Recipe for Disaster (28 page)

And plenty of bad language too, thought the organiser,
pleased, as Jake turned round and swore when he realised
he was already being filmed.

The competition called for each chef to cook a meal, the
nature of which was written on a piece of paper that they
picked at random out of a velvet bag. This meant that no
one could practise in advance or opt to cook their favourite
meal. The audience was seated at mock restaurant tables
and could watch the chef's as they cooked. The audience
and the viewers had to vote on which meal they would want
to eat in a real restaurant.

The show was hosted by Lakes TV's hottest star, Melina
Marvin, who was hoping that
Great Grub
would launch
her on to national television. She was wearing, most
inappropriately, Jake considered, a sequinned gown cut
very low on top and with a long slit up the side. 'You would
be no use in a kitchen,' he muttered. He was very pleased
he hadn't brought Godfrey, who would have gone into a
trance at the sight of all this flesh and been no use to him
at all.

They were setting out all his favourite knives when he
suddenly realised that Tess might well be no use to him
either. She was absolutely rigid with fear and was clenching
the worktop like a climber stuck on a rock face.

Jake was horrified. His throat constricted. She was doing
this for him, without a word of complaint, even though she
quite obviously felt like dying from stage fright. He felt a
sudden surge of love and admiration for her courage, and
pulled himself together instantly. There simply wasn't time
to give in to his own idiotic sense of inadequacy. It was up
to him to get her out of this and, by God, he would.

In his imagination, the studio dimmed and faded away,
as did all the scary people with cameras. He was just in a
kitchen, showing a nervous young commis how to make the
best of her talents, how to bring a gift out of her that she
didn't know she had. He remembered what Louis had once
told him – a great chef is in the middle of his team, not
strutting ahead out of sight. Briefly, he touched his apron
in acknowledgement to a great master and teacher and
picked up his knife. His hands were steady.

Their menu started off with Gorgonzola risotto with
peas, broad beans and asparagus; to follow, a fillet of
halibut on a bed of spinach with Muscat grapes and a Noilly
Prat sauce; and for pudding a mint
crème brûlée
with
strawberries.

'This is going to be fantastic, though what will happen if
we put too much liquid in the risotto?' Melina Marvin asked
Tess.

Tess gaped at her blankly as if language was something
she hadn't quite got to grips with, so Jake equably provided
the answer himself. 'I have a small temper tantrum and that
cameraman over there gets to wear the risotto. Putting too
much liquid in is a common mistake when cooking rice,
though we don't want to undercook it and make the
customers choke.'

With this and other nonsense he was gently coaxing Tess
out of her catatonic state and, though he was unaware of
this, making good entertainment, because television hates
silence.

The familiar routine of chopping, slicing and stirring was
comforting, and Tess found that if she concentrated on that
she could forget about the awful place they were in.

Jake forgot as well. He was in a kitchen, cooking, and all
that mattered was the fact that the starter was ready to go
and his bloody waitress wasn't there to serve it. 'I'm so sorry
to interrupt your private life but this food is getting cold!'
he bawled, to which Kirsty responded with her usual
equanimity. The audience loved it. They were enthralled by
the sight of him and Tess moving round like they were in
some carefully choreographed dance. They loved the
banter because they sensed correctly that none of it was
forced and their eyes kept moving to Jake as if he was a
magnet.

Jake talked like he always did in a kitchen. Whether there
were two of you or twenty you couldn't put together a meal
without communicating.

'Kirsty, stop flirting with the cameraman and get us all
more water. You know how hot it gets in a kitchen and now
we've got lights to contend with as well. I hope you haven't
forgotten what I always say?'

'If the kitchen is hot, your kidneys are overheating – but
as a catchphrase it really sucks,' muttered Tess without
thinking.

'Well, I am agog with anticipation as to what you lot
would come up with as an alternative.'

'Give over, Chef – we have a life,' said Tess, and blinked
in surprise when people laughed. She had momentarily
forgotten they were there.

Harry, however, was finding it difficult to be himself
because he was quite rightly worried that the audience
would hate him for it, so he was trying to play nice. But the
staff he had brought with him were confused by the fact that
they had arrived with Genghis Khan but now seemed to be
working with the Easter Bunny. It threw them completely
off track and they kept dropping things and forgetting to
stir their sauces. Also, they were quite aware that Genghis
would make a comeback as soon as the cameras were
turned off, which wasn't something to look forward to.

