Vanilla Salt Page 9

  “Hello, Àlex. How you are?”

  “Annette…”

  “Yes, Àlex…”

  “Can you come?”

  “Where?”

  “Here, the restaurant. I need you.”

  “You think this so easy. You talk me loud all the day and now you ask I must to come. You say I necessary. You no have help?”

  “There’s no lack of people who want to work for me and, if I wanted, there’d be a queue at the door. But I’m not interested in that. I want you. I’m cooking some bacallà just like my old gran used to make it. I’d like you to taste it. Come on. I’m serious. You know how hard it is for me to say these things. I’m not ashamed to confess it. I need you.”

  “No possible now.”

  “Not possible for whom?”

  “I. This, what I say you.”

  “It’s impossible to understand your dreadful Catalan,” he complains. “Why can’t you come?”

  “I help the Frank’s wife for to cook. Many childs in house.”

  “OK, I’ll come over then and bring lunch. This place is full of dishes no one will ever eat. Today I’ve closed Antic Món once and for all. I can’t keep going. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I don’t want to do this any more.”

  “Frank he explain me this.”

  “He told you? The man doesn’t miss a beat. He honks louder than a rutting gander. So do you want me to come?”

  “I ask Frank’s wife.”

  Annette leaves the phone for a few seconds that seem endless. When she resumes the conversation her voice has changed and is now as sweet as a summer peach.

  “She say you can to come.”

  Annette’s struggling to contain her happiness, to hide it from Àlex. She’s longing to see him. She’s missed him since she’s been staying with the Gabo family, but fears that her low spirits are an expression of the loneliness she’s been struggling with since her arrival in Catalonia. She knows that confusing the need for company with love is a catastrophic error. She needs to be sure about every step she takes. She’s too old to fail again. She keeps mulling over her yearning to see Àlex, which might be a result of the uncomfortable conditions of her stay with Frank and Graça, or maybe she’s missing Àlex’s fantastic food, or maybe… maybe, flying in the face of all the rules of logic, she’s irrationally attracted to this bitter, tender, impetuous, irascible and sweet man.

  Well, she’ll just have to accept it. Although she hates it when her emotions take control of her actions, the truth is that she really likes, really fancies Àlex.

  Àlex hangs up. He’s on cloud nine, light-headed as an adolescent on his first date. He goes upstairs and applies some cologne, lashings of it. Combs his hair. Standing at the mirror, he checks one profile, checks the other, looks at his nose. A hair’s sticking out. Tweezers. Gotcha! He thinks, “What a bloody fool you are. As if Annette hasn’t seen you wearing any old thing, with dirty hands and hair all over the place… You’re a complete cretin.”

  He rushes down to the kitchen, scrawls on a bit of paper, “THE MANAGEMENT APOLOGIZES. WE’RE CLOSED TODAY,” and hangs it at the entrance of Antic Món.

  He fills a large box with food and loads up the car. He turns the key, and the clock lights up to announce 11.35 in flashing numbers, telling him what a fool he is. Bloody hell, what on earth’s he doing getting all dressed up and going out to lunch at this hour? He can’t turn up so early. How can he pass the time? In the ten years since he first opened Antic Món, there’s never been a day when he’s had nothing to do. Without cooking, without the pressure of having to prepare dish after dish, there’s no other passion in his life.

  He picks up the box of food and goes back into the restaurant. Standing in the doorway he surveys the emptiness of the dark dining room and is invaded by painful, wretched feelings. He starts to cry. He’s a poor sod. He wipes away his tears and blows his nose loudly into a linen napkin from one of the tables.

  He goes upstairs and into Annette’s room on the pretext of checking that it’s clean and tidy. It’s empty. He opens the wardrobe and finds a brand-new party dress and a bag containing red underwear, bought at a well-known lingerie shop in Granollers. He can’t understand how Annette could have overlooked these particular items. This woman is veiled in mystery.

  He sits down on her bed and suddenly realizes he’s caressing it. Damn it, it’s about time he got it into his head that she’s stolen his heart. He can smell her fragrance, clean, delicate with that touch of citrus, and it takes him back to the night when they sat together, very close together on his bed, laughing like a couple of teenagers at the antics of the characters in Big Night.

