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

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘Katie, please. I thought you wanted this. You begged me for a chance. I gave it you. Now, I am the one begging you. Please. Stay. I need you. I need you right here, right now.’

  And I know that I can’t do this to him. As much as I’m going to upset Rachel, I just can’t walk out on Jean-Michel. This is his moment. I know what this means for him. To him. I promised him at the first selection that I would give him everything I had and now is not the time to break that.

  I pause, and then nod. ‘Yes, chef.’

  ‘I will make the sauce for the sea bass,’ he says, changing his mind. ‘Katie, you do the starter, I will begin the main.’

  ‘Yes, chef.’

  ‘And I will plate up the fish and the beef.’

  ‘Yes, chef.’

  He turns to Lewis. ‘Where are my knives? Get them for me. Bring them now!’

  Lewis dashes to the back station calling, ‘Yes, chef!’

  Jean-Michel turns to the whole team, finger jabbing at the air, his teeth clenched tight. ‘And I want to see every element of every garnish. Nothing goes out without my approval, you hear me? I have everything riding on this. EVERYTHING.’

  ‘Yes, chef,’ we all say in chorus.

  He turns back to Sara. ‘And remember, he is not just watching his own table! He’ll have eyes on everything, down to the last thread. So everyone, everything has to be pitch perfect!’

  We are all nodding frantically.

  Jean-Michel slams down his hand on the chopping board. ‘Do you fucking hear me?

  ‘Yes, chef!’

  The next ten minutes is the most intense of my life, Jean-Michel standing over me, standing over us all, breathing heavily, his eyes watching our every move and commenting every millisecond, like a machine gun in our ears.

  ‘Katie, turn it now. Two more minutes. Yeah. That’s good? Taste it. Too insipid? Season lightly… Be careful! Yeah, that’s right. That should be thick. That’s good, that’s good. More salt. Off the heat. Good crust… How’s the sauce? Taste it… Like silk, oui? Is it silken?’

  ‘Yes, chef. Yes, chef.’

  I do as he asks, to the standard he expects, at a speed that even blows my mind.

  ‘Yes, chef,’ I repeat for the millionth time. But I dare not mess around. This is serious. This is everything. There is no way that I can leave this spot even for two seconds to text Rachel to let her know what’s going on. I can feel Jean-Michel’s breath on my neck.

  Come on, got to thicken up the sauce.

  Come on, this is the dish.

  ‘Katie, you are looking at that all the time, yeah?’ he shouts as I finish off searing the vegetables in the pan, spooning butter over them with the speed of a machine. ‘Don’t look up, don’t blink. You have eyes on it the whole time till you hit the pass,’ he tells me as he wipes his own brow with his cloth. The heat is coming from everywhere, the flames and the pressure.

  ‘Yes, chef.’

  ‘Yeah? Look at me.’

  I do as I’m told, despite my earlier instruction. Because this is life with Jean-Michel. One second it is up, then it is down. First it’s look left, then it’s look right. I meet his eyes.

  ‘You can do this? You can handle it?’

  ‘Yes, chef. It’s all in hand, chef. You don’t have to worry. I’ve got your back.’

  Because it’s true. I know I can handle this. I know I can handle him. I can handle all of it.

  And I won’t let him down.

  Just before service, Jean-Michel inspects everything one final time.

  I turn to him. ‘What do you think?’ I ask.

  ‘I think it’s perfect, chef. I trained you well.’

  I press the button for service and let my plate seal our fate.

  * * *

  Sara returns to the kitchen, calling, ‘His plate is clean!’ Her eyes flash and she chances a single thumbs up. I turn to the kitchen and give them two sure thumbs up.

  ‘Starter is finished. All going well, team. The light is at the end of the tunnel now. Time for the main.’

  Jean-Michel has taken complete charge of the main so we stand and watch the man, the maniac, at work. He shoos Lewis out of his way.

