Vanilla Salt (14 page)

“All right, I’ll come. I was supposed to go to an oyster tasting in Marennes, but the very thought of it makes me retch. I can see a jamboree full of hostesses planted at the entrance, smiles painted on their mugs and asking guests to show their invitation. I love acting offended, so I can enjoy watching the PR fairy get his knickers in a twist every time
he has to apologize. I piss myself laughing when I see how they squirm every time I pull a face. An evening with you will be much more fun and interesting than a dozen Marennes oysters, even if I do have to pay the price of swallowing your frozen hake.”

“I didn’t get a word of that. You can tell me the less garbled version later, or, with a bit of luck, you won’t tell me. I’m here and dying to see you.” Àlex hangs up.

He sticks his head in the freezer, a great trunk of a thing, typical of restaurant kitchens. He rummages round in bags, boxes and plastic containers, most of them empty. There’s hardly anything left, which isn’t surprising since he’s kept himself alive on frozen food for the last three months. What can he make for Carol? Luckily, right at the bottom, buried under a layer of frosty-looking ice, he finds a bag of small prawns.

He chops up a few, quite a few, cloves of garlic. “Can someone tell me how to get out of this fix?” he begins to bellow, trying to belt it out with all Mazoni’s power. He fries the garlic cloves in plenty of oil and then removes them. “There’s something in you that sucks up your poetry”… He adds a touch of chilli. “It’s not about wanting but knowing what you’re giving up.” He sings lustily, but the dish isn’t singing with him. Something’s missing. He needs time to finish the song. “We’re not a memory or a trail, but just a lonely spot.” He’d like to have a good supply of food. He misses flinging casseroles around, smells mingling in the air and pervading the whole kitchen, the thrill of cooking, the whole thing. “Happiness isn’t enough; it’s euphoria we need.” He wants to go back to the “euphoria” of things cooking. Yes, he wants to cook, and cook with Annette.

He still has time before Carol turns up. He goes up to his room, changes, shaves and splashes on some cologne. He doesn’t want her to see him scruffy and grubby and then come to her own poison-laden conclusions. She’d have him pigeonholed in no time: a poor loser. The woman’s evil.

At nine on the dot, Carol arrives at Antic Món with a boxful of food. Àlex is pleased with the gift, but ashamed that he has so little to offer himself.

“I wasn’t convinced by your offer of frozen leftovers so I’ve brought some excellent canned goodies. A dinner improvised from this stuff can be brilliant. Tins are like those friendships you don’t care about, but which can get you out of all sorts of messes without moaning about being shunted aside for something more beautiful, younger and fresher. Your tins wait in the pantry, patient and uncomplaining, until you need them. Then you’re full of praise for these ugly, inscrutable, aluminium cans and, when you decide to open them, you find that they’re hiding a singular personality, discreet uniqueness, exquisite taste and great humility. Although they’re so honest, you hesitate before presenting them in society, because they’re not considered natural enough, or fresh enough, or young enough, or beautiful enough to be hanging on your arm. I have the highest regard for them because they’ve never let me down. I hope you value my friendship, because, like the tins, its use-by date is a long way off.”

Carol arranges her collection of aluminium items on the table: tunabelly fillets in extra-virgin olive oil, Tudela asparagus, Kalamata olives, enormous clams, Los Peperetes razor clams, Joselito ham and even some Nacarii caviar.

“You’ve brought all your freebies, woman!” Àlex exclaims. “Having seen the way all these salesmen grease your palm and butter you up so you’ll be nice about their products, I know you haven’t forked out a cent for all this. Anyway, the metaphor about cans and friendship is very fine. Maybe you picked it up from something you read?”

“Don’t be so offensive. Stop hurting my feelings. Who cares whether they’re gifts or I paid for them? We have them on the table here and we’re going to have a feast. It’s lucky I brought them. Those prawns and parsley look downright scary. Alright, lad, I don’t want to get worked up. I’m
too old for tantrums. I’m at a point where everything’s fine and, if not, I just change the channel. I’m here today and I’m going to have a good time. You too. You’ve lost a lot of weight. You’re a walking corpse,” she says, abruptly changing the subject.

