Vanilla Salt Page 2

  He’s had the restaurant for ten years. Business used to be quite good, but he’s having a lean time of it now. He’s too outspoken, he knows, and inflexible and unapproachable too but… but isn’t this about cooking? Why should he be friendly? What does sociability have to do with good food? People come to the restaurant to eat, not to have someone running after them, hovering over them and licking their arses. The food critics, yes, they know how to value his work. They love his kind of cooking and are always impressed by his daring, innovative ideas. In fact, he’s been awarded numerous prizes and is always being asked to speak at food congresses. Hmm, well, he used to be, perhaps. It’s quite a while since they’ve phoned him. Thanks to the prizes and other forms of recognition he’s managed to attract customers from far away, gourmets who would never have set foot in Bigues i Riells otherwise. They’ve come expressly to taste his dishes and they’ve left very well satisfied.

  People love his food, dammit! But this type of customer, the epicure, tends not to return. Normally they only come once, because they like flitting round all kinds of restaurants and are loath to go back to one they’ve already tried. The second-home owners in the town are more faithful, but they don’t feel comfortable in Antic Món. Àlex is all but alone, without clients and without staff.

  Òscar asked him a favour, namely to take on a friend of his. This is one of these strange acquaintances that bloggers make, a borderless friendship with someone he met in the online community, as he puts it. The girl is called Annette, she’s from Quebec and Òscar met her on Facebook, Àlex seems to recall, or one of those social networks, the usefulness of which escapes him. And what the fuck is a virtual relationship anyway? When Òscar raised the matter, Àlex tried to get him to understand that he couldn’t afford to pay a professional, but Òscar assured him that Annette wasn’t motivated by money. She needed to work, that was true, and she wanted to settle in Catalonia. She’d decided to learn the language and embrace the culture. That was her goal.

  “Annette’s a foodie,” Òscar innocently remarked.

  “Listen, lad, you come up with a new word every day and I can’t stand it. I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about and, frankly, I couldn’t give a shit. I don’t want to know about computers! I have no idea what a foodie is and I don’t give a damn. As for your friend, I only want to know if she’s willing to work, if she’s not in a hurry to be paid, where she’s going to sleep and if she’s a proper woman with tits and all.”

  “Must you always be so crass? She’s a friend of mine and, even if I haven’t seen her in person, I can tell you she’s a proper woman. Yes, she does want to work, and yes, she’ll have to be paid something. But money isn’t her priority, as I told you.”

  “OK, but what’s this ‘foodie’ bullshit about?”

  “A foodie is someone who likes anything to do with food – keen on cooking, eating in restaurants, discovering gourmet boutiques, exploring markets, tasting different products, gastronomic tourism, reading recipe books, and so on and so forth. Basically, anything to do with food. Hence the word ‘foodie’. Well, Annette’s a foodie, so she reads my blog and we chat from time to time. She likes eating and says she’s a great cook too. She’s done lots of courses on food from all round the world, so she’s mad about discovering new spices, different products and special dishes. That’s why I thought of you. You’re the most special among the special.”

  Àlex wasn’t sure about all this but couldn’t think of a riposte. Nothing occurred to him, no withering remark, no smart-arse comment. The words just didn’t come, and, to cover up, or to change the subject, or because he was hungry, he downed two bits of carrot and a king prawn. “Before you fill your mouth with claptrap, fill it with tasty morsels,” he reminded himself.

  Recalling the encounter, Àlex thinks he wouldn’t lose anything by contracting this woman, especially right now when he has no one to help out in the restaurant. That can’t go on.

  While he himself washes the dishes from a lunchtime table of five, the only people who’ve turned up the entire Saturday, a strange fragrance sneaks through a crack in one of the windows. Perfumed portents, airs wafting in to turn his life upside down.

  2

  SOUR

  The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a star.

  JEAN ANTHELME BRILLAT-SAVARIN

  Àlex is jumpy. The truth, the pure truth of the matter, is that he’s never had a female kitchen hand. Something tells him it’s not going to be easy.

  The two of them are sitting facing one another at a table in the restaurant.

