The Secret Ingredient (8 page)

Andie couldn't remember the last time she felt this nervous. But that was the whole problem – she didn't do anything that made her nervous any more, her life was devoid of challenges, and that was not a good thing. She had to keep telling herself that, because right now she would have done anything to get out of this particular challenge.

Ross had offered to drive her to the restaurant but she refused; he'd have to leave work early, and he'd have to come out late to pick her up. Besides, there was really no need. She was perfectly capable of driving herself, there was parking for staff, it was easy. And she needed the time in the car, on her own, to compose herself.

But Andie had a feeling she could have driven to Melbourne and back and she still wouldn't have felt composed when she turned into the staff carpark at the back of Viande. She glanced at her new chef's kit on the passenger seat; a gift from Ross when she'd despaired that her apprentice kit from her TAFE days would not be up to scratch. So yesterday he'd presented her with a top-of-the-range professional kit, and now Andie didn't feel up to scratch. But she was dressed in a new, double-breasted white chef's jacket and fine-checked pants, so at least she looked the part. She stepped out of the car and pressed the remote lock as she walked across the carpark to the rear entrance of the restaurant. She was to report to the executive chef, Dominic Gerou. Andie just wished she'd had a chance to talk to the man at least; she didn't even know what he looked like. When she'd googled his name she discovered a formidable reputation – which made it even more daunting – and a few indistinct images where he was just one in a group, standing at the back, usually looking away. He never appeared on
MasterChef
or any of the cooking shows – though rumour was he'd been invited repeatedly – and he flatly refused to have anyone from the media visit his kitchen. He was therefore described as rather prickly. The couple of direct quotes Andie did come across stated that he was not a celebrity, he was a chef; as far as he was concerned those two words did not belong together. He took his work seriously, and he expected others to do the same. Prickly indeed. Andie had to wonder what it was going to be like to work in his kitchen.

No, enough of that, she had to think positively. It was going to be amazing. She would finally get the kind of experience she used to dream about. And it wasn't as though she was an indentured servant; if she didn't like it, she could always move on.

Andie walked up to what looked like a fire exit door with a plaque: Viande. Staff Entry Only. She smoothed down her jacket, took a deep breath and pressed a large red button on the adjacent wall. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard the corresponding buzz emanating from inside. This was it. Presently the door opened and a small-statured man of Asian appearance was standing on the other side, dressed in full chef's regalia. Andie hated referring to people as ‘Asians', she was sure it must sound racist, but she could never tell exactly where someone was from.

‘Hello?' he prompted her. ‘Can I help you?'

He spoke in a broad Australian accent, so that was no help. Not that Andie could distinguish Asian accents either. She really ought to work on that.

‘Oh, hi,' she said. ‘I'm here for a tryout. I'm supposed to report to Dominic Gerou.'

She noticed a slight lift of his eyebrows. ‘All right. Well, I'm Tang,' he said. ‘Please follow me.'

He led Andie down a long, dimly lit corridor, past a couple of storerooms, and on towards the familiar cacophony of a commercial kitchen. Suddenly they were on the threshold. Andie paused in the doorway, taking it all in: row upon row of gleaming stainless-steel benches and shelves, pots and pans and utensils hanging from their racks; the banks of double ovens, deep-frying vats, grills and hotplates; the sizzling, hissing and clattering, the roar of exhaust fans, voices snapping orders; the smells, too many to differentiate right now. Andie felt the adrenalin pumping through her veins. She was at once excited and scared as hell.

‘This way,' Tang said over his shoulder. They weaved their way around a veritable army of chefs at work, Andie counted at least a dozen. No one so much as glanced in her direction, they all appeared to be completely engrossed in whatever they were doing. And deadly serious.

Tang finally came to a halt at the pass, where the meals were plated up and passed over to the waiters to be served. There was a small group of chefs and waitstaff gathered around another chef – Andie assumed this had to be Dominic Gerou – as he bent over the bench doing . . . something, she couldn't see past everyone. But he had the group in his thrall.

‘Excuse me, Chef?' Tang said tentatively.

‘Not now, Tang,' the man said without looking around.

Tang stood very still, like a soldier at attention. Andie followed suit as Chef proceeded to explain how to plate up a dish.

‘And so the confit of duck rests on the bed of almond nut soil,' he was saying, ‘and is topped with the glazed quince. Carefully spoon the jus of red wine and port, star anise and juniper berries. With a light hand, please, don't drown it. The sour cherries, three precisely, are placed to one side, like so.'

Andie detected a slight plum in his mouth – she couldn't decide if it was the remnants of an English accent, or if he was just pretentious. She'd expected him to be French with that name.

‘And there it is,' he said, straightening up. ‘Is everyone clear? Come close, take a good look. It's fiddly and I want you to get it right.'

He stepped back out of the way as the assembled group drew in closer to inspect the dish.

‘What is it, Tang?' he asked, finally turning to him.

‘Sorry, Chef, this lady was told to report to you.'

He glanced beyond Tang to Andie, the irritation plain on his face.

She cleared her throat. ‘My name is Andie Corcoran. I'm starting —'

‘I can't deal with this now,' he cut her off. ‘Just set her up, would you, Tang?'

‘Yes, Chef.'

Tang turned to Andie and ushered her back through the kitchen and up the corridor again, to one of the storerooms they had passed on the way in. A row of lockers lined one wall, and Tang walked along beside them, checking for one that would open.

‘Here you go,' he said, turning to look at her. ‘What did you say your name was? Sandy?'

‘Andie,' she said. ‘Short for Andrea.'

He shook his head. ‘Chef's not going to like that.'

He's not going to like her name? What was she supposed to do, change it?