“I’m fine and I needed to shed a few kilos,” he defends himself. “I like your idea of changing the channel. But right now, I’m not changing. I’m keeping the restaurant. It’s sold, with me in it,” Àlex says, as he opens one of the three bottles he has ready for the night.

“What’s this? What do you mean? Someone’s bought it with you in it?” Carol’s intrigued.

“Well, my friend, that blogger Òscar, has joined forces with Annette, and they’re doing their Little Sisters of the Poor thing, so they’re buying it. They think they’ll make me happy if they let me rattle casseroles again, and they’re so lovely they’ll even allow me to sleep here in my own house.”

“Annette and Òscar? Well, well, well, life brings new surprises every day. This El Puntido is spectacular,” says Carol, topping up her glass. “Is that all you have?”

“You’ve already drunk the whole damn bottle. You’re a sponge. No, no, I haven’t got any more Puntido, but we’ll crack open an Equilibrista. Have you tried it? It’s a worthy drop. This time I’m going to keep it next to me, or I won’t even get to have half a glass before you down it all.”

“So what are you going to do?” she resumes. “Are you going to play ball? I mean, are you going to let them turn everything upside down so Annette can be your boss? You won’t be able to do that. No one can give you orders. You’d be a terrible menial.”

The rate at which they’re downing the wine is like a film that’s been put on fast forward. In two sentences and three silences, they’ve just about done for the second bottle and the booze has begun to affect their conversation.

“I have no choice but to accept their offer. I can’t find work. No one wants the restaurant. I haven’t got a cent to my name. The freezer’s empty. And unfortunately I’ve got withdrawal symptoms. There’s no way I can get cooking out of my system. It’s a nightmare. I dream I’m cooking, imagine I’m shopping at the market, haggling with suppliers, choosing the product, smelling non-existent aromas. I want to cook again. I have a plan and you’ve got to help me.”

“A plan? What plan? What do you want me to do?”

“Sink them.”

8

UPROAR

Annette turns the key in the door of Antic Món. She moves inside and, standing in the centre of the shadowy dining room, surveys the tables, chairs, tablecloths, shelves…

The effect is stifling. There’s a huge amount of work to do, so much that she has no idea how to go about it. She knows that optimism and excitement are a great source of energy, and she’s not afraid of work, but she is terrified she won’t be able to repay Òscar. A different way of working has to be organized, the new menu publicized, clients attracted from everywhere, expenditure supervised, different, surprising, tasty dishes cooked and the space redecorated, so that everything is gleaming, clean and tidy.

Being boss of a restaurant, all by herself, is a complex task and she’s not at all sure she’ll succeed. Òscar has promised to help her out in the first few months and Àlex, who’s a great cook and who has run the restaurant singlehanded for a long time, will be there to help her. This, however, is not really a help but a handicap. It would have been easier to start from zero with a whole new team, because old habits die hard, especially if the person who has to be “transformed” is someone like Àlex. The problems only get worse.

He’s not around at the moment. It would appear that he’s not keen to witness the arrival of the new owners. Annette sighs. She doesn’t feel ready to cope with this all by herself.

She goes upstairs to leave her enormous suitcase there. Opening the wardrobe, she finds the party dress that Carol bought for her, and the underwear as well. Her throat suddenly constricts with anxiety. She should have phoned Carol ages ago. She’s been avoiding it all these months because she wanted to get her life in order, feel calm and not get dragged into situations that might play havoc with her emotional state. She can’t put the call off any longer, because Carol might think that she’s upset for some incomprehensible reason. In fact, Carol has been very kind to her.

“Hello, Carol. How are you?”

“Hi, beautiful! What a lovely surprise. How are you? I hear you’ve bought Antic Món. Well done. I’m sure it will be a winner.”

“Thank you. I’m fine. You come when you want and we talk. I have plenty work now.”

“I don’t doubt it. It won’t be easy. I don’t want to disturb you, but I’d love to see you, because we’re friends and I’m the person you need. Don’t forget, I’m a top food critic and this is exactly what I do, speak badly or highly of restaurants. Do you have some bright ideas for getting Antic Món up and running again?”

“I know you write food critic… I want for you to come as friend.”