  That night he’d wanted to hold her and kiss her, love her gently. More than sexual desire, it was tenderness, the same thing he felt every time she struggled so hard to make herself understood in Catalan. Or the day that immense smile appeared on her face when she saw the box of fish Frank Gabo had left at the restaurant door. He remembers how he tried not to laugh when he watched her trying to julienne carrots without being able to manage the knife, or how she literally wrestled with the chicken she had to debone. She’s so lovable, Annette…

  The telephone snaps him out of his reverie. He dashes down to the dining room, three steps at a time, but is too late. A girl’s voice on the answering machine is requesting further information. She’s seen the Friends of Antic Món page on Facebook.

  He checks his watch. It’s just gone quarter-past twelve, and he can’t go to Frank’s place yet as it’s too early, even for a family with customs that are so different from the Catalan ones.

  Half-bored and half-curious, he turns on the computer. It’s about time he had a look to see what the hell they’re saying about the restaurant on the social networks.

  It takes him a while to get there, as he’s hopeless when it comes to anything to do with computers. However, curiosity is a great educator and, finally, as if he’s rubbed Aladdin’s lamp, Facebook reveals its secrets. He’s astounded. Jesus, what’s this? Not only is he looking at himself stirring casseroles in the kitchen – and the photos are fantastic – but he recognizes all the dishes, although he has no recall of anyone taking pictures of them. Many recipes are given, most full of errors both in the list of ingredients and in the details of the preparation. On the page, Àlex finds some tempting items: discounts, raffles, a bizarre competition and comments by famous chefs. It’s a full description of his world, of his everyday culinary existence, and he’s only now discovering it.

  He’s so flabbergasted he’s not sure whether to get angry at this usurpation of what he regards as his most intimate being, or to celebrate the effort Annette has made to pull Antic Món out of the vortex of ruination into which it is fast sinking.

  Annette is a truly wonderful woman, Àlex thinks. He’s got to get her back, somehow persuade her to return. In the short time she’s been at the restaurant she’s become very important to Antic Món… and its chef. He’s more and more convinced that this woman is like the highly prized truffle that can only be sniffed out by fine, sensitive, expert noses, when not found by pure chance.

  In this regard, his is not a sensitive nose, and he’s well aware of that. Neither does he have any talent for finding hidden treasures. But now he’s struck gold and has to know how to make the best of it… has to win her back, has to do whatever it takes to have the lovely Annette fragrance swirling round him once more.

  He perseveres with the Facebook page and finds a very recent comment. He reads it avidly.

  We’re very disappointed. The first time we came here, Annette and Carol looked after us. We remember their names perfectly well, because we ended up chatting until very late, all of us sitting at the same table. They were charming and it was all great. Two days ago we returned very happily, but this time we were served by the owner, Àlex Graupera, who, according to your page, is an excellent chef and a wonderful man. His cooking was OK, but his manner was very brusque and quite rude. We felt very badly served and he
even gave us the impression we were bothering him. We’re sorry to say this, but we think he’ll have to change his ways if he wants his restaurant to work. We certainly won’t be going back there.

  He closes the page and glares at the computer screen, itching to punch it so hard that it would fly off to some technological scrapheap ten kilometres away.

  His good mood, his willingness to find a solution to all the problems, has evaporated like cognac flambéed over peaches.

  He strides up and down the dining room, bristling with indignation. The joy of seeing Annette again has turned into rage. He doesn’t know why the criticism on Facebook has affected him so much, but even the most amateur psychologist would be able to suss out that the cause is not the criticism of his lack of manners. Àlex has never taken any notice of comments from those mortals he calls “normal people”, because he thinks they’re gastronomic barbarians without any right to express their opinions. The cause of his latest hissy fit is jealousy, because he’s realized that Carol, and especially Annette, could end up being even better than he is. This is anger mixed with the sad confirmation that cuisine is not enough in itself, but must always be complemented with soft-soaping the customers. He’s stifled in Antic Món. He’s got to get out.

