‘Holy shit! That’s why he’s never here.’
He laughs. ‘Russell’s okay. He’s okay, really.’
‘But you arebasicallythe head chef, though.’
‘Well,’ with that he looks a bit sheepish, ‘I mean, I guess so.’
‘Do you want to run your own place?’
‘Sure, but I don’t really want to leave Mum. Not right now, at least.’
‘Why?’
‘I just couldn’t,’ he says as he reaches into the basket and pulls out a container filled with fresh strawberries. ‘Want one?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, reaching for a plump, shiny berry. ‘But everyone leaves home. It’s normal, no matter what. Plus, dude, you’re thirty. You don’t have to move to China – maybe Edinburgh or something?Youcould go to France. Or Spain? Isn’t the fanciest restaurant in the world in Spain?’
He laughs again and we sit in silence for a little longer, but I want to know more about him.
‘Why did you start cooking, anyway?’
James looks up to the sky and moves his head to one side. ‘Well, it’s exciting. Tossing pots and pans in a busy kitchen is the closest I’ll get to rock-’n’-roll dreams,’ he laughs. ‘I love the intensity of service. The creativity of working with food. But when it comes down to it, it’s thatonedish. Everything that’s on that plate, from the sea salt to the squid ink, has taken time to get to that point. Someone’s alarm went off at four a.m. to go out on the boats. The weather was just right. Someone else had to know the perfect soil, the right amount of water and sunlight, and how to prevent too much of both. And then, at the perfect moment, it comes down to me. And I take that bunch of kale, or mature scallop, and I have to show it that respect too.’
He folds his arms around his knees, and I’m hanging on his every word.
‘And I get to transform it. Take its perfect natural state and warm it, or pickle it or dry it, you know? And sometimes I barely touch it. I kiss it with the pan, season it. Whatever. And then I plate it. And even though they’re perfect strangers, cooking that meal for them is one of the most intimate things you can do. It’s feeding someone. And knowing all the things that made them sit in that restaurant, that night, to eat local wilted buttery salsify, with that pan-fried scallop from Benji’s sustainable farm, to celebrate life in some way. An engagement. An anniversary. An affair,’ he adds, grinning. ‘All of it is this long chain of creativity and passion. Of care. Of love, really.’
He shuffles a little in his place, and I want to disappear under this rock because I know what’s coming.
‘What about you? It must be the same for wine, right?’
‘Wine …’ I say, looking at the river again, as another salmon rises out of the pool and twists its body, leaping into the pool above. I’m not sure I really like fishing. ‘What do they say? Find that thing you love and do it for a living. And I love drinking,’ is all I think to say, and it comes out insincere, and I wish there was a way to answer him honestly.
‘Come on. Wine is so … complex, and the details are tiny. I figure you have to be a bit nerdy to be into it.’
‘I really liked that movieSideways,’ I say as the sun bursts from behind a tree and onto James’s face. He looks so casual and handsome. Not model-handsome. Regular-person-handsome. Comfortable, thoughtful, handsome.
‘You’ve been squirrelled away in your room between shifts prepping for the opening. We’ve all noticed how hard you work! That showssomededication and passion.’
Avoidance of catastrophe is a great motivator.
‘Well, I want to do a good job,’ I say truthfully, then quickly switch the conversation back to him. ‘But cooking – really, I wish I could cook. Every time I do, I get stressed and fuck it up. Even toast. I hate how you’re controlled by it. It’s likeShit, this is burningandFuck, this is splitting. It won’t succumb to my timetable. If I need a wee, or I get distracted by a text message or whatever, everything gets ruined. Basically, no matter what I do, it all turns to custard.’
‘Well, actually,’ he says, smiling, ‘that’s an achievement in itself.’
‘Ha!’ I say.
‘The perfect custard is difficult,’ he says, leaning forward in earnest. ‘You can’t rush it. It’s ready when it’s ready.’
‘Well, that’s probably the motto I need for my life. I’m seriously not yet ready for anything. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be. Did you know that some studies suggest female great white sharks take thirty-three years to hit maturity? That’s nearly half their life.’
Another salmon jumps, and I feel mocked by its singular determination to do this one thing. Its mere biological urge. I wonder if James’s cooking is a biological urge, or if Heather’s passion for wine is in her DNA. I wonder if I just need to findthe thing?
‘I could teach you some basics,’ he says, ‘if you want to learn how to cook?’
‘Oh, no,’ I say, waving it away and laughing at the ridiculousness of the suggestion.
‘I’d enjoy it,’ he says.
