s grown on me. He isn’t a monster but he is a slave to perfection. It’s like a severe case of OCD. He can’t be any other way; he can’t even imagine or tolerate any other way.

  His entire career can be made and unmade in the space of a setting. I think it’s probably worse now than before, as prior to this London venture, the last restaurant he opened was over a decade ago. A new business is like a new baby, it takes its toll. It needs every piece of you, every moment of the day. I now see a chef’s life involves much more than the culinary arts; it involves being a personnel manager, a marketing and public relations specialist and special events coordinator. Opening a new restaurant isn’t like what you see in the movies. There’s a ton of unsexy things going on behind the scenes and everything has its own timeline – recruitment, advertising, contracting, building, hiring, training, writing menus, testing recipes. You’re dealing with it all from broken plumbing pipes to food orders. And most of the time, something is going wrong or someone’s too slow or starts crying or throws in the dishtowel. You have to deal with issues constantly while still being hyper-creative. Jean-Michel’s already outlasted his generation of chefs. Most of whom are either burnt out and in rehab programs or hosting reality cooking shows on television. Jean-Michel is a one-off alright, still at the helm, still standing the heat.

  But sometimes, I can really see the exhaustion in his body, the dark bags under his eyes, the triple espressos he knocks back like shots, that third whisky during service that is coming earlier and earlier. Sometimes, I think even he regrets it all, regrets this whole venture. I figure he let nostalgia take over and underestimated the stamina, the physical and mental energy required to start a new restaurant from scratch. Especially one with such high expectations and when he’s so defensive about his infamous reputation. I’m trying to keep things calm for him, trying to deal with things myself so I don’t have to bother or agitate him. How well I’m doing on that front is anyone’s guess.

  Jean-Michel emerges from the walk-in fridge, his face pallid grey and creased with stress. He raises his hands, blows out his cheeks and twirls on the spot. I give him an encouraging smile.

  Service starts. Jean is right when he says we are doing well. Word is spreading fast. We are booked out for the next three months and a Time Out review read, ‘go here when you want to say to your mouth, you SHALL go to the ball! But book now because it won’t be long before these guys take over the world’. Jean-Michel had just shrugged when I showed him.

  ‘Cute but irrelevant. I care only for Michelin stars.’ He stopped what he was doing and turned to me, meeting my eyes with full seriousness. ‘I am married but Michelin is my mistress. It is a love-hate affair with the stars. Gaining that recognition, that validation can send you crazy, make you obsessive. Is it the lady at the corner table who ordered the blackened cod? Or is it the gentleman at table five with the steak tartar? Which of my diners has the power to change my life? Who is the Michelin inspector? When will they accept my offerings and raise it to their lips and deign it worthy for the world?’

  ‘Is it really that secretive and undercover?’ I asked. ‘Surely after so much time, you have an idea of who they are or when they are coming.’

  Jean-Michel inhaled sharply, placing his hands flat on the counter. ‘Mais non, if only! If I could tell when they were coming I would look half the age I am now because I would have had double the sleep. All I know is that we should be expecting them at all times. They will come to us, sooner rather than later, because of the profile of the newest restaurant in town. They will be keen to see if I am still the chef I was. I have much to prove. Achieving this level is one thing, sustaining it quite another.’

  He paused a moment. ‘However, I have learnt some clues over the years, purely based on my own experience. They are unofficial of course. From what I have picked up, they always book a table for two so as not to arouse suspicion, but then, when they arrive, there is only one. They dine alone. And always this lone diner is well-dressed, polite, middle-aged. Mostly it is a man. They order from the taster menu, and always the house wine and a still water. They are paying attention to the quality of service as much as the quality of the food. They try to stay under the radar as much as possible, to slip in and out unnoticed to give them a real idea of the typicality of the place, so that they can really focus on the food and the ambience and capture the entire experience.’

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled,’ I said, half-jokingly. But I saw that Jean was not joking.

  ‘You should. They can turn an unknown chef into a superstar or a superstar in to an unknown ball of shame.’