The crew kept wanting to stop filming so the make-up
girl could wipe the sweat off people's faces. Jake drew an
imaginary line on the floor with his finger. 'Anyone crossing
that line while I am working will go in the mincer. Do I
make myself clear?'

'Yes, Chef,' said the make-up girl, giggling and
retreating.

'Bloody interruptions,' muttered Jake.

'Absolutely, Chef,' said Tess, handing him a clean towel
so he could mop his face.

The audience were loving it. It was like being a window
on a whole new world, a slightly hellish one, to be sure, but
that made it even more fun to watch.

When they had finished, the cooks had a short break
while the tasters tested the meals and the votes were
counted. Jake heaved a huge sigh of relief. He had done the
best he could, which was all that mattered, whether he won
or not. Tess was no longer looking like she was teetering on
the edge of some enormous chasm. In fact, she was busy
being chatted up by someone who went under the
mysterious title of 'Chief Grip' and was called Griff. Jake
reckoned he would need a very firm grip if he was going to
make any headway with Tess, who regarded men in the
same way some people regarded woodlice. Eavesdropping
shamelessly, he could hear her saying that she worked all
the hours God sent and when she wasn't, being a single
mum meant that her daughter took priority.

'I work stupid hours too and I spend a lot of time
babysitting my brother's three kids. I don't mind – I like
kids.'

'You wouldn't like mine – she's a proper little madam.'

'So is my niece. She had a tantrum in Tesco's the other
day and nearly threw herself out of the shopping trolley.
When I grabbed hold of her she screamed even louder
and everyone looked at me like they wanted to ring
Childline.'

'Tantrums are tough but you've just got to be firm,' said
Tess and then Jake had to go and do the short interview
that would be shown at the beginning of the programme.

'You've proved quite a hit with the audience. Several of
the women said they were quite weak at the knees watching
you cook. I think a few of them are planning to ring you up
and ask for a job.'

'Well, they'll be no use to me if they can't stand upright,'
snapped Jake.

'But do you think you could teach anyone to cook?'

'Yes, if they have passion, stamina and patience. What
they are seeing here is the result of years of intensive
learning. What is the point of trying to make carpaccio of
beef if you can't even recognise a really good fillet? You
can't begin to make a sauce to go with it if you haven't
learned to make stock. It's like expecting one of these guys
with the cameras to be able to point the thing in the right
direction while wearing a blindfold!'

'Do you think chefs deserve their reputation for being
bad-tempered bullies?'

'We only shout when people aren't listening. I haven't
got time to go and check if people have heard me correctly
and I need to know what people are doing all the time,
otherwise the pudding would go out before the main course
and some people wouldn't get fed at all, because the guy in
the corner hadn't heard there was an order for two soups,
for instance. He needs to shout back "Yes, Chef" so I know
he's heard. Of course, he might still go on to screw things
up, but that's another story. Oh, sorry, I shouldn't swear on
telly.'

'I think our viewers would be very disappointed if they
tuned in to a cooking programme that didn't contain beeps.'

Jake was furious when he found out they all had to line
up to hear the result as if it was
Pop Idol
. He scowled, then
winked at Tess in case she was feeling nervous again. It was
torture making everyone wait for interminable minutes
before the four finalists were announced.

'Oh, for goodness' sake, get on with it!' He said this out
loud, without thinking, and everyone laughed.

The first finalist was Ali, who ran a hugely successful
Indian restaurant in Carlisle, which was reputed to sell the
best curry outside India, or at least north of Bradford.
Despite refusing to cook chicken tikka masala ever, because
it wasn't authentic Indian food, his restaurant was booked
up for weeks on end.

When Harry's name was called he stepped into the
spotlight as if he owned it. Jake could practically see the
waves of arrogant self-confidence emanating off him.

Li Wang from the Lotus Garden in Keswick was picked
next. His entire staff was made up of his family, including
his eighty-year-old mother, who ran the place with ruthless
efficiency, allowing Li to produce Chinese food of
breathtaking quality.

Suddenly Jake felt Tess take his hand. He didn't know
whether she was trying to give or receive comfort but he was
glad, even though her hand was icy cold and shaking
violently. Or was that his hand?

He was so certain he wasn't through that when they
announced his name he didn't really believe it and Tess had
to shove him forward into the lights and applause.

Everyone congratulated each other, though the programme
editor leaned forward, alert, when Harry and Jake
shook hands, 'I think there is a slight
frisson
of something
there, Bob,' he told the sound man.