  ‘Away, give me space,’ he says as he starts to build the plate, layering and drizzling and positioning with the finesse of an artist. But the visual is only the beginning of food at this level. In a moment, every shape, every texture, every colour on that plate will have to play its part in terms of taste. And then it will disappear. Not immortalised like an oil painting or a watercolour. It lives only in this moment. And only for two people: the chef and the diner. Only they know it existed. How it existed. Only they will ever know what it means.

  ‘Is it okay?’ he asks me, his eyes wide like a little boy’s.

  ‘It’s perfect, chef,’ I tell him. ‘Exactly how you like it.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure, my friend?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s wonderful.’

  He bites his lip, unsure. Scared. He takes the cloth and wipes the plate rim again, just to be sure.

  I place my hand on his wrist. ‘Jean-Michel, it’s time. Let it go.’

  He dips his head to his chest and blinks his understanding, pressing the bell for service. ‘C’est tout.’

  Sara takes the plate and exits the kitchen.

  And it is now out of our hands. In every sense.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sara comes back into the kitchen, a smile breaking her face. ‘Empty plate. He sends his compliments to the chef!’

  I see a look wash over Jean that I’ve never seen before. He looks genuinely happy. Genuinely proud. He claps me on the back.

  ‘Good job! Great job. One last course, I know it has been tough. I have been tough and you may think I’m not paying attention, Katie, but believe me, I always pay attention. You are a very special chef and you have impressed me. If anything, I’ve learned from you, from your self-control. You stayed. I know you were supposed to go, but you stayed. Thank you.’

  That would mean the world to me had it not cost me my meeting with Rachel.

  Although Jean-Michel is more relaxed with the dessert, he still scrutinises it before he lets Sara take it from the pass. I have to say Georgia’s skill is incredible, and she’s pulled out all the stops. When she said she wanted to be part of this team, she wasn’t kidding. She’s given her all and the way this is going, it looks like she’s the last part of the puzzle.

  It leaves the pass and Sara swans out through the double doors, a trio of deliciousness in hand.

  Jean-Michel leans back against the wall and presses his hands into his face, breathing out all his tension. ‘So there it is, we have done all we can do. Katie, you need some time. Why not take maybe three days? Visit your family.’

  I thank him. It’s like he’s read my mind. I’m going to need some time off to try and make it up to my sister, how exactly still remains to be seen. But I’ll think of something, something really special. Things are looking up; just this one last course between me and the life I’ve been trying to create since forever.

  No sooner have I started to daydream about being back in my home, hugging my dad, hanging out with Alice and actually sleeping for more than five hours at a time, than Sara bursts through the doors, her face stricken. She slides a full plate of the trifle dessert back across the pass to us.

  ‘Took a forkful, looked at it like he’d never seen it before, like he was actually going to cry and then he just dropped his fork to the plate, called me over, asked for the bill and his coat.’

  Ohmygod.

  Oh my GOD.

  ‘What do you mean? What is going on?’ Jean-Michel starts to shout. ‘You, what have you done?’ He lifts the plate and I’m afraid that he’s going to throw it. Georgia is trembling. I stand in front of him, two steady open palms held up in an attempt to reason.

  ‘Jean-Michel, Georgia is the best pastry chef I’ve ever seen. I have every confidence in her.’

  He presses his fingers to
his forehead. I hand him a fork. And we both take a mouthful. And then a second. And then a third.

  Jean-Michel nods. ‘C’est parfait.’ He plunges a finger right down to the bottom of the sherry trifle, sniffing it before putting it in his mouth. ‘Je ne comprends pas.’ And then he shakes his head, lifting his eyes to mine, confused. ‘You are telling me that he didn’t even taste it?’ he asks Sara.

  She shakes her head. ‘I watched the whole thing. Not one bite.’

  I can see the fury flood into Jean-Michel’s chest, up his neck and into his face. He throws down the fork and wrings his hands in his apron.

  ‘Saboteur! He is trying to ruin me! He thinks he can destroy me like this! Non! I cannot allow it! I will not allow it!’ He grabs the dessert plate and races out into the dining room, me chasing after him but barely able to keep up.

