The Dish (20 page)

‘Jonn’s dish doesn’t even make sense conceptually. He used to have the best palate and now he’s just a gimmicky, bloated, coke-raddled sell-out.’

‘That restaurant is so not you, Adam.’

‘I didn’t realise it would be quite so bad – I’m improving the
menu and bringing the team up to scratch, but it’s the attitude I find depressing – style over substance. Get my star and get out!’ he says, rolling his eyes skywards. ‘Anyhow, the whole savoury pudding disaster got me thinking about savoury Viennoiserie. Viennoiserie are usually sweet breakfast pastries – croissants, pains au chocolat – normally made using lamination, where you wrap layers of
dough around butter.’

I nod my interest, though I know a bit about Viennoiserie, all about cold butter, cold fingers.

‘I’d like your opinion on the pastries in the oven, they’re part of a project I’m doing for myself – but first things first,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘Hold on, bread!’ He bends to take a paper bag from the shelf and as he stands, winces in pain, his hands moving to his lower
back.

‘Are you OK?’ I say, moving closer, stopping just short of rubbing it for him.

‘My back’s ruined, and my knees. Occupational hazard, nothing a little Voltarol won’t fix. I should get some physio but I haven’t got a spare moment.’

‘You should make some more time for yourself.’ And for me! Though I can’t work out how he’s ever going to do that. ‘Take a holiday?’

He laughs and hands me
the bread. ‘Even just a day away would be better than nothing. Would you mind slicing that, please?’

‘Will you throw something at my head if I don’t slice it straight?’

‘I’ll have you clean the deep-fat fryer,’ he says, grinning.

I give the bread a squeeze. ‘This is St John sourdough isn’t it?’

‘You really know your food.’

‘Crime scene – bacon sandwich . . .’

‘Ah, yes, interest on that doughnut
fiver’s accumulating,’ he says, as he grabs an omelette pan and places it on the hob. ‘Slice it about one point five centimetres thick?’

‘Yes, Grumpy.’

‘Why Grumpy?’

‘You said not to call you Chef.’

‘Oh, I’m not grumpy anymore,’ he says, looking directly at me. ‘I’m happy. For the first time since I last saw you.’

Did he just say that? I pause, and look up from the chopping board.

He’s gazing
at me with the sweetest expression. He does look incredibly happy and for a second I forget we’re not married, not even a couple and I automatically do this silly thing I used to do with Tom: point my finger at my eye, my heart and then at him – before realising with horror what I’ve just done.

In panic I instinctively turn and walk to the fridge. After ten seconds of standing frozen, staring
at the door, I open it – pretend to look for something – and instead stare at the light at the back for two full minutes, as the smell of bread toasting scents the air.

How utterly mortifying. It wasn’t even about Adam. It was just – for a moment there – I thought I was back in domestic bliss. Tom and I ended up using that gesture as shorthand for a hundred things:
I’m happy
or
Thanks for taking
the bin out
or
Your turn to do the dishes
. It came to mean so many things – and I feel a desperate need to explain this fact to Adam:
of course I didn’t mean ‘I love you’, Adam! I merely wanted to communicate that I’m looking forward to my omelette and beans.

Perhaps he didn’t actually see me do it? Maybe he was reaching for the eggs as I pointed to my eye? Behind me I hear the sound of one egg
being cracked, now two . . . Yep, I might have got away with it. And then again, I might not.

‘What do you want in your omelette, Sous?’

‘Er . . . yeah, eggs,’ I say, wishing I could climb into this fridge and freeze off this burning shame.

‘Anything else? You looking for something?’ His voice registers nothing either way. I hear the butter start to sizzle in the pan.

‘Bacon?’ I say, finally
turning round. Adam’s deep in concentration, pouring the eggs into the pan and looks up at me with a questioning look.

‘You OK?’

‘Just looking at . . . at that picture on your fridge. Where was that taken?’

‘Two secs.’ He grips the pan, nudges the edge of the omelette with the spatula and deftly folds the eggs into a perfect roll, which he slides on to a plate on which sits the buttered toast.
Swiftly he moves to the hob and carefully spoons a swirl of luscious beans in a curve, hugging the side of the toast, then dips his fingers in a bowl of salt flakes and lets them fall in a delicate cascade. He carefully picks a few strands of micro-cress from another bowl, places them on the omelette, then gets a squeezy bottle of dark green oil and traces a delicate scratch over the dish. His
whole body is focused yet relaxed. It moves instinctively – as though his muscles are so familiar with every tiny movement they could perform independently of his brain. I can’t help but stare at the flex in his forearms as he works, then down to his fingers – strong, nimble.

