by Daisy James
She ran her fingers through her curls and inhaled a deep breath that did nothing to calm the emotions that had whipped up in her abdomen. She pushed open the door into the dining room and, with Sofia by her side, strode over to the table where a single diner had just finished tapping his iPad with a flourish and was preparing to leave. Lucie held out her palm as she drew level with him.
‘Hello, I’m Lucie Bradshaw. I’m the pastry chef who…. Oh, my God! No way!’
‘Lucie?’
‘Ed Cartolli? What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. The Lucie Bradshaw I knew at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris was whip-smart and razor-sharp. Although if you’re the dessert chef responsible for creating the garbage I was just served, then perhaps you’re not the Lucie Bradshaw with the promising culinary talent I met back then, because that dessert was not even in the realms of what I would have expected from the exceptional student who graduated second in her cordon bleu class.’
Lucie stared at him. Edmundo Cartolli was exactly as he had remained in her mind’s eye. Still infuriatingly handsome, with his Mediterranean-hued skin, his come-to-bed eyes the colour of espresso, framed by thick liquorice lashes, and those matching dimples like brackets at the corners of his full, pink lips. Her heart beat out a concerto of humiliation at her stupid mistake and annoyance at his familiar arrogance as he reminded her that, while she might have graduated in the top two of her class, the top prize had been presented to him.
But she was confused.
‘Why would I know you were here? I haven’t seen you since I left Paris. And why did you say I served you with that tiramisu on purpose?’
Ed ignored her and waved his iPad in her face. ‘I have a couple of photographs of your substandard offering and I’ve already composed the culinary prose I’m famous for.’
She screwed up her nose in bewilderment. What was the guy talking about?
‘Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am?’
‘I’m not sure what…’
‘Let me put you out of your misery. Ever heard of a little blog called Anon. Appetit?’
Chapter Five
For the first time in her life an incomprehensible veil of red mist descended over her. A scorching fury swarmed through her veins as the realisation dawned that Edmundo Cartolli was the man who had penned the vitriol that had practically closed down Leonardo’s beloved pizzeria and had caused a French chef to chase him from his brasserie with a meat cleaver. Now he was threatening to direct his malicious literary diatribe at Francesca’s and at her desserts in particular. Disconnecting her social niceties app, she clenched her fists and inhaled a deep breath as her prudence flew out of the window.
‘One mistake! One tiny lapse in concentration and you threaten to destroy a restaurant’s reputation with a flick of your pen! For your information, my cappuccino tiramisu has won awards! Exquisite, one reviewer called it.’ Her heart pounded painfully against her ribcage and her breath came out in spurts but she was determined to get her point across. It was important. ‘So there was a problem with your dessert tonight. I’m sorry, okay? It’s none of your business, but I’m in the middle of an emotional meltdown. It happens sometimes – chefs do occasionally have a few minutes to devote to their personal lives. It was a one-off lapse in concentration and you turn it into the debacle of the decade!’
Ed’s darkened jawline slackened and he stared at her as though she had gone mad. He was right. A tiny part of her subconscious mind told her she was definitely looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror and her propensity for allowing her tongue to go before her brain had leapt to the fore. But he remained silent, motionless, his face a mask of calm.
‘Lucie, come on, why don’t we go and…’ cajoled Sofia.
Her friend grasped her forearm and tried to steer her away from the table, but Lucie snatched her arm away. She was on a roll and wanted to say her piece; although a tiny, sensible part of her brain cautioned her that this wasn’t Alex sitting in front of her. Nevertheless, she shoved the warning chimes into the dark crevices of her shattered brain. She chanced a quick glance at the captivated audience of Friday night diners who had descended into an ominous silence. The waiters had frozen in situ and she could see Francesca weaving her way through the tables towards her, horror creasing her forehead. Many of the diners had their iPhones raised, recording the unfolding drama.
‘What do you know anyway? Do you have the courage to go out and run your own kitchen? You sit there in your Armani suit, sneering at the food put before you, already composing the words you’ll spew forth into your famous blog. It’s a ridiculous name by the way, Anon. Appetit!
