by Daisy James
‘We can’t allow our standards to slip. Do you understand?’ Francesca allowed her eyes to linger on Lucie’s to ensure her message hit home before flouncing out of the kitchen to check on the alignment of the cutlery.
‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ Lucie repeated to no one in particular.
When she saw how Gino was looking at her, she decided to steer the conversation away from the elephant in the room she had brought to work with her that afternoon.
‘Anyway, does anyone know who the Anon. Appetit food critic – who may or may not be gracing us with his royal presence tonight – actually is? How can one person have so much influence over London’s ravenous diners that one word from him brings them flocking to the tables or sends them fleeing from the trattorias?’
‘There’s no photograph of the guy – understandable, I suppose; he needs to remain anonymous in his pursuit of gastronomic excellence – but his blog apparently became an internet sensation after he recorded and uploaded his forcible eviction from a French restaurant over in Soho at Christmas when he dared to question the provenance of their black truffles,’ explained Antonio as he chopped up a forest of fresh basil for his pesto sauce.
‘One thing there was a photograph of was the bruise the irate chef gave him after he pursued him into the street armed with a wooden rolling pin and a frying pan of fury. Ever since that crazy incident, every chef the length and breadth of London craves and fears an Anon. Appetit review in equal measure. A five-star review is like sprinkling fairy dust on their cuisine and is enough to jettison the restaurant and the chef’s reputation into the upper echelons of gastronomic preference. André Michelin – take a back seat! Of course, the reverse is also true.’
‘Exactly!’ declared Francesca who had reappeared unnoticed as they listened to Antonio’s story. ‘This is why I insist that we must continue to strive for the pinnacle of our talents every single night of the week! For we will never know whether this food critic is eating at one of our tables. If it’s not tonight, it could be tomorrow or next week, or the week after that, and we must be ready. A favourable review could be the catalyst not only to an upswing in bookings but the fulfilment of my dream to expand this little slice of Italian paradise and the security of your employment.’
Everyone was aware of Francesca’s dream to take over the lease of the vacant shop next door. She intended to open an authentic Italian deli that would serve espressos and fresh Parma ham snacks for those patrons too squeezed of the luxury of time to indulge in the full sit-down experience.
‘Whoever this food critic is, he knows his stuff – that much is clear. As it says on his website banner – the pen is mightier than the spatula. But we have nothing to fear if you all concentrate on what you are employed to do and produce your best dishes consistently. But if it is tonight, I do hope you’re up to it.’
Francesca’s eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary on Lucie, who she clearly saw as the weakest link in her culinary empire, before spinning round on her four-inch stilettos and returning to prowl around the dining room before the evening’s diners descended.
Lucie exhaled a long sigh of anxiety. Ever since the celebrated Anon. Appetit blog had burst onto the scene last summer, she had made a conscious effort to avoid reading the reviews, but she’d heard plenty of outraged and indignant analysis of what was published from Gino, Antonio and Sofia. It had gained a huge following in a short amount of time, with diners scrambling to add their own views to the food critic’s posts, thereby perpetuating the effect of his opinion, whether positive or critical.
Needless to say, the negative reviews – some so caustic Antonio insisted on reading them out in disbelief – were the most popular. Lucie could never understand why readers enjoyed seeing hard-working people trashed, for while the food blogger stuck religiously to reviewing the actual food, his readers often made their comments personal.
She remembered a conversation she’d had only a few weeks ago with Gino and Antonio.
‘The scumbag food critic who hides behind the Anon. Appetit blog has rubbished my cousin Leonardo’s pizzeria. He said it wasn’t up to his exacting cordon bleu standards. It’s a pizzeria, for Christ’s sake.’ Gino had waved his kitchen knife in the air in a gesture of what he’d like to do to the celebrity reviewer.