  * * *

  It is nearly eight o’clock. So the last bookings are arriving and I’ll get everything in place so I can catch my cab in half an hour to take me straight to Heathrow to see Rachel. The reality is dawning on me now, I’m actually going to wrap my arms around her, hold her face in my hands and look at her beautiful, freckled face for the first time in god knows how long, shamefully long. Well over eighteen months, this is the longest we’ve ever been apart. I’m just going to lift her up and hug the almighty out of her, carefully of course! Got to mind the bump! It’s so exciting and I just cannot wait. She could be landing right now, so we’re already a little bit closer, in the same time zone. I’ll just start off this last service and I’ll be out the door. I’m not nervous about slipping off at this stage of the evening; we’ve got a great team and it feels like it’s starting to come together. Not one glitch tonight in the kitchen or out on the floor and that’s a first. Everything has gone pitch perfect. Georgia’s desserts have been really well received; she’s even had the confidence to add her own little twist on Jean-Michel’s recipe and he has given her an uncharacteristic thumbs up on everything so far, so there is a real spring in her step. I’d say The Buckingham team will want to eat whatever words made her eager to leave.

  Everything is going so amazingly well that I start to think that Jean-Michel is right, that the setup is always the hardest part, but that once everything is in place we’ll find our stride and really will take over the world. When things settle I’m going to book some time off. I’m going to go home and see my dad and help him with the house clearance. Just because I live far away and I’m busy is not a good enough excuse for losing touch. I may approach Jean-Michel later tonight, see how it goes, chance my arm and ask for just a few days.

  I place my dishes up on the pass for inspection by Jean-Michel. He quickly studies each of them and gives the nod that they are service-ready, presented to his exacting standards. I call service Table Eight and press the bell for Sara to collect the plates and serve them out front. When she comes back into the kitchen, pushing through the doors and leaning into the pass, her eyes are intense and her voice is hushed.

  ‘Top table booked for two but now only one diner. Well-dressed gentleman dining alone, just ordered the taster menu, half a carafe of house wine and a still water. What do you think?’

  Jean-Michel arches his back, cracking his knuckles. He raises an eyebrow and blows out his cheeks. ‘Mid-late forties?’ he asks.

  Sara nods.

  ‘The booking was originally made for two?’

  She nods again.

  ‘Michelin?’ he asks, a slight crack in his voice. He looks skywa
rd, blesses himself and then slaps his hand against his chest. ‘Michelin! We are on!’

  Jean-Michel turns into a hurricane.

  A sweating, shouting, swearing hurricane.

  He snatches the order ticket from Sara. ‘Is this it? Is this the order?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, Katie, I want you to make the short ribs for the beef starter and I want you to make the sauce for the sea bass main. Nobody else, only you.’

  I open my mouth to tell him, No! I can’t! My taxi is due to arrive in ten minutes. I’ve got to meet Rachel! I’ve promised her. She’s arranged a stopover in London, pregnant, especially for me. And what am I going to say? What can I tell her? That I have to work?

  But Jean-Michel cuts me dead. ‘Let me finish! And when I finish the only thing that comes out of your mouth is “Yes, chef!”’

  There is a mad, almost murderous look in his eyes.

  He glares at me. Unable to understand why I’ve missed a beat. Why I’ve not answered him.

  An incredulous laugh reaches his eye. ‘Haha! You think you are leaving? You think you’re still going to meet your sister or auntie or fucking long-lost relative? I don’t care if you have a date with the Dalai Lama. You are the grand chef, YOU stay here.’

  My feet are rooted to the spot. What the hell? There is no right thing to do. I hate to let Rachel down. My dad is going to be furious. Pregnant Rachel stressed and upset in an airport all by herself because I bailed.

  Jean-Michel spins around and steps right into my face. He licks his lips and then speaks to me in a voice I’ve never heard him use before. A slow, calm, measured voice.

  ‘You accepted your title, your uniform, your hotel room. You signed your contract. And that contract states that you shall meet the standards of grand chef as deemed appropriate by me. If you leave, if you cost me this star, I’ll fire you, but trust me, Katie, that will only be the beginning.’

  He wipes a hand down his face. When he reopens his eyes, they are wet. The madness, the rage has dissipated, replaced by something much softer.