'Don't know what a
frisson
is, mate, but I have a feeling
they don't really like each other.'

'Yes, that's about it,' said the editor thoughtfully.

'I'm sure it was fixed,' said Jake on the way home, having
phoned through the good news and made sure there was
champagne in the fridge.

'Who cares? You're a winner, you got cash and you've got
a chance at the final,' said Tess. 'Oh shit, and bloody hell –
that means I've got to go through it all again!'

'Yes, but that will be nice, you'll be able to catch up
with your new friend,' said Jake slyly. 'By the way, I
happened to overhear what they've got planned for the
final. We've all got to cook each other's dishes. So Harry
and I will do Indian or Chinese; the other two French or
Italian. Don't you think it's very neat that it turned out like
that?'

'Did anyone hear you overhearing?' asked Kirsty.

'Er, no.'

'So you are the only person who knows this?'

'Out of all the chefs, yes.'

'Woo-hoo! All you have to do between now and then is
mug up on Eastern cookery like mad and you'll have a huge
advantage over everyone else. I bet that Mr Wang has never
made a béchamel sauce in his life.'

'I couldn't do that,' said Jake firmly. 'That would be
cheating.'

'And what do think Harry would do in your position?'
retorted Tess.

'Cheat, of course! But I am not Harry. No, you can both
stop right now and please don't tell anyone else I told you
this. I am not going to do anything underhand to win a
stupid prize and that's that.'

'Do you know something, Jake? You are, without doubt,
the most aggravating, infuriating, fucking mental, straight-up
guy I have ever met.'

'Well, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to
me, Tess!'

Jake pulled all the carpets up and left them outside, where
they rotted gently in the summer sunshine until, after many
threats to the council, they were finally taken away.

'If you don't pick them up today I will personally deposit
them inside your chief executive's office and wait until he
comes down with some foul disease. I mean, what on earth
do I pay my rates for?' he demanded, but everyone was too
hot to answer. The weather, which had been so cruel to
them, was now being just as unpleasant, but in a different
way. Sunshine followed the storm; days of cloudless blue
skies and Mediterranean-style temperatures. The Lake
District was packed with people, but Jake couldn't feed
any of them. His restaurant was a shell to which the faint
smell of damp still clung, however many times they
cleaned it.

It was Kate who pointed out that the backyard needed
only a coat of whitewash and some potted plants, and then
they could at least serve lunches and early suppers.

'More expense,' groaned Jake, but it was better than
sitting around all day looking at his bank balance.

'Of course, we will do all this and then it will start
raining,' he pointed out, but they all told him to shut up.
'We're bored with our enforced holiday and Godfrey will
get into trouble if he's not kept occupied,' said Tess.

Godfrey had found himself a girlfriend and turned up
each morning with a neck covered in love bites and a dazed
expression on his face. She was called Anne and she must
have been a saint because Godfrey spent half his time
lecturing her on the poor quality of food served at the hotel
where she worked. When Kirsty asked him if they were
sleeping together yet he turned so red Jake took pity on
him and sent him into the yard with a paint pot where he
could be heard warbling in a tuneless imitation of Kylie that
he should be so lucky.

Kate found some cheap red-checked tablecloths in a shop
down the road, which Jake said would make the place look
like a comedy French bistro and if anyone dared suggest
candles in wine bottles they would be sacked on the spot.
But secretly he was pleased to get the chance to do some
real cooking again.

He also took the opportunity to change the menu, which
Godfrey said was typical of the nasty way he behaved – he
was only just starting to get the hang of the first one.

'We need to keep the theme simple, redolent of sunshine
and summer. I'll explain what that means later, and don't
bring that paint pot in my kitchen without a lid on, you silly
boy!'

Jake wanted salads full of colour, lightly grilled fish,
seared tuna, olives and lots of the herbs that were growing
in pots outside. 'If you want them, you'll have to go out in
front of the customers to get 'em. They'll love it – they will
feel part of the cooking process. It will be casual, informal,
but superlatively good. Only remember to watch your
language.'

He put signs up in the window saying: 'Open for al fresco
dining', which he thought was a bit naff, but he didn't want
people to think they were just walking past a builder's yard.
The restaurant doors were opened wide and he made sure
that Mozart or Vivaldi was playing to help entice people in.

He was busy saying gloomily to anyone who would listen
that this was bound not to work, when Frank Briggs turned
up, with his wife. 'I thought you'd be out on the fells,
sabotaging our pest control,' he said with a grin when he
saw Jake.

