One
Amid the vibrant bustle of London’s Portobello Road Market, an unassuming restaurant lay ensconced between antique dealers and vintage clothing stalls. In perfect harmony with the market’s spirit – equal parts tradition, innovation and authenticity – it beckoned with understated charm, a quiet presence amid the ever-shifting crowds.
The Fork & Cork, its name painted in crisp white letters on a modest green awning, was a place where the market’s energy spilled over into every plate and every conversation. It had quickly become the neighbourhood’s worst-kept secret. Seating just thirty, the intimate space had drawn a steady stream of devotees over the past eighteen months, lured by TikTok clips showcasing the fluid grace of the open-plan kitchen and reviews exalting the aromas that swirled through the air: rosemary’s earthiness mingled with bright zesty lemon and the rich warmth of melting butter.
On this August evening, passers-by could glimpse the choreographed dance of the four junior chefs through the windows, hands flying between chopping boards and pans, knives scattering light into the steam that spiralled up from copper pots. In the centre of it all, conducting this symphony of flavours, stood London’s latest culinary sensation: the head chef, Ruben Nkosi. His broad-shouldered frame pivoted between stations, each movement precise and purposeful as he tasted sauces, adjusted seasoning and issued commands with quietauthority. The stark white of his chef’s jacket emphasized his athletic build, while the kitchen’s warm lighting caught the waves in his dark, closely cropped hair. When he turned to inspect a dish, his high cheekbones caught the light, and his square jaw tensed in concentration before relaxing into an easy, confident smile that seemed to energize his team.
At one end of the gleaming kitchen counter was the Chef’s Table. Here, four privileged diners were perched on leather topped barstools, leaning forward as if tethered by an unseen string, following each flick of Ruben’s wrist, each subtle nod of approval. The occasional sizzle or burst of flame drew soft gasps, and when an aromatic haze billowed up from a pan, they inhaled deeply, running their tongues across their lips in anticipation of the feast to come.
Behind them in the restaurant, a short, curvaceous woman named Fiona weaved between the cramped tables, pouring wine, uncorking bottles, recommending pairings for the food. She was the kind of woman who radiated an infectious energy that could light up a room. Her dark blonde hair, cut to frame her round, freckled face, accentuated her usually bright blue eyes. Today, though, those eyes were clouded. When the restaurant had opened its doors at 6.30 p.m., Fiona had painted a bright smile on her face. Now, nearly two hours later, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the cheerful façade.
As she explained the differences between Champagne and Crémant to a couple celebrating their wedding anniversary, the ghastliness of the last three days kept intruding on her thoughts. No, not the last three days. The first two had been invigorating. Even most of the third had been stimulating. But the sixty seconds between 4.30 p.m. and 4.31 p.m. yesterday had lodged in her mind like a splinter buried too deep to remove. Tonight, her head throbbed painfully with the memory of something she could neither forget nor face.
Fiona’s eyes flicked towards the Chef’s Table, where Ruben was laughing and posing for selfies. Further along the polished stainless steel bar, two middle-aged women, wide-eyed with excitement, were eagerly trying to catch his eye.
‘Chef! We’ve seen your videos!’ called out one, waving her phone in the air.
He turned, grinning and walked over with the poise of someone well used to being the centre of attention.
The women swooned as the celebrity chef started talking them through the evening’s specials, his deep voice describing the lemon sole with thyme and brown butter sauce with enthusiasm. Fiona felt her mouth water and her irritation at his showboating melt away.
She helped one of her team clear and re-lay a table, then, spotting empty glasses, fetched the correct wine from the central chilling bucket, wiped off the moisture with a cloth and poured it out precisely, up to the widest part of the glass.When she replaced the bottle in its bucket, the satisfying clink of glass against ice felt oddly final, like locking away a secret in an impregnable vault. But no matter how deeply she tried to bury the memory, those sixty seconds kept floating back up.
Fiona shook her head to clear her mind, pulled out her notepad and manoeuvred through the cramped space towards the Chef’s Table, her movements graceful, but her shoulders tense. The stainless steel counter – Ruben’s culinary stage – gleamed beneath the spotlights.
‘Ah, Fiona,’ Ruben said as she arrived. ‘Perfect timing.’ He gestured at the two women, both still wearing the eager expression of the dedicated fan. ‘We need some advice on the ideal wine to match with tonight’s scallop dish. What about a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc?’
