Too Many Cooks

by Dana Bate

  Not wet and gross. Got it.

  She struts out of the kitchen, with Poppy following close behind, and when she gets to the door, she rests her hand on the frame.

  “Oh, and I’ve been meaning to mention—from now on, when you arrive, could you please use the servants’ entrance?”

  “The what?”

  “The servants’ entrance. The one on the side of the house.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying not to sound as taken aback as I feel. “Okay. If that’s what you’d prefer.”

  “It is. I know I can be low-key about a lot of things, but I’m not okay with having my staff come in and out the front door.”

  Her staff. Is that what I am? I guess so. In that case, I wonder how she’d feel about having her staff sleep in her guest bedroom....

  “Then I’ll use the servants’ entrance. Not a problem.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I should have mentioned it sooner.”

  She turns and walks out of the room, and all I can think is that she just apologized for entirely the wrong thing.

  CHAPTER 19

  Natasha is my boss. I know this. She is the one who hired me, and she is the one paying me—although I have yet to receive any money since I arrived in England. Her business manager, Larry, cut me a check as soon as I signed the contract (a small amount to “get me started”), but he was supposed to arrange for the rest of the money to be deposited directly into my US bank account in installments. I emailed his assistant last week when nothing had appeared, and apparently they lost some of my paperwork, so I needed to resend all of my banking details. They are allegedly processing my information, but it’s taking an awfully long time, and no one seems all that concerned. I suppose that’s what happens when you are rich and famous. You never worry about money, so you don’t understand why anyone else would either.

  But somehow, even though Natasha is my boss, I’m still a little offended that she considers me a “servant.” I am pouring my soul into this book so that she can achieve her dream of writing a cookbook. Without me, this book would be nothing more than an idea. If she is the architect, then I am the engineer, contractor, and handy-woman, taking her pie-in-the-sky blueprints and turning them into something functional, sturdy, and real. I don’t expect her to treat me as an equal, or even as a friend, but I don’t think a little respect is too much to ask.

  Nevertheless, I do as she asks and start using the servants’ entrance the next morning when I arrive. I follow the small pathway around the side of the house to the door I used with Olga the morning I overslept and forgot my keys. Olga opens the door seconds after I press the small, round buzzer.

  “I buy more kale,” she says as she lets me in. “And zucchini.”

  I’ve decided to let Olga do most of the shopping from now on. The control freak in me would rather do it myself, but my inner pragmatist knows having Olga do it will save me time, and given my increasing antipathy toward Natasha, the faster I can finish this project, the better.

  I set my bag on the counter, open the refrigerator, and stare into its chilled interior. The mere thought of tackling the kale burger recipe makes me want to set this kitchen on fire. The burger I developed was good—really good. It had texture and substance, rich with garlic and onion and perfumed with smoky pimenton. Okay, so it wasn’t green. But it had green flecks. I did use kale. Just not enough of it, I guess.

  Instead of delving back into my recipe nemesis, I decide to start on the zucchini salad. I remember once preparing a recipe for sautéed zucchini based on one from the Red Cat in New York City. The Red Cat recipe calls for cooking a mess of julienned zucchini for barely a minute—just enough to warm it through, while tossing it with toasted almonds and olive oil. The dish gets a few quick shavings of Parmesan at the end, and voilà: zucchini perfection.

  Natasha specified a zucchini salad, not a zucchini sauté, and she said the dressing was “zippy” and involved lemon juice, but I can use the Red Cat recipe as a springboard to develop the sort of salad she has in mind.

  I grab two zucchini from the fridge and, using one of Natasha’s bespoke Kramer knives, meticulously slice each one into even matchsticks. I dump the matchsticks into a colander and sprinkle them with salt, leaving them to shed some of their water while I brainstorm what type of lemon vinaigrette to make. For as long as I’ve been cooking, I’ve never loved a big, lemony slap in the face. For me, a little lemon goes a very long way. But this isn’t supposed to be my recipe. It’s supposed to be Natasha’s, and Natasha wants it to be zippy and lemony, which means I’ll have to create a dish I might not otherwise make or enjoy.