  She’s different, this woman – or should he say girl? She must be about thirty-five, and she’s got long red hair. Her curls are eye-catching, as are all those freckles on her face. There’ll be hairs in the soup for sure… and who’s going to fish them out? Maybe she should get it cut… And he’s not at all sure about this citrusy fragrance of hers. It’s going to spoil the aroma of his dishes.

  Yes, well, she’s got lovely round tits.

  “I’ll get to the point. I’ve got some kid roasting in the oven and I’ve got to keep an eye on it. I’ll sum it up in a few words. In this restaurant, cooking is king. That’s the essential thing. I’m not interested in fancy stuff and this frivolous froth they’re churning out all round the country. Here, the food is sound. You cook things as slow or as fast as needed, so that every dish is pure perfection. It’s hard, rigorous work. Everything you make has to be impeccably brought off, with an exquisite presentation. It must be served at the table without delay. If you agree to these conditions, you can get to work right now.”

  “I sorry, Senyor Àlex. Mon Catalan très petit. I only study half-year in Quebec. C’est pareil à French, little bit, but I mix with English. No understand conditions.”

  This is too bloody much, Àlex thinks indignantly. This damn woman can’t understand Catalan and doesn’t speak Spanish either. This really complicates things, but cool it, cool it, he tells himself. It’s no big deal either. Moha hardly knew any Catalan when he started to work in Antic Món, but after Àlex yelled at him enough he soon caught on.

  “OK, I’ll speak slowly and say it in just a few words. There’s one condition: hard work. You get it?” The veins in his neck are bulging.

  He hasn’t realized that he’s switched from the familiar tu to the formal vostè, but it’s a sure sign that he’s enraged. He only uses vostè when things get out of hand. It expresses a mixture of indignation and uneasiness.

  “I no fraid work hard. I very worker. Today premier day, Senyor Àlex?”

  “Yes, yes, right now. Have you got your chef wear? I’ll take you to the changing room and show you the restaurant.”

  “I bring suitcase ici. Òscar say I sleep ici. I no have house.”

  That’s true. Òscar had asked him if he could let Annette have a room, as she had nowhere to stay and no money to rent somewhere. Àlex had forgotten this, because when Òscar was telling him his brain was swirling in the aromatic mists of the sensational Terra Alta wine. He was also sleepy by then so he’d said yes. In fact, the restaurant is in a big old house and there’s a sort of spare room on the second floor. It’s not exactly luxurious, but it’s well ventilated and even has a small bathroom with a shower. It’ll do for the two weeks that this woman will last in his kitchen.

  “Right. Òscar told me. First of all, I’ll show you your room. It’s very simple, but I’m sure you’ll be able to give it a personal touch. Good cooks like to live in pleasant surroundings, and I’m told you’re a very good cook.”

  There is a challenge lurking in the final comment. While they were talking at the table, Àlex looked at Annette’s hands, which betrayed the truth: this woman has never cooked. She might have cooked at home, but she’s no professional. A chef can easily spot hands which have cooked, and Annette’s show no signs of war with the stove, or scars of old burns inflicted by the oven, no souvenirs of deep cuts or of fingers martyred by icy water, no flesh m
ade rubbery by handling fatty meat and, most important, he doesn’t see the light movements of a chef’s hands.

  “I like a lot cook. I no know Catalan cook. I want learn,” Annette replies, avoiding his gaze.

  Àlex sees it all too clearly. She hasn’t got a clue about professional cooking. What’s more, she doesn’t speak Catalan. He’s never worked with a woman and, to make matters worse, this one’s going to be hanging round the restaurant all day long. This whole bloody thing is a nightmare – or, still more alarming, it’s going to end up as a nightmare! Well, there’s no way around it: he has no choice. He has no help in the kitchen, no waiter, no dishwasher and, in fact, no customers. Maybe this inscrutable, freckled redhead Annette has brought a bit of happiness tucked away in her pocket, an idea or two in her suitcase, a kiss of life for the cemetery that Antic Món has now become.

