Claire Gulliver #03 - Intrigue in Italics (16 page)

Confused, reluctant but not knowing what else to do, Claire admitted, “I have a problem and Bernie said if I had a problem I should call.”

“Right, good idea! Perhaps I could help. Would you like to tell me about it? Where are you, by the way?”

“Right now? Well, I’m at a pay phone in a little village called Vernazza on the Coast of Italy.”

“Would you give me the number on the phone in case we should be disconnected?”

Claire read off the number ignoring the questions in Kristen’s eyes.

“Good, good, now what seems to be the problem, Ms. Gulliver?”

With all of them in the kitchen at one time it seemed to be too many people. It wasn’t only their class of fifteen and Chef Martin, Sal and Wanda, but Chef Geno and even Marie Verde were in attendance today. Sal and Wanda had prepared three different work stations for the demonstrations this morning. Using the first, Chef Martin had demonstrated the basics of pasta. He had produced a fresh marinara sauce, which he then modified to make several different sauces from the same base. He then put together an egg pasta dough which he used to make linguine, bowties and even rigatoni, using a pasta machine to press out the tubes. The participants were amazed at the variety of dishes he produced from the same basic ingredients.

Now, at the second work station, Chef Geno was making gnocchi which he was going to use with the pesto sauce he had already made out of the beautiful basil they had seen growing in the garden.

Millie moved to the side to get a better view of what he was doing.

“Now remember, quick and gentle to make tender gnocchi.” His hands worked quickly, mixing the flour and egg into the mashed boiled potatoes. Then he turned the dough onto the board to quickly form ropes of dough before cutting each rope into little pieces.

It looked so easy while he was doing it. Randy winked at her. He had told her earlier he had never had any luck making edible gnocchi. Tough and gluey was his description. She knew he was planning to try again while the experts were in attendance during their hands-on session this afternoon.

As she watched, LiAnn slithered through the bodies, managing to squeeze in front of Frederick and Helga, who stood at the very front intent on the process Chef Geno was using to mark his gnocchi with a pattern. Surprised to find LiAnn suddenly standing in front of them, they smiled graciously, stepping back a bit to give her room to see. Millie thought about George’s complaint of LiAnn while on their walk. He was right, LiAnn was always roaming around. Earlier Millie had noticed her flitting about the other work stations while the rest of them clustered close to Chef Martin in order to hear his every word. And while she had no idea where LiAnn had been during this demonstration, it was clear she now wanted to be in the front row.

Millie realized, with a pang of guilt at having judged LiAnn: well, of course she wanted to be in the front row. As tiny as she was she wouldn’t be able to see anything over the heads of the others, especially since they were all wearing their big droopy hats. And no wonder she roamed about so much, she probably got claustrophobic being closed in a group by the larger, taller people. She told herself she needed to be a kinder person, but then she forgot about LiAnn as Chef Geno offered them each a bite of his delicious gnocchi and pesto.

He nodded graciously to acknowledge their applause. Chef Martin suggested they take a ten minute break before the next demonstration, which was appreciated by everyone.

“Well, they must have heard you, Marybeth.”

“Oh, the basil? Yes, it was wonderful. Fresh young basil makes all the difference.”

“I loved the gnocchi,” Ruth spoke out from one of the stalls in the ladies room. “But I’m usually reluctant to order it because, frankly, so many places serve chewy tasteless globs and hope their sauce will cover their mistake. And when that happens I am disappointed with the whole meal.”

“Well, you need to visit my restaurant someday. I guarantee you’ll get wonderful gnocchi. In the fall and winter I serve a pumpkin gnocchi, which is very popular.”

Ruth washed her hands, smiling at Marybeth. “That’s almost enough enticement to bring me East.” Then she looked at her. “Say, who are you partnering with this afternoon? I had promised to work with Jacques, but maybe I’d rather learn how to do pumpkin gnocchi with you.”

Marybeth laughed. “No way! I’m working with Michael and we’re using one of Chef Geno’s recipes. Lucky for you I won’t tell Jacques you were going to dump him over a recipe.”

Ruth shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

“Well, my pumpkin gnocchi’s not secret, so you can get one of my books or send me a letter and I’ll send the recipe.”

Ruth brightened, nodding as she left with Millie. “If I get the recipe, Millie, you can make it for me, can’t you?”

“Ruth, you can cook as well as I can,” Millie reminded her friend.

“Yeah, but I don’t like doing it nearly as much as you do.”

When they went back to the kitchen someone had placed several stools in front of the work station they would be using. Millie was happy to accept one of them as she was feeling the effects of the long hours of standing. She saw that not only she and Ruth were sitting, but Sam and LiAnn. Steven had offered his stool to Zoe and to Marybeth, but both had declined so he sat as well as Helga and Jacques. The others, tall enough to see over them were milling about behind those seated.

“This is going to be good,” Michael whispered in Millie’s ear from behind. “This is one of Chef Martin’s specialties. I order it every time it’s on the menu.”

“Tortellini dell'erba e degli spinaci con salsa di noci,” Chef Martin proudly announced. “Or, as we call it in the States, herb and spinach tortellini in walnut sauce.”

They leaned forward eagerly, watching him blanch and peel the walnuts then grind them to a fine paste. He added the bread, which he had soaked in water and then squeezed dry, the garlic and salt and then slowly the sour milk as the food processor made it into sauce. Finally, the consistency deemed just perfect, he strained the sauce through a sieve into a bowl and set it aside.

“Keep this at room temperature while you work on the tortellini.” He looked up and smiled at the group, each feeling he was smiling at them.