  He loads the box into the car again and heads off to Frank’s place.

  “Good morning, Àlex,” Frank’s wife greets him in her strong accent. “We wait you. Is honour you come to poor house here.”

  “An honour? Come on, woman, don’t give me that corny bullshit…”

  Frank’s wife is transfixed and stands in the doorway gaping at him, not knowing how to respond to such rudeness.

  Àlex almost shoves her aside and enters the tiny flat. Standing there, with the huge box of food in his arms, he can’t see where to put it down. “God almighty, there’s not enough room in this place for a snail to stick its head out,” he thinks. He catches a glimpse of bouncing red curls. Now he’s weak-kneed with apprehension.

  “Hello, Àlex. Graça she stay at door. What you do to her?” Annette asks.

  “Hello! How are things? Are you OK?”

  Àlex is so flustered he doesn’t dare to look her in the eye. She’s gorgeous, especially radiant.

  “Yes, yes, but what you do to Graça?”

  “What is Graça? A cat? A tortoise?”

  “You stop! Graça, Frank’s wife.” Her tone is severe.

  “Ah, nothing happened with the woman. I just told her to move aside as the box is very heavy. Look, I’ve brought everything. Would you like to taste some bacallà with green garlic shoots?”

  “I no have hungry. I find Graça. You make food? We put the table.”

  Annette tries to convince Graça not to take Àlex’s words seriously. He’s hopeless. He can’t help himself.

  Frank’s wife isn’t so sure. She would have liked to put him in his place. However, where she comes from hospitality is sacred and Àlex is her guest. She’ll have to be forbearing and steer clear of any hint of conflict.

  In the kitchen, Àlex warms up the casseroles and gives the final touches to his dishes. He makes a huge amount of washing-up, not to mention a racket worthy of an advancing army. He opens a bottle of wine and pours two glasses, one for Annette, but it remains untouched, as she hasn’t reappeared. He drinks as he cooks, thinking it will help him forget his wrath over the Facebook page and help him to relax a little, as he’s so keyed-up about seeing Annette again. He has to behave, be nice and friendly and seduce her… but this also means a huge effort, because he’s very miffed about the Facebook comment and can’t get it out of his head.

  After half an hour, they’re all sitting at the table. Except for Frank: he’s out delivering fish. Annette is silent.

  The Antic Món spread is mouth-watering. The table is full of wonderful-smelling meat, gleaming salads and silky-smooth sauces. There’s a crispy prawn-and-onion concoction, free-range chicken with carrots and leeks, calf’s cheeks with pears, sea bass with porcini risotto, sardines with caramelized turnips and, for dessert, rice pudding with a touch of citrus.

  The children don’t know where to begin. Everything is strange to them. They don’t understand this food Àlex has brought and have never seen anything like it. Àlex goes into “cheerful” mode, a gambit he’s used quite successfully on other occasions.

  “Come on, kids, this food is delicious. If you’ll just taste a little bit, Uncle Àlex will be really happy.”

  Graça gets up from the table. She can’t stand the man and still less when he has the nerve to proclaim himself her children’s “uncle”. She goes into the kitchen and returns with a plate of potatoes mashed together with a bit of meat, so that the children will at least eat something.

  “Here, mashed potato, children. You like very good this,” she announces, placing the platter in the centre of the table among the host of dishes Àlex has produced.

  Àlex stares at the potatoes in disgust, looks at the children and blurts out, “If these kids only ever eat potatoes, you’ll always be poor. You’re doomed. You’re from a culture that can only die of hunger.”

  Annette is so shocked she almost chokes on a chicken bone.

  Graça’s nostrils flare. Àlex has gone too far. She too has a sharp tongue and, despite her difficulty expressing herself in Catalan, the look on her face speaks volumes. She explodes: “Persons can be poor, but better is polite and happy than put money in the pocket. Better is be with animals than persons no love others. We no want you dirty our table. You get your food. You go. We eat potato no problems. You no hear before, this thing say some persons: ‘In my misery, I the boss.’”