“I know, I know. Even though you haven’t been the greatest friend yourself. You haven’t answered any of my calls, which is why I thought just now that you’ve called me for purely professional reasons. Well, I’m sure you’ll tell me the whys and wherefores of your stony silence.”

“What stone?”

“Come on, girl, one of these days you’re going to have to learn to speak Catalan properly. It isn’t all that difficult. You might understand it a little better if somebody licked it into the depths of your ear, very lustfully, just like I would do. What the hell. The fact that you express yourself so quaintly also has its charm. You decide. If you want me to
come over today to give you a hand, I’d be delighted. Tomorrow I’m off to Tokyo for two weeks.”

“That very good for you. You come today if you wish this.”

The last thing Annette wants is for Carol to come, but she can’t say no, because it’s true that she needs to have Carol on side now. She’s got to keep her happy.

“I’ll come and help in any way that’s needed, right. You deserve it,” Carol adds. “When do you want to open the restaurant again?”

“Very quick.”

Just as Annette hangs up, Àlex walks into Antic Món. They stare at each other for a few seconds. They’re tense. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in the new circumstances, because Òscar acted as intermediary in the negotiations for the sale of the restaurant. Annette’s uncomfortable and she also feels terribly sorry for Àlex, who looks haggard and sad. He breaks the ice, eases the tension with the ghost of a smile, blurts out “Hello” and then heads for the stereo system to put on a CD of heartbreakingly melancholy harpsichord music. He goes upstairs to his room and is back in the kitchen a couple of minutes later wearing his white chef’s gear.

“OK, Madame Boss, tell me what you want me to do.” Mockery mingles with submission.

“You no talk so. We sit, OK?”

“Why do we have to talk? What we have to do is work like navvies. There’s nothing here to eat and the cooking has to be done. I’m here to cook.”

“Il n’y a pas the food for cook,” Annette laments. When she’s nervous her languages come out even more jumbled.

“Spot on. There’s no food. Has Madame ordered some?”

“We sit to talk some moments,” she insists.

Annette gets two beers and sits at the kitchen table. She gestures with her hand, inviting him to join her.

“Woman, if we get into the beer before we start work, this restaurant won’t be going anywhere.” He takes a long swig then wipes away with his tongue a spiteful remark that gets no farther than his lips.

Annette explains with great difficulty, both because of the language and her uneasiness at being confronted by Àlex, how she proposes to run the restaurant. This could well be the most difficult situation she’s ever been in, and it’s not as if her life has been a bed of roses so far. Today she feels as if she has betrayed Àlex: she’s gone from being a helper doing menial jobs to being his boss, and this isn’t easy to accept, especially by someone like him. To cap it off, she feels an inexpressible attraction for the man who’s gone from being boss to underling, and the whole thing is fast becoming more and more complicated. Worse still, he used to be the owner and creator of the business she’s just bought into without having the faintest idea how to run it.

He’s pale and gaunt and it’s very clear that he’s suffered greatly. Having to give him orders and make him accept her way of working won’t be easy at all.

Àlex lets Annette talk. He listens, apparently calmly, as if she has nothing to do with his work and, in short, his life. It really seems as if he’s distractedly listening to the chitchat of some fellow diners, a conversation that doesn’t affect or involve him, but that only interests him because it’s about the future of those two people at the next table.

The new owner of Antic Món is expecting swearing, verbal abuse and crass language in response to her proposals, but his reactions are the exact opposite. He hasn’t as much as raised an eyebrow. His submissive pose throws her, but also makes her feel stronger. What had begun as a timid plan for task-sharing has ended up, half an hour later, as a soliloquy, a firm statement of her intentions, a new philosophy for the restaurant.

Annette is determined to get Àlex to devise a taster menu of five dishes, all of them with her agreement, which they will offer for dinner as the
“Chef’s Menu”. The new cuisine at Antic Món will be more affordable and, in particular, tailored to the tastes of the local people. Their potential clients must be able to understand the dishes they are being offered and, more importantly, pay for them. At lunchtime they will offer an inexpensive set menu in the hope of attracting workers from the nearby industrial estates. At weekends they’ll do a family menu.