  Jean-Michel storms over to the gentleman at the top table, one arm already in his coat, and slams the plate down in front of him.

  ‘You will make a judgement of me without even tasting? You think you know so much that you don’t even need to try the food now? You know nothing! Why do I care for you and your judgement? Why do I care for you and your stars when here—’ He beats his chest where his heart is. ‘I know that I have more knowledge, more expertise, more passion than any of you. Why should I listen to the opinion of someone who is less than me?’

  The gentleman is clearly taken aback but he retains his composure. He takes a slow sip of water and then straightens his tie. His composure provokes Jean-Michel even further.

  ‘How dare you send it back to the kitchen uneaten? Slapping me in the face! You owe me an explanation. So tell me! Tell me what is the problem with this dessert?’

  Every other diner has now stopped eating, stopped breathing and has turned to witness this grand eruption. I move forward to try and get in between the gent and Jean-Michel, so that I can apologise to him. And just as I do so, he turns to take his bill from Sara’s hand.

  ‘My apologies if I’ve upset you,’ he says in a calm, measured voice.

  I offer a nervy but gracious smile, thankful for his understanding, and I find myself drawn to his face. I don’t know him, I’m sure of that, but there is something so familiar about him. The almond shape of his dark eyes, his strong jawline… It’s like I’ve seen him before and vaguely recognise him but can’t quite place how or where. But I don’t have too much time to dwell on this as the situation still feels very fraught, like it could get a lot worse before it gets better.

  Jean-Michel takes an angry step in front of him, blocking his exit. By now, he is beyond listening to me or anyone. He is in a blind rage, screaming and shouting and ranting. It isn’t just this incident. It’s everything, the pressure he’s put himself under, the pressure he’s put his marriage under, the pressure he’s put us all under. No one can live like this and stay sane. But right now, in full view of all these strangers, I need to stop him, get him to calm down. I used to avoid confrontation, run from it, but then there was Bernie and Harry and times that called for someone to stand up speak out and bring things to a stop before they escalated further. But how on earth can I tell Jean-Michel to calm down?

  I look around, but there isn’t anyone else who can step in. Not his wife or Pip or Octavia. I am the grand chef. Most of the other diners are now looking concerned and uncomfortable, shuffling in their seats and waving for their coats. Some are taking out their phones, getting ready to film. This is getting worse by the second: viral footage of Jean-Michel in meltdown mode with a Michelin inspector within weeks of opening will be the nail in the coffin of this restaurant. And of both our careers. And what will Jean-Michel do then? What will I do then? I shudder at the thought. This needs to end now.

  I lower my voice, try to put on my most soothing, hushed tone and place my hand gently on the small of his back. I’m actually touching Jean-Michel. This is like sticking your hand into a shark tank. But for a second, it does cause him to pause, to take a breath, to run his hand up to his eyes. And I look toward the inspector and make eye contact, to de-escalate, to somehow explain with my eyes that this isn’t about him, this is Jean-Michel battling his own paranoid demons. But something else happens instead.

  I know him! I know this man! I remember who he is and how I know him. This man, this guest, standing in front of me is someone I’ve seen before.

  In a frame, on Martha’s mantelpiece.

  ‘Leo Rosenblatt?’ I ask.

  He looks at me startled. ‘Yes?’

  I can see the confusion in his eyes, trying to scan where on earth he’d ever have met me before.

  ‘I knew your—’ I stop. Rephrase. ‘Your mother Martha was a wonderful friend to me.’

  Jean-Michel jolts upwards, looking stunned, his face rippling with conflicting emotion. He looks to me and I nod my assurance.

  ‘Sir Leo Rosenblatt. He’s not an inspector.’

  Jean-Michel pales. A look of horror sweeps over his features.

  ‘But… You had wine, sparkling water. The way you are dressed; you are dining alone.’