  That’s one of the toughest parts of my job: the palate meld that accompanies the mind meld. I have to create a dish Natasha would like and write up the recipe the way Natasha would present it, taking myself out of the equation, even though I’m the one responsible for all of it. I’m like the man behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz, except that guy had it easier because the wizard wasn’t real.

  Since the dish is based on a salad Natasha had in Italy, I decide to use one of my standby vinaigrettes, which uses lemon, olive oil, mustard, a little garlic, and—the secret ingredient—an anchovy. The anchovy gets mashed up with the garlic and some salt, so you barely even know it’s there, but it adds extra oomph to the dressing and gives it an Italian flair (not that I’ve ever actually been to Italy).

  I find a jar of anchovies in Natasha’s pantry, and as I mash one with a garlic clove and a fat pinch of salt, Poppy drifts into the kitchen, tapping on her phone. She approaches the counter, still glued to her device, and when she gets within three feet of me, she sniffs the air.

  “What in God’s name is that smell?”

  “What smell?” I take a whiff. “You mean the anchovy?”

  Poppy makes a gagging sound. “Oh, my God. Of all the unbearable smells . . .” She claps her hand over her nose and mouth.

  “It’s one anchovy. That’s it.” I squirt some lemon juice into the bowl. “There—you can barely smell it now.”

  She slowly removes her hand, but quickly slaps it back over her nose. “Nope—still there.”

  “Sorry. It’s part of the recipe.”

  “Well, thankfully this conversation will be brief. Natasha wanted me to tell you she plans to go to Paris next week and wanted to know if you’d like to come, since you’ve never been.”

  My heart leaps. “Really?”

  “Apparently.”

  “When would we leave?”

  “Monday morning, first thing. It’ll be a quick trip this time—only three days. Just enough time for a fitting at Dior and a facial.”

  “Would you be coming as well?”

  “Obviously.”

  “So would we share a room, then?”

  Her eyes widen, as if I just proposed waxing her bikini line. “Certainly not.” She suddenly seems very worried. “At least I don’t think so. I’ll have to ask Natasha.”

  “I promise I’m not as scary as I look.”

  Given Poppy’s expression, I must look terrifying.

  She blinks, her hand still covering her nose. “You’re in, then?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good. I’ll let Natasha know.”

  She whirls around, scurrying away from the vinaigrette as quickly as possible, and as I whisk the olive oil into the bowl, I can barely contain my smile.

  CHAPTER 20

  Paris! I can’t believe it. I’ve dreamed about going to Paris ever since I was a little girl. I first caught a glimpse of the city on Dallas, when Bobby and April went on their disastrous honeymoon. I was only four at the time, and the show was on way past my bedtime, but I snuck downstairs and watched through the spindles on the banister while my mom sat in front of the TV with her tumbler of blackberry brandy (which, at the time, I thought was just juice for grown-ups). I couldn’t follow the plot, but I thought the city looked like something out of a fairy tale, and I’ve wanted to visit ever since.

  And now I have my c
hance! I’ll be accompanying Natasha, which puts a damper on things, but I’ll probably get the royal treatment as part of her entourage. Considering how posh the guest room in her house is, I can’t imagine her staying anywhere that isn’t fabulous. Maybe I’ll even meet Joël Robuchon, or Pierre Hermé. I can’t wait.

  The only downside to this sudden news is that I now need to cancel my date with Harry. If I’m going to Paris for three days, I’ll lose half a week of testing, and given how behind we are, I need to use every available hour before we leave to stay on schedule.

  When I call him on my way home, he doesn’t even try to mask his disappointment. “I suppose next week is out then, too, if you’ll be in Paris,” he says.

  “Sorry. Maybe we could do something next Saturday instead?”

  “Yeah, okay. That sounds good. There’s a great pizza place in Brixton—assuming you like pizza.”

  “Love it.”

  “Great,” he says, his tone brighter. “Shall we say eight o’clock? The queue can get rather long, but the wait is worth it.”

