He raised his eyebrows. ‘I stand corrected . . . Hold on, isn’t that a fish finger sandwich with ketchup?’
‘Oi, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ I laughed.
A clumping sound coming from the staircase distracted us and we both turned towards it.
‘Here comes the Sugar Plum Fairy,’ chuckled Tom under his breath as Pixie appeared, shod in her Doc Martens boots as usual.
‘They’re here!’ she said. ‘All eight of them, having a cup of tea and mingling. Mags is sorting them out with name badges. She told me to fetch you two.’
‘No cancellations?’ I asked happily. ‘That’s brilliant.’
‘Where are your whites?’ Tom asked her, pointing to her faded black Judas Priest T-shirt. ‘We’ve spoken about this before. Professional, please, Pixie.’
‘Sorry, Chef.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m just excited. This is it, we’re really opening!’
I grinned at her, sharing her exuberance. ‘And any last-minute allergies we should know about?’
There was a lengthy form for each student to fill in, but you never knew, someone could have developed an intolerance to something since submitting the form. It was Pixie’s job to check.
She took off her glasses and polished them on the bottom of her T-shirt. ‘One woman can’t stand the word “clotted”. Says it gives her dithers.’
Tom stared at her. ‘The word clotted. Just the word?’
‘Shush!’ Pixie looked over her shoulder. ‘Yes, apparently.’
He shook his head. ‘Jesus.’
‘Thanks, Pixie. Come on, Tom,’ I said briskly. ‘Let’s go and introduce ourselves.’
I led the way back downstairs and tried to ignore Tom, who was muttering something that sounded like ‘give me strength’ under his breath.
‘Have you ever taught anyone to cook before?’ I whispered as we strode across reception towards the Aga kitchen where our students were waiting to begin their One Pot Wonders course.
‘Of course, I’ve trained my own staff in the Tom MacDonald way of doing things. Which, as you can appreciate, is the only way to do things.’
He was smiling. So that was a joke. I hoped.
‘You do know that . . .’ I paused, wondering how to put this diplomatically, ‘well, that for most people, cooking is a form of relaxation, don’t you?’
He looked at me as if I was crazy. ‘Food is a serious business. I won’t have people messing about in my lesson.’
‘Tom.’ I laid a hand on his arm as we reached the door. ‘You will make sure our first paying customers have a nice time, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he said, laughing softly. ‘They’ll have never had an experience like it.’
Hmm, that was what I was afraid of.
Tom pushed open the door and gestured for me to go in ahead of him.
I stepped into the Aga kitchen and my breath caught in my throat. The Plumberry School of Comfort Food’s first ever course was about to commence and I was both jittery with excitement and sad that Gloria wasn’t there to see it. Nor Mimi. She would have loved this and for a second or two the notion that I was stealing their moment threatened to overwhelm me.
I felt a hand on the small of my back and turned to find myself looking into Tom’s dark brown eyes twinkling with confidence and warmth.
‘Show time,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s do Gloria proud.’
My heart melted with gratitude; whether he realized it or not it was the perfect thing to say.
I nodded and walked towards the Aga at the head of the kitchen.
The room was fragrant with the aroma of sweet pastries and freshly brewed coffee. The tables had been arranged in a U-shape and the doors were open to the sound of the river, which was flowing faster today because of the rain. The students were all women and even though some of them had only just met, they were all chatting away merrily to each other and already looked as if they were enjoying themselves.
They ranged in age from the young mums who’d come to the open day last Friday up to an older lady called Nora, who Mags informed me was Dave the accountant’s mother. Allegedly Dave had booked it as a present for her, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was his way of helping Gloria out in her first week. Either way, it was a lovely gesture that endeared him to both Mags and me even more.
‘Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the Plumberry School of Comfort Food,’ I said, handing out aprons to all the students.
‘Oh, I love it!’ exclaimed one, shaking her apron out of its plastic bag.
‘Mine won’t go round,’ chuckled a plumper lady.
‘Borrow mine,’ said Mags, with a wink. ‘It’s specially adapted for women of a more curvaceous build.’