‘And why? You think it’s entertaining for your readers, that it’ll draw more traffic to your website? Do you know how hard these people work? What hours they put in – early mornings at the fish market, late nights in the kitchen – to make all this’ – she flung her arm around the room, ignoring the bobbing lights of the phones held aloft for the best angle – ‘an enjoyable dining experience? Your thoughtless words hurt. They slice deep into a chef’s heart. Oh, I’m not talking about me; perhaps I deserve a dollop of criticism for being off my game tonight. I’m talking about Leonardo and all the others whose businesses have suffered such a sharp drop in their bookings that they’re thinking of closing and going back home to Italy. He doesn’t deserve it. Leonardo makes the best pizza in the city!’
She began to feel a little disconcerted that Ed Cartolli had not reacted to her diatribe in any way. He leaned back in his chair, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets, a glint of gold at his cuffs catching the light from the candle on the table, totally in control of his emotions. In fact, was that even a smirk playing around those plump lips? Could it possibly be that he was actually enjoying the scene she was making?
The red veil of rage swirled tighter as an image of them standing next to each other at the workstation in the kitchen of Le Cordon Bleu floated across her mind, both of them fiercely competitive and vying for the top spot. Of course, he had won. The memory fired her ire still further. She gritted her teeth as Francesca arrived next to her and, along with Sofia, linked her arm to persuade her from the restaurant.
But she wasn’t finished.
‘But oh no! The famous Signor Cartolli doesn’t mind who he upsets if it makes an interesting post for his pathetic little website! The vitriol is forming in his sharpened digital pen even before he’s eaten the last mouthful. Is that what it takes to make you feel good about yourself? Putting others down? Do you know how much your words sting? Of course, you don’t have to look the chef in the eye as they read your miserable missives. You never see the pain they cause, like a skewer driven into their hearts! Every chef wants their customers to love their food, the food they pour their love into creating. Your words suppress self-esteem, douse creativity, and even make these lovely people unemployed. Do you even care?’
Her last words were flung over her shoulder as she was forcibly escorted back into the kitchen. The neon lights overhead and the horrified expressions of Gino and Antonio hit her square in the face and she recovered enough of her wits for the slow creep of embarrassment and regret to start flowing through her veins.
‘Oh, my God! Have you any idea what you’ve just done?’ yelled Francesca. ‘I take it that was the blogger from Anon. Appetit? Do you know what’s going to happen now? He’s going to ruin us! He’ll publish his review, if he hasn’t already, on that stupid website of his and people will say “let’s not go there, isn’t that where the crazy pastry chef works? Heaven knows what we’ll find in our food!” How could you, Lucie? How could you do this to me?’
It was the first time Lucie had seen tears collect along Francesca’s lower lashes, but her boss’s overwhelming emotion was anger. In fact, she was so irate that the whites of her eyes seemed to be bulging from their sockets and her dark auburn hair sprang from her head as though she’d been plugged into an electric socket.
‘You’re fir
ed!’
‘Fran…’ Gino stepped forward, his palms held aloft.
‘Unless you want to join her, I suggest you stay out of this, Gino.’
‘Fran, I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m sure you are, but sorry doesn’t cut it. I can’t have a loose cannon in my kitchen, Lucie. If I let you stay Francesca’s will forever be associated with the chef who went mental. I can’t allow the trattoria and its staff to be tarred with such a reputation. With you out of the way, perhaps, just perhaps, I can salvage the situation. I can inform everyone that the person responsible is no longer a member of staff and everything is back to normal. Gino and Antonio, Sofia and Alberto will still have their jobs.’
Lucie looked around the kitchen at the people she had grown to love and knew Francesca was right. In fact, if she hadn’t been fired she would have quit. She had to go.
Chapter Six
‘Oh God! Oh God! It’s truly venomous!’ exclaimed Hollie, peering over Steph’s shoulder as she scrolled down the page on her iPad to read the details of the review of Francesca’s Trattoria on the Anon. Appetit website.