  It dawns on Leo what’s happened, that there’s been a grave misunderstanding. And he takes Jean-Michel by the elbow. ‘Chef, I am dining alone because my mother booked this table for us both to come together, weeks ago. But she passed away. And I have many regrets. Many, many regrets. So when it came to dessert, always her favourite, it reminded me of moments we enjoyed together and how much I miss her – and how I took those moments for granted and now there is nothing I can do to get them back.’

  Leo swallows and holds the back of his hand to his lips a moment.

  ‘I loved your food, but I couldn’t even manage one mouthful of the dessert because it was too painful for me to do so. I’m ashamed of how I left my mother alone, when she needed me.’ Leo closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose as if to stem a memory. ‘My apologies for the upset I have caused.’

  And that’s the moment that Jean-Michel takes off his apron, and hands it to me.

  ‘It is me who is ashamed. Please, accept my deepest apologies.’ He bows and then walks out the front door of his own restaurant into the street, without looking back once. Leaving us all behind in stunned silence.

  When I eventually get to my room, at 2 a.m., after apologising again to Leo and the rest of the diners, taking all their details and offering them a complimentary meal to make up for the ‘incident’ and then finishing off the rest of the service without Jean-Michel, I text my sister the same words.

  Please, accept my deepest apologies.

  But I get no reply.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pip calls me first thing in the morning, instructing me to close for the week and avoid all press. ‘If pushed, tell them we had a gas leak,’ he tells me, his voice hoarse and tired.

  Metaphorically, that’s not so far from the truth.

  ‘What’s Jean-Michel said?’ I ask him.

  He draws a long breath. ‘Nothing! That’s the whole thing. He won’t pick up. Won’t speak to anyone. Won’t answer his emails. So we have no choice but to wait. Everything moved so fast, possibly too fast. So the best thing we can do now is just stop and wait. Jean-Michel might never calm down, he might never come back. I mean, anything could happen. He’s worse than a loose cannon, he’s a freakin’ chef.’

  ‘No way, Pip,’ I say, stunned at the suggestion that Jean-Michel would abandon us. After everything that’s happened, after everything we’ve sacrificed and everything we’ve worked so hard to build? Jean-Michel jump ship? He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. ‘Of course he’ll come back, just give him some time. Trust me,’ I tell him with complete confidence. ‘After all, it’s his restaurant. He’s put everything into it.’ A chef abandoning their restaurant is like a pilot skydiving out the emergency exit.

  It’s unthinkable. Absurd. It simply doesn’t happen.

  Pip snorts. ‘It’s also my investment. And it’s located in Octavia’s hotel. Just because he has his name over the door doesn’t mean
that he gets to decide when we open and when we shut.’ I hear a grunt of frustration. ‘But it’s that fucking name that makes all the difference. He’s got us by the balls, so just lay low for a few days, Katie, disappear, and don’t make yourself available for any speculation. I’ll talk to Octavia. She’s got a good head, and that’s what we need here. Let’s meet on Friday, we’ll know everything we need to move forward by then.’

  ‘Pip, he won’t let the restaurant close. Trust me, Jean-Michel would never let that happen.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ He says as he hangs up.

  * * *

  Due to unforeseen circumstances, Marchand @ The Rembrandt will be closed temporarily. All reservations will be rescheduled as a priority. Details regarding reopening will be published shortly. We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience and thank you for your understanding.

  Katie Kelly, Grand chef

  I type up this announcement, pinning it on the door of our restaurant and in big, bold, black lettering on our website. It didn’t take me long to select the wording. Of course, I pained over every letter when making the announcement over my own restaurant. I let that sink in a moment.

  What are the chances of that happening? How is it that this is the second restaurant I’ve closed in as many years? I’m like the black widow of success. Not exactly the most confidence-inducing accolade for a CV. I thought it was the end of the world the first time. That it was definitive. Closure meant that I was a failure and that this was going to be my permanent identity and I would be doomed to fail forever. Somewhere along the line, I had subscribed to the idea that we only get one shot. And if we blow it we’re not worthy of another. But life went on. I survived. And my little restaurant, the theatre of my dreams, the realisation of my greatest ambitions, went back to being an empty room with some tables and chairs.