'Nah, I only do that part-time,' said Jake. 'Come in – it's
nice to see you again.'

'To be honest, lad, I'm more a pie-and-chips sort of a
man, but the wife is on a health kick, so we thought we'd
give the pub a miss for once.'

'You won't be disappointed,' said Jake. He knew he
sounded confident, but he knew these were people with
eating habits so ingrained they would be very hard to shift.
But if they did . . . well, Frank knew a lot of people round
here and his word had clout.

Later – 'I don't mind saying that I wasn't really expecting
to like that broccoli and stilton soup, but it was bloody
good,' said Frank.

'I think that's partly because all the ingredients are from
round here.'

'Aye – that's the way to do business,' said Frank, nodding
his approval.

There was only room to feed about twenty people at a
time, but soon, and to Jake's surprise, they were packed out
every lunchtime. Jake got Tess and Godfrey and Emma
baking like mad, and they served homemade, mouthwatering
cakes and pastries and ice cream during the afternoon,
and then simple, but delicious suppers in the early
evening. It was keeping the financial wolf from the door,
just.

'I'm telling everyone that you're the chef from the
television – it really brings them in,' said Hans helpfully one
day. Jake was trying to make cherry ice cream but Godfrey
kept leaving the stones in. He frowned and took a deep
breath. Everyone took a step back.

'They come because the food is fucking brilliant, not
because we've been on some silly television programme –
get it? Really, I don't know why I bother trying to run a
restaurant in the first place. I would probably be better off
buying some plastic tables and chairs, a portable barbecue
and setting up stall on the beach by the lake. There would
be no overheads, no washing up if we used disposable plates
– I'd probably make a fortune,' he grumbled. In the winter
he could do soup and home-made burgers and hot roasted
chestnuts, and go home with Kate every night. It wouldn't
matter if he was as poor as a church mouse, as long as they
had a bed. It was a happy dream.

It was a brief, but golden time, if one could forget there
was a business to run, or in Kate's case, secrets to keep.
Jonathan was getting impatient and she knew she didn't
have a lot of time left. The good weather would definitely
break soon. When it did, she would sort it all out, she
promised herself. Until then . . .

They tended to finish earlier in the evening because the
nights could get quite chilly. It was fine for walking hand in
hand down to the lake, though. They would take any leftover
wine and some stale bread and sit on the jetty trying to
wake the ducks up by lobbing bits of bread roll at them.
They would take it in turns to swig from the bottle and try
to guess what it was because it was too dark to see the label.
Then they would go home and make love in the dark with
the window open to blow a cooling breeze over their hot
limbs. Later, Kate would look back on this time and think it
was like the best holiday she'd ever had.

Even Jake felt a Monday-morning, back-to-school dread
creep over him, when, glancing at the calendar, he realised
that the final of
Great Grub
was upon him. Matters weren't
helped when Kirsty rang up full of sorrow and sickness.

'It must have been something I ate,' she wailed.

'Well, it wasn't at my restaurant!'

'Of course it wasn't! I think it was some chicken I found
in the fridge at home last night, but I feel so sick, I don't
really care. I'm terribly sorry, but you really don't want to
watch me serving food while trying not to puke in it.'

'I certainly don't – it sounds most revolting. Look, don't
worry –'

'But I feel awful about letting you down!'

'You're not,' he said firmly. 'You've been an absolute
tower of strength and we will manage without you. After all,
Kate has come a long way as a waitress, though she'll never
be as good as you. Just concentrate on getting better and if
you feel up to it, you can watch us on the telly.'

'She must be really bad, poor girl,' he told the others.
'She didn't even try to tell a story about her second cousin
twice removed whom none of us has ever met! It's an ill
wind, I suppose, because it's now your turn to become a
star, Kate!'

'It's just like those films where the understudy has to take
over at the last minute,' said Godfrey, who was planning to
watch the programme with Anne, from the depths of a large
sofa. He was hoping to be so occupied he would miss most
of it.

Kate pretended to look pleased and then spent most of
the day furtively ringing everyone at the station that she
knew and begging them to keep shtum. Of course, a lot of
them thought it was a great joke and made various lewd
suggestions about what it might take to keep them quiet. It
was all very unfunny and she felt quite worn out when she
came off the phone. She wasn't even sure she had got round
all of them, and seriously considered going out and buying
a wig. She could always tell Jake she would feel less nervous
in a disguise. Oh dear, more lies. There was going to be a
terrible reckoning soon. She had put it off for so long, it was
bound to all come spilling out at the wrong moment. Right.
That was it. Today, on the way back from the studio, it was
going to be truth time. She felt better already, because she
knew that this time she really would go through with it.