I mouthed my thanks to Mags and made a mental note to get a couple adjusted for customers with more generous proportions.
I smiled and cleared my throat. ‘Ladies, I’m delighted to introduce Tom MacDonald, who won a Michelin star for his restaurant, Salinger’s in Manchester.’
One of the ladies shot up her hand. ‘I’ve been there. Had the scallops with lime foam. Out of this world.’
Tom and I shared a smile.
Everyone started chatting again about posh restaurants and whether or not they liked seafood when Tom, who’d been waiting with his hands on hips, put his finger and thumb to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. I flinched and caught Mags’s astonished expression, Pixie snorted and several of the women gasped, but then the room went quiet.
Tom held up a hand and smiled.
‘Hello, ladies. As Verity said, I’m Tom MacDonald and I’m your tutor for today. When I give you an order, you respond with “Yes, Chef!” OK?’
An order. Seriously?
The women looked stunned but most of them managed to nod.
‘You are kidding me,’ Pixie murmured close to my ear.
‘Come on, ladies.’ Tom gave them a wolfish grin. ‘“Yes, Chef” is the answer I’m looking for. Let’s try that again. Is that understood?’
He cupped a hand to his ear and my stomach fluttered nervously. This was so not what Gloria had in mind when she’d dreamed about sharing good times in the kitchen.
‘Yes, Chef,’ they all responded hesitantly.
‘Then please all follow me upstairs to the teaching kitchen.’ He marched to the door and held it open. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, Chef!’
I sank down on to a bench at the back of the room not even daring to catch Mags’s eye when I heard one of the women whisper to another, ‘I think I’m in love.’
Which surprised me almost as much as her friend’s reply: ‘Me too.’
I had to admit, Tom was certainly very commanding when he wanted to be.
‘What just happened there?’ Mags said, shaking her head. ‘It was like Dad’s Army meets MasterChef.’
I looped my arm through hers and giggled. ‘Then we’re all doomed, I tell you, doomed.’
The morning session appeared to go without a hitch, although Tom hadn’t used Gloria’s recipes after all. Her lamb hotpot had been replaced with his Navarin of lamb and the chicken supreme had become a Moroccan chicken using the lovely terracotta tagines. It was essentially the same but slightly more sophisticated, he had explained during his students’ coffee break. The smoked haddock chowder was now sweetcorn chowder, because Tom still couldn’t face fish after his food poisoning last week.
But even though my office overlooked the teaching kitchen, I was scarcely aware of the students. I was so caught up with the aftermath of last Friday’s opening activities that before I knew it, the students had gone back downstairs to eat lunch. I nipped down to the ladies’ loos and had just locked my cubicle door when two of the students came in, hooting with laughter.
I smiled to myself; it sounded like they were having a whale of a time.
‘It’s like being back at school,’ one of them giggled.
‘Yeah. Military school!’
‘I can’t believe you got told off for talk
ing.’
I squeezed my eyes shut. Please tell me Tom hadn’t done that.
‘I know! I only wanted to know whether to use a sieve or a colander.’
‘He is hot, though.’
‘Oh God, yeah. I’m going to talk on purpose this afternoon, just so he comes over . . .’
I opened the door and sneaked out before the women saw me. Hot or not, it sounded like Tom was taking his teaching role a little too seriously. And according to those two, his style was a lot more Gordon Ramsay than Gloria Ramsbottom . . .
At four o’clock the course was finished for the day. We waved the students off armed with their new aprons and boxes of the food they’d prepared and I made Tom and Pixie some tea while they finished clearing up.
‘That went well; we only needed the first-aid box once and only two people cried.’ Tom grinned and began to stack pans under the teaching station.
‘Two out of eight,’ I said pointedly, handing him his tea. ‘That means you made a quarter of our customers cry.’
‘Me?’ Tom said, half-laughing. ‘One said she had sensitive eyes and the other one was chopping onions.’
I gave him a sideways glance. ‘According to Pixie, you told her to throw away her sautéed onions and start again. In fact, shouted was the word she used.’