A flicker crossed Fiona’s face. Her eyes narrowed briefly. Tonight, she wanted to forget all about New World wines.‘Ruben knows what goes with each of his creations,’ she said, then chewed at her lip, sensing the resignation in her voice. Telling herself to be professional, she managed a weak smile, and added, ‘Sauvignon Blanc is an excellent choice – bright, crisp, with a mineral finish that will really lift the seafood.’
She looked at Ruben, hoping to catch a glimpse of recognition for her skills, but he was already diverted – another customer was calling his name. Fiona wondered if he’d caught the flash of frustration in her expression before she refocused on the guests in front of her, advising them of the price of their wine choice.
‘Service!’ cried a junior chef. Plates clattered onto the serving counter and Fiona swivelled to collect them. The hiss of a hot pan rang out, as Ruben seared a fillet of fish, the herby aroma filling the room. The diners at the counter hunched forward, captivated by Ruben’s hands, hanging on his every word as he explained the dish.
‘You’re amazing, Chef! Can we take a photo?’ a young woman asked eagerly, phone already in hand.
Ruben flashed his trademark smile and obliged, leaning in for the snap. Fiona turned her back on the flurry of activity. She approached a table of regulars who had been coming here for months, knowing the service they would receive from Fiona and her team would always be personal, attentive and full of expertise.
‘Your usual bottle of white Burgundy?’ she asked with a knowing smile. On the cusp of engaging them in conversation, another burst of laughter erupted from Ruben’s station, drowning out her words. Fiona glanced over to see the chef with a group of men, signing autographs on napkins as if he were a rock star. The chef was basking in the attention, his focus seemingly more on the camera flashes than on their shared passion for creating something special together. Fiona bit back her irritation, knowing it was unfair of her to blame Ruben forenjoying his newfound celebrity. He was a wonderful chef and a brilliant promoter of their restaurant. It was churlish of her to begrudge him his moment in the sun, when he had worked so hard for it.
As the night wore on, the energy in the restaurant swelled. Plates arrived at tables with bursts of colour – grilled sea bass with bright green herbs freshly picked that morning; warm, crusty bread with golden extra-virgin olive oil; and vibrant salads topped with orange and purple edible flowers. The smells of roasted vegetables, caramelized onions and grilling meat intermingled, making the space almost alive with flavour. Ruben, still centre stage, seemed animated by the buzzing atmosphere, chatting with customers between cooking, throwing in witty remarks that drew chuckles and applause.
At the Chef’s Table, Fiona poured another glass of wine for a couple. ‘You’re so lucky to work with him,’ commented the man.
Fiona’s smile was polite, her tone light, but there was a knowing look in her eyes. ‘Yes, he’s very talented. But it’s not all glitz and glamour. There’s a lot more to running a restaurant than what you see on social media.’
As the door shut behind the last diners, Ruben took off his apron, mopped his brow and approached Fiona, his usually loose-limbed gait a little stiff, likely still fizzing from the evening’s adrenaline. ‘Busy night. The team did well,’ he said with a grin.
Fiona gave him a small smile and kept her voice soft. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to say something. ‘Yes, they did do well. But what about you? You’re not just cooking anymore, Ru. You’re performing. I wonder how long you can keep that up.’
‘Hey, come here.’ He pulled her into his arms. Being a foot shorter enabled her head to rest on his chest and she breathed inthe comforting smell of him. Her nose, fine-tuned to detect the subtle aromas of different wines, picked up top notes of lemon, rosemary, thyme and mint over the smoky base notes of cooked oil and fried fish. She inhaled deeply and felt a small lump form in her throat. ‘Sorry, Ru. I shouldn’t deny your success just because I’m a failure.’
‘Forget it, Fi,’ he whispered.
‘I can’t,’ she muttered, her voice thick with emotion.
He spoke firmly. ‘Youmust. You can’t be like this tomorrow morning. Come on. Let’s go home and leave the team to do the final clear-up for once. Their future depends on us. We need to prepare for some very important Morning Prayers.’
Morning Prayers. The name they used for business meetings, mostly with the team, occasionally with suppliers, all invariably scheduled for early mornings to dovetail with their restaurant commitments. Fiona suspected Ru’s preparation plans wouldn’t address their glaring blind spot. ‘Ru, face it! Things have changed. They won’t back us now.’