‘Leonardo is devastated – his takings are down by twenty-five per cent and he’s talking about selling up and going back to Florence. I told him these morons make their living from regaling potential diners with witty observations and comedic asides. They have to continually seek out establishments and chefs to belittle and ridicule to ensure their observations remain in the spotlight. Yet these people who don’t know a roux from a roulade tend to forget what diners really enjoy – the comfort of a delicious and satisfying meal served by a friendly waiter at a reasonable price, safe in the knowledge that there will be no part of their meal adorned with snails’ vomit or distilled rats’ urine.’
If she ever came face-to-face with the author who encouraged such vitriol, like Gino she would certainly have something to say to him, too – she just hoped Antonio’s informant had got it wrong and that Mr Anon. Appetit would have the good sense to steer clear of Francesca’s that evening.
Her fingers started to tremble as she sliced a lemon for her crostata al limone. The day was beginning to feel as long as War and Peace.
‘Good grief, who rattled Francesca’s cage?’ asked Sofia as she strode into the kitchen, her eyebrows disappearing into her fringe in consternation as she helped herself to a jug of water to replenish the fresh flowers on each of the tables.
Gino broke away from his task of pulverising a steak to exchange a mischievous smirk with Lucie.
‘If she’s not careful, I think our boss might spontaneously combust! We will do what we always do and cook, cook, cook and every diner in here tonight cannot fail to have an awesome experience – I know it. Are we not the maestros of minestrone, the virtuosos of veal, the connoisseurs of cannoli and cartellate? They’ll all be blown away by our offerings, especially your desserts, Lucie, whichever one they choose to indulge their taste buds in.’
Lucie turned up the corners of her lips, but her smile didn’t register as far as her eyes as she continued absently with the preparation of a Sicilian cassata. As she chopped, whisked and sifted, her mind drifted, inevitably, back to Alex. She fervently wished she could join in with the burbling roulade of kitchen gossip that always preceded a busy evening, but all she felt was numbness creeping from her stomach to her chest and clouding her mind of any pleasure.
Was Francesca right? Should she take the night off after she’d finished preparing her desserts?
But the subject uppermost in her mind was where Alex was at that precise moment. It was just after five o’clock. She knew he would be making his way to the local bar with Greg to perform verbal surgery on the tactical brilliance of his beloved Chelsea. But where would he be spending the rest of the evening when his friends left to take their partners out to dinner? And more to the point, who with? The thought of him dating so soon after their break-up hit her in the chest like a whip of fire. Had he even been seeing someone else when she’d proposed? Was that the reason behind his refusal?
Yes, that had to be the answer – someone else was involved! Why hadn’t she thought of that? Who was it? Probably someone he worked with in that soaring glass shard of a law firm; some corporate lawyer, perhaps, with whom he could discuss the finer details of the government’s current taxation policy over a late-night infusion of caffeine at his desk? Yes, she could picture it now; they hadn’t realised the time, they were exhausted from the mentally challenging work, so they retired to a local wine bar for a nightcap before they…
A blade of renewed pain scythed through Lucie’s brain and her temples throbbed as though they were being squeezed of their last drop of energy in a wine press. A headache threatened – yet another consequence of the agony caused by Alex’s shock refusal of her proposal. The whisk she was using
to whip up one of her signature zabagliones clattered from her hand to the floor as she struggled to rein in her emotions.
‘You okay over there, Lucie?’ enquired Gino, his eyes filled with sympathy. ‘Don’t take any notice of Francesca. She has the heart of an ice queen. Ever since Antonio mentioned the dreaded blogger her preoccupation with perfection has spiralled out of control. We don’t even know for sure that he’ll be here tonight.’
‘I’m okay, thanks, Gino.’ And Lucie returned to her internal meanderings.
As always, it was her friends’ overt expressions of sympathy and kindness that tended to set her off. A week ago, Steph and Hollie had welcomed her and her suitcases into their home with love, understanding and the administration of that trio of female solace – wine, chocolate and a good gossip. Yet her brain was still as befuddled with circulating confusion as it had been that dreadful night, and her aching heart was a ghost town without even the tumbleweed to break the monotony of loneliness. Alex’s casual rejection in the space of a moment had been so unexpected she couldn’t quite believe it had happened. She still expected him to call her to arrange a Saturday brunch date, or walk through the restaurant door to declare that it had all been a ruse – that he’d planned to propose to her himself and of course he wanted to marry her.