‘Yup, you definitely shouted, boss,’ Pixie piped up. She was refilling the pots with the brightly coloured utensils at each workstation.
‘Amateurs.’ Tom rolled his eyes over his teacup. ‘What can I say? They can’t take simple instructions.’
I folded my arms. ‘That’s the whole point of them being here. Because they are amateurs.’
‘But I’m in charge of the kitchen and I’m a professional. With a reputation to uphold.’
‘And I’m in charge of marketing. With the ethos of Gloria’s cookery school to uphold.’
We stared at each other for a few seconds as the tension crackled between us. Pixie tiptoed away.
‘Fair play,’ Tom acknowledged finally. ‘I suppose I’m used to shouting orders and getting an immediate response. Was it really bad?’
He looked as sad as a sunken soufflé; I felt quite sorry for him.
‘It’s only natural for you to have high standards. But perhaps you could just try to . . . lower them a bit so that our customers have fun?’ I grinned at him. ‘This is a day out for our students. We want people to go home just as happy when they leave as if they’d spent the day, I don’t know, at a spa, or walking in the Yorkshire Dales.’
Tom thought about that for a few moments and then set his cup down. ‘I disagree,’ he said with a frown. ‘People expect to learn and they can’t do that while others are whooping and squealing around them, like two of the time-wasters we had today. The day needs to be challenging and I think giving them a taste of being in a pro kitchen makes it more memorable.’
‘Memorable?’ I retorted, feeling my heart race. ‘Well, you certainly made it memorable for the two women who spent half the day in tears.’
He tutted. ‘Next you’ll be saying that we should have the radio on and they can all dance around the kitchen to music.’
‘Cool!’ said Pixie, coming over to collect her tea. ‘Shall I bring my wireless speakers in?’
‘No way!’ Tom snapped.
‘Excuse me,’ she muttered. ‘Just a suggestion.’
‘The students found it difficult enough without any distractions,’ he said.
‘Well, we need something to lighten the atmosphere with Mein Führer stressing everyone out with his orders,’ said Pixie. ‘I’m going to unload the dishwasher. Again.’
I watched her disappear downstairs and took a step closer to Tom.
‘She’s right, we should allow people to enjoy themselves, share good times. We want them to fall in love with the cookery school so that they come back and bring all their friends.’
‘I agree with wanting repeat business.’ Tom’s jaw clenched as he wiped a cloth over the already immaculate work surface. ‘But food should be about respect and reverence and doing justice to the ingredients. It has nothing to do with caring and sharing. When I cook, it reflects who I am, which means I create the best plate of food I can. Every time. Either people like my food or they don’t.’
He flicked the cloth over his shoulder and his face softened into a smile. ‘Fortunately plenty of them did or my restaurant wouldn’t have earned such a good reputation.’
Big head. I blinked at him incredulously.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why he’d left Salinger’s; he’d just given me the perfect lead into the topic. But I didn’t want to change the subject right now. Because what he’d just said was so fundamentally opposed to my views on cooking that his words had sent a shiver down my spine.
‘Cooking for someone else is a sign of love. It shouldn’t be about you,’ I argued.
‘Love? Love has nothing to do with it. You’re wrong.’ He shook his head and smoothed his fingertips over his neat beard.
I tilted my chin and stared at him. ‘No, you’re wrong. And I’ll prove it.’
‘Will you, now?’ He looked at me from under dark eye-lashes, an amused smile playing at his lips. ‘How?’
There were a thousand examples I could share with him about times I’d cooked with Mimi or cooked for someone I cared about, even making the canapés for the cookery school open day had been out of love for Gloria. But looking at his cynical expression I realized that this was something Tom needed to experience for himself.
Perhaps being at the cookery school would teach him what he needed to know; it had already done wonders for me. I felt happier and more connected to the real me than I had in two years.
Tom was still waiting for an answer.
I smiled at him mysteriously. ‘Just watch this space.’