‘Omelette and beans, Madame,’ he says, looking down modestly at his work of art, then pulling up a barstool next to me.

66. Sophocles said The First Taste is With Your Eyes: worth passing on to whoever plated up tuna ceviche with deranged brown smears zigzagging over the plate, like Jackson Pollock’s toilet exploded.

‘Adam, is it ever so hectic at your place you don’t have time to make things look as pretty as this?’

I look at him closely though what am I expecting to see? The word
guilty
to flash on his forehead
in neon? A hastily written confession, admitting he was in the cold store room shagging a waitress on a bag of Puy lentils?

Not a flicker. ‘The whole point of a well-run kitchen is consistency. You should have enough time, otherwise someone’s not doing their job properly. You’re not allergic to baked beans are you, Laura?’ he says, looking suddenly worried.

‘Love them,’ I say, dipping my fork
in and taking a mouthful, then another, then a third. ‘Oh my goodness . . .’

‘It’s just a few quality ingredients.’

‘But how are you getting such a deep base flavour?’

‘Oh, the
soffritto
– I cook it for, like, four hours . . .’

‘Four
hours
? And is that green drizzle chive?’

‘Smoked chive oil – it just lifts it.’

‘And there’s something else smoky as well as bacon – is it bourbon?’

‘I’m going
to have to get up pretty early to get anything past you! Are you sure you’re not a secret Michelin inspector?’

‘That photo?’ I say, craning my head back to the fridge.

‘That’s my favourite restaurant in the world, in fact it’s named after you, Da Laura.’

‘How nice of them! Is it in Italy?’

‘Yup, the next town along is Portofino, which is wall-to-wall douche bags wearing Hermès – but San Fruttuoso
is tiny – three houses and an abbey, and Da Laura’s this shack on a pebble beach, rickety wooden steps, paper tablecloths, ten seats. They serve the thinnest home-made lasagne sheets, covered in incredible fresh pesto. It’s so simple and so low key – I’d love to take you there because I’m not doing it any justice in words. I know it sounds cheesy but they cook from the heart.’

‘Can we go there
please?’

‘Would you want to go there with me?’ he says, pulling back to look at me.

‘Absolutely!’ You’re not sure if I like
you
? Perhaps you did not actually see me just now, miming ‘I love you’.

‘I’d better show you those pastries before you go,’ he says, abruptly getting up and clearing the plates away.

‘I’m going
now
, am I?’ A lump of unease lodges in my gullet like gristle.

‘It’s five
to one,’ he says, checking his watch.

‘What are you up to again?’ I try to make my voice sound breezy but it has to work its way round the lump in my throat and ends up sounding like a strangled accusation.

He pauses as he bends over the oven, then slides the tray on to the counter. ‘Got some stuff to sort out with my mum. Right, so here we’ve got three savoury Viennoiseries – a Parmesan and
bacon brioche; a Welsh rarebit and wild mushroom double-layered croissant and a caramelised leek, shallot and Gruyère spiral. So listen,’ he says, hurriedly placing the pastries in a box, then straightening them up carefully, as though the thought of closing the lid on them when they’re not in perfect rows would pain him. ‘I’m putting three of each in – they’re actually not at their best piping hot
anyway, and then when I see you on Thursday you can tell me what you think?’

‘Thursday?’

‘I thought I’d pop over in my split shift, around teatime?’

‘We’re doing tea now, are we?’

‘Do you not want to?’

‘No, I do. I just . . . it would be nice to see you for more than an hour snatched here and there.’

‘Er . . . next Sunday night? Let me see if I can move things around . . .’ he says. ‘Laura,
I feel so rude shoving you out of my house but . . .’

‘No, it’s fine. It’s like a proper restaurant with a very fast turnaround.’ Though seriously? It is the opposite of fine!

On his doorstep I feel the lump still sticking in my throat. If I don’t get it out now I’ll choke on it.

‘What time?’ I say.

‘What time what?’

‘Tea. On Thursday?’

‘Oh, four p.m. Sorry, Laura, I’m a bit distracted .
. .’

Yeah, I can see that. And I can go home and waste my time angsting about why that might be. Or . . .