“Now we will make the filling for the tortellini.”

He processed the fresh baby spinach to a smooth paste and added the herbs he had chosen. The fragrance released by the food processor filled the air, heightening their anticipation. They watched him add the ricotta and parmesan cheeses, the eggs, the garlic and salt and pepper, then with a final burst it was finished. Everyone was handed a tiny taste while the filling was stored in a waiting bowl, and Wanda whisked the dirty dishes away from his working space.

Ruth and Michael had a short conversation about the herbs, but everyone kept their attention on Chef Martin, waiting for the next step.

Chef Martin upended the bowl of flour in a heap on the surface in front of him. Taking his fist he made a crater in the top of the mountain of flour. “Water and wine. Wanda, what kind of wine are we using today?”

“Pinot Grigio, Chef Martin. Some left from last night’s dinner.”

“Wine was left? Impossible!”

They laughed. Considering the amount of wine consumed last night, it did seem unlikely. Chef Martin appreciated their laughter.

“Any white table wine will do. Do not use a cooking wine!” he admonished. “If you’re going to use wine, use something good enough to drink.” He took a sip of the wine. “Perfect,” he pronounced.

He poured the water and wine into the crater he had formed in the flour and then using a fork he began dragging the flour from the edge of his crater and mixing it into the liquid. The crater became larger as the dough in the middle got bigger.

His fork took more of the flour and then he paused, looking puzzled. He looked closer as he pulled his fork through the flour bringing a lump of something to the edge.

“Eeeey-iiii!” LiAnn let out a screech, jumping off her stool and running to the back of the group.

The rest of them jumped. Millie almost fell off her perch, but George standing behind her grabbed her and steadied her.

Chef Martin looked up, his confusion changed to anger. He face flushed and he looked around. “Chef Geno,” he screamed. “What in the hell is in my flour?”

They all craned their necks, their curiosity peaked.

Chef Geno bustled up from the back of the group where he had been observing the demonstration. He looked at the white lump on the board. A dead, flour-encrusted mouse lay on the table top.

The horror on his face quickly spread to the faces of the watchers. They had all tasted the pasta earlier as well as the gnocchi, both of which were made from the same source of flour.

Chef Geno shook his head, trying to deny it. He looked around at the shocked faces and then bellowed to his assistants on their side of the big room. It didn’t matter how many of them crowded around shaking their heads; it was a fact that the flour had been contaminated.

Then things became even more confusing. Apparently anything made from flour in that container would have to be thrown out and, since it was close to lunchtime, it would be a big problem for the kitchen. Some dishes would be removed from the menu; others would be quickly made once more in time to serve. Then, Sal explained the exterminators would be brought in to check everything. The old adage “if you see one there must be more” was taken literally by the people in this kitchen.

Chef Martin was beside himself. After he conferred with Chef Geno and Marie, he dismissed the class early for lunch. “We will be delaying the hands-on session this afternoon until three o’clock to allow time for the kitchen to be put back in order. I apologize for this, but as you all know, when you’re working in the kitchen, and when the kitchen is in the country, well..., anything can happen.” He shrugged but, no matter how philosophical his words, he was obviously angry.

“You know, I’m not very hungry for some reason,” Millie told Ruth.

“Me either.” Ruth made a face. “In fact I’m feeling a little green.”

They looked at each other, then both said, “Let’s take a swim.”

They laughed as they headed for their room to change.

Aaron tapped his pen on the desk until he got Craig’s attention. He gestured to the phone and, when Craig nodded, he turned his attention back to the story he was hearing. He occasionally wrote a note, but was confident that Craig was setting in motion the complex machinery that was their forte. Hours and days, sometimes even weeks went by in excruciating boredom before their unique skills were needed. The boredom was as big a challenge to the group as the problems were. They needed to be ready, always. They never knew when they would be needed, or where they were needed, or even what kind of problem they would get. And while usually they dealt only with the professionals in the company, who were assigned throughout the world, on occasion, such as this, a call came in from an amateur who had been given their number for protection. Of course, 9/11 had impacted their unit. Their calls were up, their problems seemed more complex, but they were up to the challenge.

Their building, innocuous from the outside, contained all the latest electronic equipment on the inside. They were located in plain sight in an Industrial Park in the suburbs of New Jersey, far away from their headquarters for safety. Their operatives were the best, the smartest, the most imaginative problem solvers. These people knew how to cut through red tape everywhere to affect their rescues.

A bank of computer scenes on the near wall flashed into focus. The first held a map of Italy with the small village of Vernazza marked in red. As he watched, Marla, working on a computer two desks over, was locating their operatives near that area. They appeared as blue dots on the map, all but two were an alarming distance away.

Aaron nodded at Marla, knowing she would turn her attention to the two operatives closest to their target. She accessed their current assignments which flashed on another screen. Meanwhile, Claire was just about finished with her story. So Aaron started with his questions. Beginning with who it was Kristen was contacting and at what phone number. Then he wanted to know how long it was since they had seen the assassin and what her estimate was for the amount of time it would take for him to get to her. And then he asked about escape routes from the village.

Claire had a hard time keeping her voice even as she explained that all the boats were full until two-thirty and that they didn’t dare try the train as the train platform would have them in full view of the entire village until it left. It was too dangerous.

“Buses? Rental cars?”

“No, you don’t understand. There is a highway of some sort, way up at the top and maybe we could get a bus there, but there is no way to get up there without passing the two men who are searching for us.” Claire’s voice was trembling.