Chapter 13
The next course on the calendar was Wednesday’s Teatime Treats: three hours in which to make Yorkshire tea loaf, mini chocolate éclairs and crumpets to take home, topped off with a sumptuous afternoon tea. The students had arrived looking damp after having run through heavy rain from the car park and now the upstairs windows had steamed up with condensation. But despite the grey clouds outside, the ambience inside the cookery school was every bit as warm and welcoming as Gloria wished it to be. Even Tom seemed to be behaving himself.
After our disagreement on the place (or not, in his case) for fun and love in the kitchen, I resolved to keep a close eye on him during this course. I positioned myself near the door of the office ready to leap into action in case he started to bellow at the students like an army sergeant licking his recruits into shape.
Mags and I had reported back to Gloria after the One Pot Wonders course, focusing on all the positives: the camaraderie of the students; the delicious smells that had wafted through the entire building as the aroma of cinnamon, ginger and cumin began to escape the Moroccan tagines; how a certain pair of students had declared Tom ‘hot’ and had rebooked for the Perfect Pasta course.
‘Well, he is very attractive,’ Gloria had whispered, the corners of her mouth lifting in a twinkly smile. She inched herself up her hospital bed, wrinkling her bottom sheet as she reached out for her glass of water. ‘I knew as soon as I met him that those Irish eyes would add a certain charm to the cookery school.’
Mags, who’d been munching her way through the tub of tangy black olives that Tom had sent for Gloria, passed the glass to her after taking a swig herself.
‘He certainly has a commanding presence,’ she’d said, tipping me the tiniest wink.
I’d nodded. We had omitted to tell Gloria that those same Irish eyes could glare fiercely enough to turn her students’ legs to jelly.
Tom was a bit of an enigma to me: away from the kitchen he was a charmer. He’d certainly charmed me on my first day in Plumberry when he’d rescued Comfrey and Sage with a crumb of fancy cheese. But when he donned his chef whites, he seemed to take on a harsher, colder persona, as if being in the kitchen sapped
all his sense of humour.
‘What’s the real story behind him leaving Salinger’s?’ I’d asked her, reaching forward to smooth the sheet underneath her.
Gloria had remained tight-lipped. ‘Darling, I would tell you, but you know what he’s like – intensely sensitive about these things. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you asking, but I won’t break his confidence. All I’ll say is that he had an irreconcilable difference with his partner in Salinger’s and leaving was the only option.’
That was a bit worrying; he and I had had pretty irreconcilable differences on Monday. I hoped he wasn’t considering leaving us . . .
There were nine students on this afternoon’s Teatime Treats course, including a man who wanted to learn to cook for a surprise birthday party for his wife, three women from the local Women’s Institute who said they’d let the side down at previous WI events, and a newly married vicar’s wife in her forties.
The course was now halfway through, and from what I could make out from my desk overlooking the teaching kitchen, the éclairs were cooling, the Yorkshire tea loaves were in the oven and Tom was giving the students instructions on how to cook crumpets.
‘Make sure you grease the crumpet rings,’ he reminded them, as one student valiantly tried to scrape burnt-on batter from an unoiled ring. ‘And wait till all the little bubbles have burst before flipping them over. No, not like that!’
I looked across to the furthest workstation to see Tom trying to take over from someone whose crumpet-flipping skills were clearly below par.
I needed a quick word with Mags about Friday’s course and was about to phone downstairs, but decided to go and see her in person instead. Not that I was checking up on Tom. Well, not much. I left my office and skirted round the edge of the kitchen.
‘Let me help you,’ I said, spotting the vicar’s wife waving a crumpet about on the end of a spatula. I rummaged through the drawer to find a cooling rack.
‘Thanks,’ she said, sliding her golden crumpet on to it. ‘There’s just so much to remember.’
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ I asked, watching as she ladled more batter into rings.
‘Oh yes!’ She nodded, cheeks pink from standing over a hot griddle pan. She was a mousy sort of woman with a pointed chin who looked ready to flee at the slightest calamity. ‘Although next time I’ll bring a friend, much more enjoyable to cook with someone else.’
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 12