‘Adam, can I ask you a question?’ Though why even ask? If he’s anything like Tom, he’ll just lie.

‘Shoot.’

‘Are you seeing someone at the moment?’

‘What? A shrink?’

Why would you be seeing a shrink? ‘I meant another woman.’

He laughs. ‘My goodness, no, definitely not.’ He looks me straight
in the eye when he says it. I know what a lie looks like: this isn’t one.

‘Are you seeing a shrink then?’

‘No – I just didn’t know what you meant by
seeing someone.
Listen, I know we never seem to . . . I want to spend time with you, I know it’s odd right now but things will clear up soon.’

‘I just have this weird feeling . . .’

He pauses. ‘Look: there’s some on-going stuff but I promise you,
I’m not seeing another woman.’ He puts his hands on my shoulder. ‘Can you bear with me? In a couple of weeks I’ll be in a better place all round.’

He smiles and I smile. We stand on his doorstep, his hands still resting on my shoulders. He moves them down my arms, then pulls me towards him and kisses me tenderly. His mouth is so perfect I could kiss him for hours. My body leans in to his but
after a minute he pulls away, looking sheepish.

‘Adam, you are quite sure it’s your mum coming round now, not your one o’clock girlfriend?’

He looks over my shoulder and breaks into an awkward smile. ‘If you don’t believe me, you can see for yourself.’

Behind me, an attractive brunette in her early sixties stands at the bottom of the stairs, carrying two heavy cloth bags. She looks surprised,
then glances at Adam, nods, and smiles.

‘You must be Laura!’

This place would be perfect for Second Helpings, I think, as I sit waiting for Will and Sophie at Darband, a tiny Persian den off Edgware Road. It won’t win any awards for decor – the walls covered in yellow plaster, the floor in peeling lino – but it’s one of my favourite restaurants ever. Yes, the food is brilliant – but it’s the owners that make it special. They are generous and hospitable
and make every guest feel equally welcome.

I stumbled across it walking back from town one day. I smelled chargrilled meat and when I crossed the road for a closer look, I saw a chef in the window, working a gigantic disc of dough, spinning and slapping it between his palms like a meditation. Ten minutes later, I was sitting inside, mourning all the meals I’d already missed here. That bread!
Light, crispy, buttery bread that anyone with eyes, a mouth or a pulse would demolish. (It would give Amber a panic attack.) And their rice! Mountains of lightly buttered basmati, each grain separate and fluffy, delicate and comforting – people don’t get excited enough about rice!

‘Laura, I’m so sorry, we lost track of time,’ says Sophie, as she bustles in, arm in arm with Will. These two are
a great couple to hang out with – they never make you feel left out or grossed out. On the rare occasions Mark visits Amber at the flat, they’re either licking each other’s faces or bickering; Amber once claimed they’re the Liz Taylor and Richard Burton of West London. Sometimes I admire Amber for being able to look through rose/frankly black tulip-tinted spectacles to see Mark as Richard Burton,
when the facts might suggest otherwise: a paunchy forty year old who farts all the time and blames it on poor Annalex.

‘We brought some plonk,’ says Will putting down two bottles of red.

‘Thought you might need a drink after your hot date . . . what? No action?’ Sophie sits down heavily, my disappointment weighing as much on her as me.

‘Should I pop to the offie for a third?’ says Will.

‘Don’t
worry, Will, it wasn’t
bad
, just odd.’

‘What happened?’ she says. ‘Hang on, can we order first?’ Sophie cannot concentrate in a restaurant until she knows food is on its way.

‘The usual?’ I say.

‘The usual?’ She turns to Will, though it is a rhetorical question.

Will nods, fills our glasses and raises his for a mini cheers. ‘And extra bread.’

While we’re waiting for our food I tell them what
happened – how flirty Adam was, but yet made no attempt at a real move.

‘He almost groped you in the bathroom?’ says Sophie.

‘It wasn’t a groping! More a casual rub – like he didn’t realise he was doing it.’

‘Didn’t realise he was doing it!’ says Will, looking at me like I’m from a different species.

‘It wasn’t a
move
kind of move, Will. It’s weird – it feels like he’s holding back . . .’

‘Has it occurred to you,’ says Will, leaning back in his chair as the waiter descends with a basket of breads so large they’re draping over all sides. ‘This guy might actually be honourable?’