Lucie took another glug from the glass of Prosecco rosé Steph had ordered for her at their regular Saturday night haunt. She’d hoped the effervescent alcohol would deliver a surge of Dutch courage so she could smile through the agony, but every single word – even though she had read the review a couple of hours before in the privacy of the bathroom at Hollie and Steph’s flat in Wimbledon – still fired a sharp needle of pain through her battered heart. She could almost quote the caustic missive word for word. Still, she suspected she would succumb to the tears which had lurked so close to the surface after the Alex fiasco.
Are you planning to spend an evening at Francesca’s Trattoria hoping for a real taste of Italian home-cooking? So was I. Take my advice – try somewhere else!
As regular visitors to my blog know, Italy is my homeland and its cuisine holds a special place in my heart. First of all let me say that a truly bad review is an increasingly rare beast and rightly so. There is always something good to be found in every food establishment whether it be the beautifully laundered linen, the warmth of the welcome, a well-flavoured potage or a carefully chosen table adornment.
However, occasionally there comes a time when a word of caution is necessary and we food connoisseurs should not shy away from its verbalisation otherwise we could be accused of being no more than cheerleaders for our pet eating establishments or favourite chefs. Those who rely on my blog and my website for their dining recommendations do so for the vein of honesty that runs through my words. My followers are discerning diners who expect food critics to be consumer champions offering an informed opinion on where to spend their hard-earned cash, especially if it’s for a special occasion.
So, turning to the restaurant – or I should say, trattoria – which is the subject of my review this week – Francesca’s. What better way is there for this Sicilian boy to spend a Friday night than indulging in the authentic taste of his childhood? I was so anticipating the opportunity to be jettisoned back in time to the days when my grandmother’s home-cooking was a weekly treat to be relished. I must say, from the moment I stepped over the threshold of Francesca’s Trattoria the years slipped away and I was back at my grandparents’ village restaurant nestled on the hillside overlooking the Conca D’Oro, every one of my senses enveloped with happy memories and the craving for a decent minestrone.
I was served by a fellow Italian speaker whose knowledge of that evening’s menu was exceptional. Her enthusiasm for every dish on the menu spoke volumes of her passion for her chosen vocation. The minestrone did not disappoint: full of flavour and crammed with fresh vegetables and just the right amount of herbs. For mains I decided to order light – a superbly grilled fillet steak which was exceptional – as I wanted to ensure there was space for the best part of any meal – the dessert. Regular readers will know my penchant for a well-executed Italian pudding.
If I could end my review here I would bestow on Francesca’s Trattoria the full five stars – a triumph to be celebrated with a glass of the best Chianti – but sadly, when the much-anticipated dessert arrived, the evening took a nose-dive into horror territory. Not only was it the worst tiramisu I have ever had the displeasure to endure, I truly believe the pastry chef was secretly trying to sabotage her employer’s business via my innocent taste buds. Why else would I be presented with an unimaginative, second-rate dessert comprising layers of leaden sponge that coat the roof of one’s mouth with a claggy paste so harsh I had to resort to downing a whole glass of the tepid water I had been served with?
Even this, my dear readers, would not have warranted a reduction in stars – for I am nothing if not fair in my assessment of the dining institutions I am fortunate enough to visit. No, the pièce de résistance was that the whole sorry ensemble was not dusted with the expected cocoa powder and shavings of bitter chocolate, but with a liberal sprinkling of smoked chilli powder! Yes, chilli! That aromatic spice fans of Mexican cuisine will be familiar with strewn all over my dessert! Disgusting!
Was this a joke? I asked myself.
Had the dessert been prepared by the proprietor’s five-year-old daughter?
Could it have been a genuine mistake? If so, it is a puzzle to me why an experienced Le Cordon Bleutrained pastry chef would make such a sloppy blunder.
Whatever the truth, it was surely an unforgivable error to make. I will not be returning to Francesca’s Trattoria any time soon and recommend that, if you are still brave enough to try its fayre, you steer well clear of the sweet menu, for if you stray onto its battleground you should know you will be taking your life in your hands. Maybe the pastry chef has yet to find her true vocation – she clearly takes no joy in her current post.