  Annette cuts in, trying to turn the deadly duel into a peace process. “Àlex, it better you go. I help you gather the cooking.”

  “No, keep it. I don’t want it for anything now and you can use it. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it away. There are plenty of needy people…”

  He is dying to sound off, to explode. He’s biting his tongue to block the words crowding on its tip: “Give the food to those kids and let’s see if it revives their paralysed brains.”

  But he doesn’t want to add fuel to the flames. This time, his scathing comment has been terribly out of place, totally wrong. He’s just trashed his last chance, and there’s no point in struggling on now.

  He gets up from the table, pushes his chair in neatly and, before leaving, goes over to Annette and kisses her on the forehead. It’s a friendly kiss, an eloquent kiss, a kiss that says, “Come back whenever you want. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  In the car on the way back to the restaurant, he’s still very jittery and sings loudly, non-stop: “Think of me, little one, think of me when witches of the morning make you shivery. I won’t warm the cold or sweeten your coffee, but think of me, little one, think of me. Think of me when they don’t pay your wage, or at eight thirty, squashed in the metro like in a cage. Take me, embroidered on your shirt with style, or painted bright red in your smile.”

  Without turning on any light in the dining room, he sits in the dark at Table 3 and pours a full glass of Knockando, which he slowly sips.

  He feels a new sensation, a pleasurable but also disturbing sensation. Quietly savouring the whisky, he lingers in the present. He’s never done that before. Not until now. Running the treadmill of life, he’d dreamt of a brilliant future which would help him smooth over the rusty nails of his tormented past. He looks at his hands. They are no longer useful. Useless hands, useless legs. His whole body, the engine he used to start up every morning to get things moving in the restaurant, is useless. He’s still got a soul, but it’s no longer his, because it’s inseparable from the restaurant, as if the walls have sucked it in. His soul is fused with Antic Món by some inexplicable bond, and he can’t escape.

  He drains the glass. On a piece of white paper he writes a few stark words in big letters:

  RESTAURANT FOR SALE

  Tel. 65897925

  (Ask for Frank)

  He hangs it up
at the door and phones Frank.

  “I’m sorry, my friend, about my run-in with your wife. I’m heavy-handed, as you know.”

  “Yes, I know. You really excelled yourself. Graça and you are like a box of matches next to a fireworks factory. No problems until someone sets off a spark and… But Graça’s forgotten all about it now. She’s in heaven tucking into your food, but, my friend, you really hurt me by saying what you did in front of my kids.”

  “I’m sorry, Frank. I said I’m sorry. Listen, I’m also phoning because I’ve put a sign at the door of the restaurant announcing that it’s for sale. I don’t have a mobile, so I’ve given your number.”

  “What do you mean, man? My number? Are you completely off your head?”

  “Listen to me, will you! I thought that if you’d do me this favour of getting the word around and taking calls, I could give you a commission on the sale. OK by you?”

  “It’s fine by me, but I want you to know that I’m not doing it for the money.”

  “You’ll always be a loser… just like me,” Àlex pronounces.

  7

  LIFE

  Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.

  HIPPOCRATES

  Òscar’s been mulling it over for several days. He has savings, not as much as Àlex’s asking price, but nobody’s shown any interest in buying the restaurant since it was put up for sale three months ago. He can cut a deal with Àlex for sure.

  Annette’s cooking dinner: courgette flowers stuffed with brandade, a superb dish. Since she’s been staying with Òscar, every meal’s been a feast. Cooking has become her chief interest and Òscar’s delighted, although despite this gastronomic pampering he’s longing for a quiet, solitary, private life.

  Until he finally came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t cut out for cohabitation with anyone, his attempts at domestic life had been hell. Love wasn’t a good enough reason for putting up with certain things that really got up his nose like “Why don’t you leave the toothpaste in the special holder?”, “When you come in the door, take off your shoes and put your slippers on”, “It’s your turn to sweep on Tuesdays”, “You should eat more greens”, “Shut the door when you leave the room”, “No, you can’t read today because we’ve got to sort our winter clothes. It’s getting cold.”