  “Works for me. Sorry again about having to cancel—this trip came out of nowhere.”

  “Not a problem. Have fun in Paris. Eat a few croissants for me.”

  I spend the rest of the week working at a frantic pace, perfecting the zucchini salad and refining the dreaded kale burger so that it is almost entirely green. When I’m not testing recipes, I spend nearly every waking minute researching which restaurants, boulangeries, and patisseries I will cram into my three-day trip: Poilâne, Le Relais de l’Entrecôte, Ladurée, Gérard Mulot, Pierre Hermé, L’As du Fallafel, Le Bistrot Paul Bert, Le Comptoir. Considering I will only be there for three days, I’m not exactly sure how I will fit everything in, but I’ll find a way. Who knows when I’ll have another opportunity to go to Paris? I have to make every second count.

  As soon as I arrive Friday morning, I start preparing the zucchini salad and the kale burger for our noon tasting. I think I’ve finally nailed both recipes, developing versions that not only taste good but also that Natasha will like. The zucchini salad is zippy, but not overly lemony, and the flavor is rounded out by the touch of anchovy and garlic in the dressing and the toasted almonds and nutty Parmesan. I also managed to preserve the flavor of my original kale burger while making it greener, and I’ve improved the texture. The only dish I don’t have lined up for the tasting are her grandmother’s scrambled eggs, but I’ve started working on them and will have something for her soon. And anyway, Parisians are the masters of all things oeuf, so I can do research while I’m there.

  By 11:55, all of the dishes are ready. By 12:15, I start looking at my watch. By 12:45, the toasted almonds in the zucchini salad are getting soggy. By 1:00, the uncooked kale burgers look a little sad. And by 1:30, I am officially pissed off.

  At 2:00, Natasha bursts into the kitchen, dressed in leopard-print spandex pants and a sports bra. As usual, Poppy trails behind.

  “Hey,” Natasha says, dabbing at her forehead with a small towel. She lets out a big sigh. “We made it.”

  I glance at the clock. “I thought we said noon.”

  “Yeah, but my trainer wanted me to check out the new Pilates equipment in her studio, and noon was the only time she could meet me.”

  “Oh. I wish I’d known. I’d have worked on a few other recipes this morning before prepping the tasting.”

  “I’m sure you survived. Anyway, where’s the food? I just got my period and could eat the whole house.”

  I pull the dishes from the refrigerator. “Do you want to start with the kale burger or the zucchini salad?”

  Natasha wipes her neck. “Why don’t I try a bite of the zucchini while you cook up the burgers?”

  “Perfect.”

  I scoop some of the salad onto two plates, and as she and Poppy dig in, I heat a frying pan.

  “Is this the dressing with the . . . ?” Poppy trails off.

  “The what?” Natasha asks.

  I look over my shoulder. “Oh. I think she’s referring to the anchovy. I used one in the dressing.”

  Poppy spits her salad back on the plate, and Natasha rolls her eyes. “You’re such a prole,” Natasha says. “I love anchovies.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice Poppy’s cheeks are bright red.

  “It’s something to do with the smell,” Poppy says. “I just . . . I can’t.”

  Natasha takes another forkful of the zucchini salad. “More for me, then.”

  I finish cooking the kale burgers and transfer them to a large platter. “One for each, or one to share?”

  “One each—I’m starving,” Natasha says.

  I place the burgers on two separate plates and push them across the counter. They cut into them and take small bites.

  “Now this I like,” Poppy says.

  Natasha scrunches up her nose. “Do you?”

  Poppy’s cheeks flush again. “I do. Don’t you?”

  “I mean . . . it’s nice. It’s tasty. But I wonder . . . is it clean enough?”

  “Clean how?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Like, all that smokiness? What is that?”

  “Smoked paprika,” I say.

  “And what about these chunky bits? What’s that?”

  “Mashed white beans.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. All those beans . . . It seems a bit heavy, doesn’t it?”

  “We need something to bind all of the kale together,” I say. “We can’t only use kale.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the burgers wouldn’t stick together.”

  “What about an egg?”