'What on earth is the matter with you? You look like
you're auditioning for
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
.'
demanded Jake.

They were walking into the studio and Kate was doing
her best to be small and inconspicuous. She guessed she'd
overdone it a bit.

Of course they walked slap-bang into Harry and Georgia,
who was making no effort to fend off all the men who were
swarming round her. It didn't seem to be annoying Harry,
who was enjoying the attention. He lip was curling in a
particularly aggravating way. It was obvious he was
thinking: look, but don't touch, you sad bastards, because
she's mine.

Georgia stopped preening and her mouth took on its
famous pout when she saw Jake. She was wearing a fabulous
frock, dark green and shiny.

I don't know why she's looking so cross – she dumped
me, thought Jake as he walked past, giving her the stiff,
entirely false smile that is customary when greeting a newly
ex-partner.

Georgia was pouting because although she was obviously
much happier with Harry, it would have been nice if Jake
had looked a little more grief-stricken. There hadn't even
been a slightly sorrowful phone call and now here he was,
looking positively cheerful, bouncy even. It was really
annoying.

Jake was right – they all had to cook each other's
cuisine. He got Chinese and Harry got Indian, which, by
the look on his face didn't please him at all. Harry would
never set foot inside an Indian restaurant, deeming them
to be full of lager louts demanding impossibly hot
vindaloo. He had never visited India, considering it to be
hot, smelly and noisy, but then the same could be said of
London.

Jake explained to Tess: 'The secret here will be in the
preparation. We get everything ready first and then spend
about half a minute cooking like lunatics.' He looked sternly
at the audience.

'Have your chopsticks at the ready – this meal will wait
for no one!'

The audience grinned in greedy anticipation. Ali also got
a laugh by producing from somewhere a beret and a rope
of garlic but Harry's commis chef, Ken, was in an awful
state. He was a regular at one of the local Indian restaurants
because it was the only place that was still open after he
finished work. The stress of working for Harry meant he
usually drank four or five pints of lager before the meal
arrived, by which time he was so drunk he couldn't taste it
anyway. He gazed at the bowls of garam masala, cumin and
chillies with a sort of dull despair and wished he was at
home.

The audience continued to laugh when Tess dropped a
bowl on Jake's foot and he hopped about in agony.

'Sorry, Chef, but you are wearing steel-toed boots. You
could drop the Empire State Building on them and you
probably wouldn't feel it.'

'That's hardly the point!'

'Oh, don't be such a wuss,' she muttered, pushing past
him. She had found out that if she concentrated on her
work it was fairly easy to pretend she was just doing her
normal job in a normal kitchen, which was exactly what the
show's producers were hoping for.

Everyone's meals were coming together quite nicely
when Ken forgot what he was doing and wiped his sweating
face with a hand that had just been in contact with red-hot
chillies. He yelled in agony as some of the chilli went into his
eye and they had to stop filming while he went off to first
aid.

It couldn't have happened at a worse time for Jake
because his meal was just ready to be served. Everyone else
was glad of the unexpected break and raced off for coffees
and fags.

'Will you be able to keep that hot?' asked the presenter.

Jake gave her a withering glance. 'Of course I can keep it
hot,' he explained with laboured patience. 'I just can't keep
it edible – it's not a bloody casserole!' He threw off his chef's
hat and swore. 'We will have to do it again from scratch.'

'Oh, blimey! I hope we've got enough ingredients.'

'Well, you'd better find some,' said Jake, and went off to
join the others.

Harry was loitering with intent near two of the crew who
were discussing the state of play.

'It's neck and neck so far between the Indian guy and the
Englishman.'

Harry smirked.

'They are both good but it would be good novelty value
having a Jewish chef win. We could film him later on
cooking some kosher food.'

'What exactly is that?'

'Dunno.'

They wandered off, leaving Harry quite rigid with shock
and fury. He wasn't about to lose this, surely? Bile rose in
his throat and he tasted the sour and almost unfamiliar
flavour of possible failure. He even started to have flashbacks.
No. This couldn't be happening again. Never mind
that he had the girl and a much posher restaurant – there
was no way he was going to come second to Jake again! His
eyes slewed round, desperately searching for a way to
sabotage this outcome to end in his favour, but even he had
to concede that this might be difficult, given that the eyes of
the whole county would be on him.