  They go upstairs to the bedrooms, Annette leading and Àlex, who has the good manners to offer to carry her case, behind her. What the hell has this woman got in there, a male mannequin? No, a male mannequin is light, and this suitcase weighs more than a Girona bull! He’s about to come out with one of his more oafish remarks, but bites his tongue, surprising himself. What’s going on? Has he gone soft all of a sudden? Why is he being nice to Annette? He addresses her with the polite vostè, carries her bag which weighs a ton and refrains from cussing. Shit, this is no good. This woman will have to get used to him and not the other way round. But this bum, so round, soft and generous, the bum of a proper woman, of a woman who’s slept in feather beds and sleeping bags in tents, who’s familiar with other cultures… this bum climbing the stairs, reminding him somehow of busy beaters whipping up egg white, this bum right before his eyes, so close it’s almost touching his eyelashes and eyebrows, lighting up desire, this bloody bum that’s making him feel so damn flustered.

  Annette is shocked into silence when she sees the grotty room. Although, owing to her present circumstances, she’d settle for living in a wardrobe, this hole-with-a-window in which she’ll have to live is hardly reassuring. It needs a thorough clean and a coat of paint. For the time being, she’ll hang up the photos she’s brought from home. She’s also packed half a dozen of her favourite books, which will help to transform this tiny, gloomy dump into a sanctuary for memories of her beloved Quebec.

  “Remember, you’re here to cook, and we open the dining room in two hours. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen. I’ve got to go and check the kid in the oven.” Àlex’s hospitality comes to an abrupt end.

  Annette needs a moment to get her emotions under control and decides to open up her suitcase and take out a couple of things. It’s a way of giving herself time to digest Àlex’s behaviour. After the few blunt words they’ve exchanged, it’s clear that this relationship’s not going to be easy. Àlex isn’t willing to make it easy but, on the contrary, wants to set off the spark that will ignite the conflagration, after which he can watch her leave. Out the door. Lugging her heavy suitcase.

  What Àlex doesn’t quite understand is that Annette literally has nowhere to go, which is a powerful reason for her to put in some time decorating the unwelcoming room to make it her own, as a kind of declaration of intent. Like the Canadian maple, she wants to put down deep strong roots in Antic Món. Photos and books come out of her suitcase, and also a Mayan rain stick, an album of pressed flowers, a box full of all kinds of spices, a Quechuan mate gourd and a peanut necklace. The most highly prized item of all is placed on the rough-hewn table: the computer with which she can connect up with her friends all round the globe, follow the most interesting food blogs and chat on Facebook. The computer is her window onto the world, and the anonymity afforded by the screen is her way of amusing herself. Hiding behind keyboards and pixels, she is Madame Escargot. She’d love to connect right now, but she has to go down to the kitchen.

  The kid’s been slowly browning in the oven for the past hour and a half. The most important part is the marinating process, with garlic, onion and mustard, which took all last night. Then it is condemned to solitary confinement in the oven, where all the aromas blend together. Àlex watches over it adoringly. Seeing how the colour keeps changing reconciles him with the world. The kid perfectly expresses his idea of the way things should work. There are certain determining factors: kid, oven, time. And an evident result: beautifully browned kid. If everything was so wonderfully reasonable, so empirically simple and logical, life would be comprehensible and he’d learn to love it. But things don’t work like that. Even if he invests the necessary factors, his milieu is hostile and consequences are unpredictable.

  Àlex is so absorbed by the kid that he doesn’t hear Annette silently entering into the kitchen.

  Àlex jumps. “Shit a brick! You scared the wits out of me,” he yells.

  “Sorry, Senyor Àlex.”

  “And don’t bloody call me senyor. Just call me Àlex,” he grumbles.

  Then he bursts out laughing. What the fuck is she wearing? What a sight she looks! What the hell does she think she’s doing dressed like that?

  Annette’s wearing her cooking apron, the one she wears at home. It’s patchwork with frills. She looks like a country singer disguised as one of the Tatin sisters. He’s never seen a woman in such a ridiculous get-up.

  “Er, excuse me, this thing you’re wearing… is it some kind of traditional dress in your country? Hang on a minute, I’m going to get my shepherd’s pouch, clogs, sash and red cap and we’ll dance the sardana while you sing country. This is a joke, right? You don’t really think you’re going to cook like that, do you? For Christ’s sake, this is a high-class kitchen!”