Before her life had exploded in her face, she hadn’t ever thought things couldn’t get any better. As well as what she’d thought of as her steady love life with the man of her dreams, her ambitions in the career arena were progressing in accordance with the carefully crafted plan she’d made after graduating in the top five of her class at Le Cordon Bleu cookery school in Paris. She allowed her thoughts to swing briefly to those heady days in the City of Light when her brain had been crammed to bursting with all-things-patisserie and she had slaved over a hot stove from the moment she arrived in that celebrated kitchen until she couldn’t hold her eyes open a second longer. She had loved carrying out culinary autopsies on recipes then twisting the results to improve on taste, texture and presentation.
However, she knew she still had a lot to learn in the arena of gastronomic archaeology, and one of her particular interests was Mediterranean desserts. She loved working with Gino on his signature biscotti and experimenting with a wide variety of fillings for their cannoli. She also enjoyed being part of the renaissance of the trattoria in Hammersmith. Gino continually assured her she was an integral cog in their food-creating machine. Her colleagues – Gino, Antonio and Sofia – were like an extended family and Francesca’s was rapidly becoming one of the best Italian eateries in the area as evidenced by the long waiting list for weekend reservations.
With supreme difficulty, she dragged her concentration back to the green figs she was struggling to peel and reluctantly admitted that maybe Francesca had a point. Perhaps she should take a break from work until she could banish the raw edges of her heartache.
What if Antonio’s sources were right and the food critic had chosen to dine incognito at Francesca’s that night? What if she made a mistake? Tears breached her lashes again. Who knew that one person could cry so many tears and still have some left in reserve?
She checked her watch. It was too late to scarper for home now anyway, as the Friday night diners had already started to arrive. But then the tiny part of her reasonable brain still functioning reminded her that Gino was an amazing chef, Antonio was a talented sous chef and Francesca’s Trattoria was the best Italian restaurant in the whole of Hammersmith. A bad review, even from such an alleged gastronomic genius as the guy behind the famous Anon. Appetit, was impossible.
Chapter Four
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked Antonio.
‘I’m fine!’ She forced a false smile to her lips.
‘Well, in that case, perhaps you could try using those delicious toasted pecans instead of ciabatta croutons on your ricotta torte?’ giggled Sofia, as she returned the offending dessert plate that had been rejected by a disgruntled diner, a wide smile displaying her perfect teeth. ‘Ditzy is adorable, just not tonight, eh? What if this delectable dessert had been destined for our famous anonymous blogger Fran is so obsessed with at the moment?’
‘Oh, God, Sofia, I’m so sorry.’
Lucie’s sense of humour temporarily deserted her as she slammed the discarded dessert, along with the plate, into the waste bin and shot off to refrost Francesca’s most popular sweet. She wiped the back of her hand over her forehead and swallowed as panic soared through her veins, sparkling out to her fingertips like ribbons of electricity.
‘Don’t tell Fran, please. I’ve already had to bake a new batch of zeppola after my first attempt turned out more like overblown popcorn.’
‘My lips are sealed, mia pulce,’ Sofia assured her, as she wafted out of the kitchen before reappearing immediately.
‘One tiramisu and a slice of your spectacular mango cheesecake, please,’ called Sofia, her voice bursting through Lucie’s reverie as she jammed the dessert order onto the nail in front of her and disappeared again.
‘Okay,’ she mumbled, barely registering the request.
She reached for the dessert glasses and assembled the ingredients on autopilot as her thoughts continued to spiral down into a helix of despair. Had her late nights at the restaurant and her desire to squeeze every ounce of knowledge she could from Gino before moving on to start her own business driven Alex into the arms of another woman?
Oh, God! It was all her fault!
