James puts the paper down and looks up at me, and for the first time I see his full face in the light. He’s definitely a looker, if you like that kind of accidentally handsome, full-lipped, furrowed-brow, forgot-to-shave-for-a-week kind of thing, which I most certainly do. Dark hair, chestnut eyes and cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen. And in those starched chef’s whites too. I try hard not to stare.
Okay. I’m definitely staring.
Still staring.
‘Heather?’
I shake myself out of my daze and back to the job at hand.
‘Do you have any ideas what we could pair them with?’
‘What do you usually pair them with?’ I ask, hoping for a shortcut.
‘The menu changes all the time, with the season, so this is a new dish, I’m afraid. There’s normally something new needs pairing every day. As I said, we often pair the blade steak with the Cabernet, but I think the turnip …’
‘The menu changes all the time?’ I gulp.
James takes a breath. ‘Sorry. I know this is a lot to take in. Before each service we sit and discuss the pairings for the degustation menu. The sommelier and me. Then I run it past Chef.’
‘Chef? I thought you were the chef?’
‘No,’ he says, with a shy smile. ‘Russell Brooks, our new executive chef, will check over everything tonight. It has to be right first time,’ he says, somewhat apologetically.
‘Russell Brooks,’ I smile. ‘Sounds like an electrical appliance.’
My gag hangs in the air for a moment, then withers and dies.
‘He’s got two Michelin stars,’ James says, his eyes wide.
‘Oh yes,’ I say quickly.
Two Michelin stars? That doesn’t make sense. I thought this place was meant to be stuck in the Dark Ages. I glance around the kitchenand realize the whole set-up does look rather too grand. ‘Of course I know who he is. Everyone knows Russell Brook.’
‘Brooks,’ he corrects.
‘Yes,’ I nod quickly. ‘Two Michelin stars.’
‘Do you want a little time to familiarize yourself? I can give you thirty minutes, and then we have to get the draft ready for Chef.’ He offers me the menu.
I study James’s face for a moment. I can’t tell if he is desperately begging for my help or angry that I’m not helping already. One thing is for sure: he is waiting for me to take control, and up until this point I’ve been trying to delay the inevitable. Time to bite the bullet.
‘Where do you keep the wine list? And the wine? I’ll need to see the cellar and maybe do some sampling,’ I say, reaching for the food menu. Christ, it’s complicated! This place is fancy as fuck. What the hell is smoked sea bacon? ‘What did you say I need to match again?’
‘The guinea fowl, the crab, the beetroot and fermented barley and the blade steak,’ replies James, the raised vein on the side of his neck dissipating somewhat. ‘The new wine list is here,’ he says, dumping a large black leather folder into my arms. ‘And the cellar is out back, the way you came in, and down the stone stairs by the deep freeze. I can show you?’
‘No need. I’ll be half an hour,’ I say, nodding in determination, deciding the quiet of the wine cellar will be the safest place to panic.New wine list?
‘One sec. Anis?’ he calls to the baby-lobster boiler, who frowns at the disruption. She is carefully pouring deep-green oil into a blender with all the steady seriousness of an open-heart surgeon. ‘Once you’ve finished the dill emulsion, make a tasting plate for Heather,’ James commands.
‘Yes, Chef,’ she scowls and heads to the refrigerator.
And with that, James nods and almost smiles, before going back through to the kitchen. I breathe out for a moment, before remembering the clock is ticking and I have very little time to spare.
I walk quickly back through the preparation area and make my way down the gloriously romantic stone stairs to the cellar. I fish around for a light switch just as another bloody sensor-light flicks on,but this time it’s a warm, dull yellow glow. My eyes adjust and, for a moment, I marvel at the space before me.
The cellar stretches out into the darkness, but it isn’t only wine down here. Large rounds of cheese are stacked on modern steel shelving, and huge legs of cured hams and bacons hang from stainless-steel hooks in the ceiling. And beyond that, more cheese. God, I love cheese.
But there’s no time to dither. I pull out my phone and lay the enormous wine list and the menu out on the shelf in front of me. Shit! This was certainly not the wine list I’d printed out from the website. The one I had stuffed in my bag back at the cottage had a dozen or so reds and whites, in varying degrees of cheap and less cheap.