  Annette hasn’t understood much of the tirade, but Àlex’s face says it all. It seems he doesn’t like the apron she’s brought from home. He throws a white chef’s apron at her saying, “Go back to your room, take off that gaudy rag and come back in jeans and a clean T-shirt if you’ve got nothing better. I’ll lend you my chef’s gear, and as soon as you can you’ll have to buy your own.”

  “Sorry, Senyor Àlex, clothes no important. Important is work. I want work. I no take out apron.” She is very dignified.

  Now she’s done it. This is intolerable! Àlex is incensed. “Listen, who do you think you bloody are? I’m the boss in this kitchen! You get it? You will dress, cook and eat as I tell you. Go back to your room and get changed immediately.”

  “No,” she replies firmly. “Cook, yes, je suis agree. Eat, aussi. Dress what like me.”

  Luckily the phone rings and saves the day. Àlex looks daggers at Annette and leaves the kitchen to put a stop to the infernal, nerve-jangling racket. This woman’s really pushing her luck. When he’s answered the phone he’ll give her a good earful, tell her a few home truths. There’s nothing to stop him kicking her out right now. But something does stop him. He won’t stand for Annette’s defiance, but then again he really likes the grit she’s shown with her answer. There’s no explanation for it, it’s not rational, but the woman’s got something that makes him feel small, like a little pea next to a watermelon. It’s not the tits or the bum, no, not that. It’s the sweet smile, the eyes, blue, sincere, but also slightly disturbing, as if they’re hiding something. A mystery.

  He hangs up and goes back to the kitchen. He hears a voice singing “So long, it was so long ago. But I’ve still got the blues for you.” A lovely voice, singing to the kid.

  Delighted and bemused, Àlex watches her from the doorway, knowing she can’t see him. He does that too. He also sings to the kid. Discovering that he’s not the only lunatic who sings to food is comforting, and so too is knowing that he’s got the other lunatic from the opposite side of the planet right here next to him.

  “Kid have soul of blues,” Annette explains when she realizes that Àlex is watching her.

  “More like Aragonese jota, I’d say.” His snigger punctures the little bubble of tenderness that has formed in the kitchen. “Come on, woman, that’s enough nonsense. We’ve got to open up right now and we’re really behind t
oday. Do you know how to make cream-of-asparagus soup? Here’s a bunch. I don’t use cream. I make it with vegetable broth and cream cheese. It’s possible we won’t have many customers for lunch, but tonight we’ve got the Antic Món Gourmet Club. Some important people are coming. Have a look at the menu. It’s there, printed out on the table.”

  They’ve only had one customer for lunch, a travelling salesman who’s turned up at Antic Món because Can Bret is full up and he doesn’t have time to wait for a table. Without even looking at the menu, he’s asked for a good salad with tomato and red pepper, steak with potatoes and vanilla ice cream.

  Àlex has offered neither response nor explanation, but has simply thrown the menu at him saying he hasn’t got anything the man’s asked for: no tomato, no peppers, no potato and no vanilla ice cream. He must choose from the dishes that he, the chef, cooks for the Antic Món menu.

  The salesman, hungrier than when he came in, runs off as if pursued by a thousand demons after paying a hefty sum for eggs scrambled with black chanterelles, turbot with pickled radishes and honey-and-cardamom semifreddo. The poor chap hasn’t understood a word on the menu. He’ll never set foot in Antic Món again. A sandwich by the roadside is much better, the gentleman thinks.

  “We have to stay back to cook this afternoon. The Gourmet Club people are finicky and we’ve got to come up with something to surprise them. They’ve been coming once a month for the past five years.”

  “A lot persons?” Annette asks, feigning interest.

  “At first there were plenty of people, up to twenty at times. Not so many recently. Everyone gets tired of everything, and the woman in charge, the one who invented the club, Pilar, is always busy, so she doesn’t send out the information about their meetings until the last minute. Ten would be the maximum now, even on a good day. I’d like to take over the publicity side, since it’s in my interests more than anyone’s that they continue to like my cooking, but the fact is I’m hopeless when it comes to emails… Come on. That’s enough chitchat. We’ve got to get the tuna marinating and make the peach mousse.”