A very generous ***.
‘Oh, Lucie, I’m so, so sorry this has happened,’ said Hollie, her eyes sparkling with tears as she tucked her magenta bob behind her ears and topped up their glasses from the bottle resting in the cooler on the bar. ‘What did Gino say when he read it?’
‘He’s more livid than I’ve ever seen him, and that’s from a guy who’s not afraid of showing his red-blooded Italian emotions. He’s spouting about a cousin of his who can terminate Edmundo Cartolli for a very favourable price. I’m not sure exactly what he means – whether he specialises in taking down websites or individuals. He’s promising that if he ever lays eyes on Ed again he will not be held responsible for the indiscriminate use of his kitchen machete.
‘But what makes it much worse and cringingly embarrassing is that I know him. Would you believe we trained together at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris? He’s the guy I told you about who used to hog all the limelight and flirt outrageously with all the girls on the course. He even tried to get me to go on a date with him once, but it was the night before an important exam and I’m sure it was all just part of his tactics to distract me from studying so he could grab the top spot, like he always did! We were both fiercely competitive. You’ve no idea how hard I worked to take first place, but apart from one solitary occasion, it was always Edmundo Cartolli!’
‘Well, he’s a moron!’ declared Hollie, slamming the stem of her glass onto the marble bar. ‘Why is he a food critic anyway? He can’t be all that special if he can’t get a job as a chef, can he?’
‘Actually, not that I’ve followed every twist and turn of his career or anything, you understand, but I had heard that he was the youngest chef to be awarded a Michelin star at the restaurant he ran in Sicily. I saw the photographs. What? Well, you have to admit, he’s irritatingly gorgeous, especially in his chef’s whites! But for some reason he slipped off the radar last summer, not sure why. I can’t believe he prefers writing about other people’s food to producing it himself, especially when he graduated top of our class at Le Cordon Bleu. Not that I’m jealous or anything. He deserved it.’
‘Well, clearly he’s moved on to apply his exceptional talents to the arena of gastronomic criticism now,’ snapped
Steph. ‘Maybe he was fired for poisoning one of his customers and now he’s just a narcissistic peddler of exposition used to draw attention to himself and attract readers of a similar ilk to his pathetic little blog. We all know that negative reviews bring more traffic to his website than a glowing endorsement. Readers of such garbage are like rubberneckers. Wasn’t it his scathing review of that French restaurant that established Anon. Appetit in the first place when the review went viral?’
‘Yes, but you know, I did hear he’d…’
‘Look, Lucie, Ed Cartolli is in the entertainment business. Some people, sad though it is to acknowledge, prefer to invest their precious time in reading vicious diatribes than reviews that are inspiring and uplifting. It’s human nature at its worst. But he of all people should understand how much hard work and sacrifice it takes to set up a restaurant and ensure it not only delivers on its promise of superb food, but exceeds its diners’ expectations so they want to return time and time again. With just one stroke – especially nowadays when reviews are so widely read – a business can be destroyed. It brings a whole new meaning to “poisoned pen”.’
Lucie had never seen Steph so wound up. While her honey-blond hair had been loosened from its elegant chignon in honour of Saturday night, her jaw was set, her lips pursed and her sharp sapphire eyes had narrowed. Two round spots of crimson had appeared on her cheekbones and a splash of prickly heat invaded her chest.
‘It seems I’ve made a habit of swerving into the paths of inconsiderate men lately!’
‘It’s not your fault, Lucie. You can’t control how other people decide to conduct their lives, but I agree it’s been a difficult week all round.’
Steph had been her friend since high school. She was her staunchest ally and knew her almost as well as her sister, Jess, did. When she had asked if she could avail herself of their couch after the Alex fiasco, she and Hollie had agreed without a murmur of hesitation. Not unexpectedly, though, her two best friends had expressed divergent reactions to the news she and Alex were no longer an item.