‘Doesn't matter, he mostly uses surnames anyway.'

‘Oh, okay,' said Andie. ‘Is Tang your surname?'

He smiled, flashing a perfectly even row of white teeth. ‘Lee's my surname, but Tang is what comes last. Chinese,' he shrugged. ‘Everyone here calls me Tang.'

‘Okay, Tang.'

‘You can leave that,' he said, glancing at the kit she was carrying. ‘You won't need it. Chef personally selects all the equipment, he doesn't like anyone bringing their own gear into his kitchen.'

So Chef was a fascist as well as pompous. Joy. Andie sighed inwardly as she placed her kit, along with her handbag, in the locker.

‘And you'll have to change your jacket, we have a uniform.'

‘Of course,' said Andie. She hadn't even succeeded in looking the part.

Tang gave Andie a quick appraisal up and down, and walked over to a double-fronted cabinet, opening the doors back. He scanned the shelves inside, drawing out a folded jacket wrapped in plastic, then a hat from the top shelf.

‘Here you go, these should fit,' he said.

Andie looked doubtfully at the pillbox-style hat. She had already plaited her hair back at home, using about a thousand bobby pins to try to flatten it against her head. ‘You don't have any of the snood-style hats?' she asked.

Tang shook his head. ‘Chef doesn't like them, he thinks they look sloppy.'

Chef sounded like a pain in the arse.

‘Come find me outside when you're ready,' Tang said as he headed for the door.

‘Thank you, Tang.'

Andie changed quickly, shoving her things into the locker. The pillbox hat was a snug fit, but she eventually forced it into place. If this worked out, she really should think about getting her hair cut. Ross wouldn't like it, but it was impractical for a chef to have hair this long. Oh God, she was going to be a chef again. She hurried back out to the kitchen, relieved to see that Tang was hovering close by, waiting for her, and that the haughty Dominic Gerou was nowhere in sight.

‘Okay, Andie,' said Tang, ‘let's put you to work.'

He set her up at a station at the end of a bench, with a pile of onions in front of her. She sighed again, but quietly, to herself. This was an apprentice's job, a first-year apprentice at that. She realised she had to start somewhere, but why, oh why, did it have to be onions?

‘Sliced or diced?' she asked Tang.

‘Dice for now,' he replied. ‘I'll keep an eye on you, let you know when you can move on to something else. Just depends which sections get busy. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything, I'll be floating around.'

Andie turned to the pile of onions. She picked up a knife from the magnetic strip running the length of the wall behind, glancing along the bench. She was one of four chefs in the row, all dutifully chopping vegetables as though their lives depended on it. She reached for an onion and scored the outer layer. Andie really hated chopping onions, though she supposed nobody actually enjoyed it. It took her a while to get into a rhythm, chopping almost as fast as she'd learned more than a decade ago. She should have practised at home. Her eyes started to sting. She paused, pressing them together for a moment.

‘Everything okay?' said Tang, passing behind her.

‘Everything's fine.'

Half an hour later she had a tidy mound of chopped onions on her board, and tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Okay, that's enough.'

It was the plummy voice. Andie turned slowly and looked up. Chef was regarding her efforts with unconcealed disdain.

‘How long has it been since you've worked in a commercial kitchen?' he demanded.

She swallowed. ‘Oh, it's been . . . a while.'

Tang appeared beside him. ‘Move her along, get someone to take over here,' he snapped, before walking off.

Thank goodness for that.

‘Okay,' Tang said. ‘Let's get you some practice.'

‘I'd appreciate that,' she said gratefully.

‘Practice' involved more chopping, slicing, tearing lettuce, transferring baked bread to a wire rack, and just about any menial unskilled task Tang could find for her. Chef appeared every so often, frowning at her and ordering Tang to find her something else to do. Andie was getting anxious, he seemed to be judging her without giving her much of a chance. Okay, so her speed wasn't great, but her technique was fine, and she was doing her best. It was only a tryout, after all, her first night. She needed time to get into the swing of things. At least Tang was kind and polite, but she could detect a hint of mild curiosity on his face, as if to say, what the hell are you doing here?

Andie was wondering the same thing. Her legs ached, her arms were sore, she'd forgotten how much plain, hard, monotonous work was involved in a commercial kitchen, especially one this size. The restaurant had a hundred seats, and there were two sittings a night. There were also private dining rooms and two function rooms, both of which had been booked for cocktail parties that night, so a small team was preparing canapés. Tang told her it was particularly busy for a Thursday. Once dinner service had commenced, Andie was stationed in front of vast vats of oil that kept spitting at her, lifting heavy racks whenever the timer went off, and hooking them on the edge to drain. She was hot and tired and dishevelled. She could be at home right now, relaxing with a glass of wine. What was she trying to prove? Maybe she was too old to go back to train as a chef. Jess was right, it wasn't everything it was cracked up to be.

‘Andie,' Tang said from behind her.

Thank God, he was moving her on again. She turned around, pushing a stray strand of hair off her face.

‘Now you'll have to wash your hands.' Dominic Gerou was standing beside Tang, glaring down at her. ‘And fix your hat so it doesn't happen again.'

He charged off, and Tang cocked his head urgently for her to follow after him. She caught up with Chef at the sink, where he stood, barely disguising a scowl, his arms crossed in front of him. She looked up at him expectantly.

‘So fix your hat first,' he said impatiently, ‘then wash your hands.'

Andie started to readjust her hat, tucking her hair right up out of the way. Blasted hair had a will of its own.

‘There's a very precise chain of command here,' Chef barked at her. ‘I am at the top, and you are at the bottom, which means you take orders from everyone, and I mean
everyone
, in between.'