She grabbed the canister of cocoa powder from a shelf of spices that she’d set out with military precision, and sprinkled a generous dusting over the tiramisu she had prepared earlier. She was so tired, physically and emotionally, that she looked at the soft, smooth surface of cream cheesecake and wondered what sort of pillow it would make. She had been unable to sleep for any more than a couple of hours a night. Her days felt like she’d been cast adrift from her moorings as her emotions swayed from sadness, confusion and misery through to pain and anguish, and finally landed on indignation and anger and a desperate need for answers, before the pendulum swung back again to humiliation, shame and an urge to crawl into a hole and stay there until her heart stopped aching. It was all so exhausting.
‘This the tiramisu?’ enquired a harassed Sofia. Lucie hadn’t even noticed she’d returned and was loitering impatiently at her side.
‘Yes,’ she muttered absently as she set about decanting a vanilla-bean-infused pannacotta and adding swirls of home-made raspberry coulis and mint jam in a lacklustre pattern on a white china plate.
‘Great.’ Sofia sneaked a glance at her. ‘You sure you’re okay, Lucie? You don’t look… well, as though you are totally with us this evening.’
‘I’m fine.’ She flicked her blonde curls from her cheeks behind her ears and once again forced a wide smile onto her lips.
Sofia rolled her eyes, took the proffered plate of tiramisu and a glass schooner of zabaglione and strode off back to the dining room.
Lucie continued on autopilot as she created her usual array of desserts, but minus their usual flourish, until she was jolted from navigating the labyrinth of her misery by Francesca bursting into the kitchen holding a china dessert plate aloft with a half-eaten slice of tiramisu in its centre. Her face was unusually pale, but her lips were stretched into her customary restrained annoyance.
‘Lucie?’
‘Hm hm?’
‘Is this the dessert you prepared for table ten?’
‘Oh, erm…’ She squinted at the plate before meeting Sofia’s frantic eyes. ‘Yes, yes it is – cappuccino tiramisu.’
Lucie glanced again at the half-eaten dessert which was almost identical to the one she had dispatched from the kitchen, minus a corner where it had clearly been tasted. A horrible sinking feeling invaded her stomach as she realised the diner mustn’t have enjoyed it.
‘Why don’t you taste it?’ suggested Francesca, her eyebrows raised, her lips tightened into a line in an attempt to compress her anger.
‘Ok… a
y.’
Lucie shot a glance at Gino who’d stopped chopping a pile of porcini mushrooms and strode over to join them. She selected a silver teaspoon, scooped up the creamy dessert and raised it to her mouth. The moment the flavours burst onto her tongue she realised her mistake. It was impossible not to.
‘Oh my God!’ she spluttered, reaching for a glass of water as heat spread across her lips and then raged across the roof of her mouth.
‘What? What’s happened?’ demanded Gino. He wiped his hands on his apron, grabbed his own spoon and sliced away a morsel of the dessert.
‘Aghh, Dio mio! This is not cocoa powder, Lucie! This is smoked chilli powder! Please don’t tell me you dusted a slice of Francesca’s famous signature dessert with a liberal helping of chilli powder?’
Lucie followed Gino’s eyes as they darted to the shelf above her workstation where her spices and herbs were lined up. Sure enough, the cocoa powder and smoked chilli powder canisters had swapped places. Her heart dropped to her toes like a pebble down a well and bounced back to lodge in her throat, preventing her from speaking, from explaining her unforgivable error. Her eyes widened and she squashed her palm to her lips. She couldn’t prevent an arid sob erupting from deep within her core as realisation crashed over her senses.
‘I’m… oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I’ll prepare another one…’
‘I’ve already told the customer that, but he said he had no intention of eating anything else prepared at Francesca’s Trattoria,’ grimaced Sofia who had now joined them. ‘I’ve cancelled the bill but he’s demanding to see the pastry chef in person. He even suggested we did this on purpose.’
‘But why? I don’t even know the guy,’ stammered Lucie. ‘Okay, I admit it. It’s totally my fault. I’ve been a walking disaster since Alex dumped me. I know I should have listened to you when you told me to go home. I’ll go out and explain.’