  “I used one of those, too.”

  “Oh.” She taps her fork against the plate. “Well, could you maybe try it with chickpeas instead of white beans?”

  Oh dear God, this recipe is going to kill me.

  “Sure,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

  “And maybe cut back on the smokiness.”

  “No!” Poppy jumps in. “Sorry—I just . . . I don’t know much about food, but I think the smokiness is lovely. It makes the burger feel meaty . . . without the meat.”

  My eyes flit between Poppy and Natasha. Please agree with Poppy; please agree with Poppy.

  Natasha throws up her hands. “Fine. Keep the pimenton. But try to make the taste . . . cleaner. And lighter.”

  “Okay.” I look down at the plates of zucchini salad. “What about the zucchini?”

  She lets out a drawn-out sigh. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I love it. But hearing Poppy talk . . . maybe she has a point. A lot of people don’t like anchovies.”

  “But you do.”

  “But I don’t want a bunch of people skipping a recipe in my book because it has anchovies in it.”

  “Okay. Maybe I could try the dressing without the anchovy? Or tweak it in another direction?”

  She shifts her jaw from side to side. “You know what? Why don’t we ditch the zucchini salad and go back to the carrot salad.”

  “The one I made for you on Monday?”

  “No . . . I mean, yes, that kind of carrot salad, but could we get rid of the chickpeas? And maybe add sunflower seeds. Or almonds. I don’t know—something crunchy.”

  I try very hard not to combust.

  “Okay, but like I said before, with your deadline . . . The more we retest, the trickier things become. At some point we’re going to have to start cutting recipes.”

  “What? No. No way are we cutting any recipes.”

  “I don’t want to cut any recipes. It’s just with all of this retesting, and the Paris trip next week—”

  “Well, you’ll just stay here and work,” she says.

  I freeze. “What?”

  “If we’re running into deadline problems, then you shouldn’t come with us to Paris.”

  “No, no—I’m not saying we’re running into problems yet. I’m saying we could run into problems down the line.”

  “And that’s the last thing I want to happen. I�
�d much rather you stay here and get us on track.”

  My heart sinks. “But I’m sure I could make it work. It’s only three days. And it could be good for research. . . .”

  I realize I’m backtracking on everything I just said, but I have been looking forward to this trip all week. I have to go.

  “Nope,” she says. “I’ve made up my mind. You’re staying here. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of other opportunities. It’s not like I needed you to come with me, anyway.” She looks at Poppy’s notebook. “Are we done?”

  I nod, unable to speak through the lump in my throat.

  “Great. Good luck with those recipes. I’ll see you next Wednesday afternoon when we’re back.”

  She throws her exercise towel over her shoulder and turns to leave. “Oh,” she says, turning back around, “and see if you can come up with a fun topping for those burgers. Like, maybe a plum ketchup or a honey mustard. You’ll certainly have the time.”

  I hate her. Oh, my God, I hate her.

  What kind of person dangles a trip to Paris in front of someone, and then yanks it away? It isn’t my fault we’re running into deadline issues. She’s the one who keeps changing her mind: “Carrot salad! No, zucchini salad! No, carrot salad!” If she would just stick to the plan, we’d be fine. But she’s capricious and thoughtless, and now I’m stuck dealing with the consequences. In London.

  Not only am I in London—I’m in London alone. Harry is visiting family in Devon, and Jess is on some weekend trip in the Lake District, and they are the only two people I know well enough to call. Part of me is tempted to move up my date with Harry to earlier in the week since I’ll be around, but instead, I decide to use the time I would have been in Paris to get ahead of schedule. If I’m not going, I need to make this time count. The sooner I get out of here, the better.

  So on I go, using my weekend to mash, blitz, and sear my way to veggie-burger perfection. This time I use chickpeas and a bit of lemon juice to brighten and lighten the flavor. Once I’ve completed that recipe, I move on to a new carrot salad and a recipe for the fluffiest, creamiest scrambled eggs I’ve ever tasted. If Natasha doesn’t like these eggs, it’s official: Her taste buds are up her asshole.