I pick up my tumbler of scotch and swirl it around in my hand, just thinking about the insufferable woman who had the audacity to defy me.
“She is not going to last,” I say as I stroke my thumb over Eva’s face.
Eva’s smiling at me from the selfie we took while we were on vacation on Hamilton Island. This is one of the best photos we took before she passed away.
Carefully, I place the photo down on the table beside my chair. I turn to look at my stunning wife, her smile the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.
“I miss you,” I say as I lift the tumbler and drink all the contents in one go.
Eva doesn’t falter; she simply keeps looking at me. Smiling, happy, in love.
Lifting the bottle, I bypass the tumbler and drink straight from the glass decanter.
My drift toward a mindless and emotionless oblivion is taking too long tonight. The dark isn’t embracing me quickly enough. My heart is still beating and I wish it would stop so I could finally go to my love.
Wishing for the strong drum of my heart to weaken, making it easy for me to close my eyes and float into the black. The gloom suffocates me; I see darkness everywhere my eyes look.
In silence I sit and listen to my own breathing, submerged in a bottomless pit of sorrow and resentment, unable to escape from the waves pulling me down. I barely come up for air. This riptide of misery does not allow me to regain any sense of myself.
“Je t’aime,” I murmur to the photo, then lift the bottle for another swig, gulping down more.
The fuzz in my head is becoming a welcome distraction from the gaping hole in my heart.
The room begins to lose its warmth. The reminder of Eva’s soft floral scent has long left our family room. Only her pictures remain, adorning the walls, mere memories of the consuming love we once shared.
The blackness begins to close in around me, my senses dulling until the full robust flavour of the scotch becomes a tasteless liquid.
I lift the bottle and finish off what remains in the bottom, savouring the burn as it caresses the inside of my throat.
My eyes close slowly, bringing the welcome dark. I try to let my happy memories of Eva make a last impression before I fall into a drunken stupor. Memories of my wife as we danced under the stars, wrapped in nothing but the chilly night air while our bodies moved as one. The sweet touch of her soft lips on the column of my throat as the music filled our ears, the gentle whisper of her skin as I pulled her to my body, ravishing her with my love and my soul.
“Je t’aime,” I murmur once more as my eyes drift closed.
Wandering somewhere between the states of living and dying, I let the bottle drop. The muffled sound of the thud it makes as it hits the faded grey carpet is just enough to register that I am in fact, still alive.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll reunite with my love, and maybe then I’ll finally be able to breathe.
THREE
Holly
Driving the forty minute route between our home and the city gives me time to prepare myself. Tonight’s Monday, and I’m starting my week of training before I step into the role of maître d’.
What I’m not looking forward to is Pierre. He’s an arrogant arse and I’m not sure how I’m going to handle him. If I can get through this week of training, I should be alright.
I get to the parking station close to Table One, park my car, and start the quick, three-minute walk. Table One is only a few minutes’ walk from The Opera House, and the restaurant was once considered one of the best in Sydney. But after losing its Michelin star, it’s not as much in demand as it used to be.
My small heels clack against the pavement, and I can feel my heart fluttering like crazy, because I’ve not worked for many years. What if, after tonight, I can’t put up with the arrogant chef and I want to quit?
What type of role model would I be for Emma? Not a very good one.
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.”
“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.
FOUR
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 w
hat 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?
Monster Chef Page 2
