‘Idid,’ I reply, wanting to tell him I loved it because of him.
‘Do you remember I said to you that I once worked on Skye?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I went there because one of Loch Dorn’s old head chefs moved there and opened a little fresh seafood restaurant. I was going a bit crazy with Mum – you know what it’s like at eighteen – and anyway he asked me to come, and I went.’
‘You left your mum!’ I gasp, grinning at this admission.
‘Well, yes. But not for long. I was going to say that it was that summer that I fell in love with cooking properly. I met people from all over Skye on the supply lines and … I was hooked. If you’ll excuse the fishing metaphor.’
‘Oh, is this a pep talk?’ I say, raising my brows in defiance.
‘No, no.’ He covers his mouth with his hand but he’s still smiling with those eyes. ‘I’m just saying that was the summer I found my true passion.’
‘Maybe there’s hope for me yet.’
18.
It’s Friday lunch and four days until the relaunch, and I’m starting to feel good. I’ve done a load of shifts in the reduced-menu bar area and I’m no longer secretly shadowing Roxy. I’m well over halfway through the list, and so far I’ve only really been tested a few times, but nothing I couldn’t get through without an off-the-cuff suggestion or a ‘give me one moment and I’ll come back with a recommendation’.
The older folks who seem to make up the bulk of the clientele are what I categorize as unadventurous as fuck. I’ve met Amandeep Singh, a gentle retiree from Aberdeen, and his wife Yasmine, a whippet who likes to smoke cigarillos and dine on clear broth and a wedge of a lemon. And the inevitable ‘Scottish’ Americans in their cotton and khaki, with booming voices and generous tips.
Only six covers tonight. Easy, right?
Then in walks the elderly Mr John and the not-so-elderly Izzy Cardiff, visiting from their weekend home fifteen minutes’ drive away. She has all the bombastic confidence of a woman schooled at Fettes College, with winter holidays in Lech – swathed in cashmere and drowning in entitlement. He, on the other hand, looks like a retired chemistry teacher, in his moss-green heavy-knit wool sweater and mustard slacks. Old Scottish money.
Izzy Cardiff is soon putting me through my paces.
‘Darling, please can you exchange this Sancerre for something a little less aggressive?’
‘Aggressive?’ I say, pulling the bottle from the ice-bucket. ‘Not again. I’m constantly having to reprimand the Sancerre. Would you like me to exchange it for something more amiable?’ Oops, quick swerve needed. ‘Perhaps something from New Zealand? Everyone loves New Zealand.’
‘To be frank, darling, I’d prefer a gin. At least then I will be able to drive. Yes, bring me a gin.’
‘Does everyone round here drink and drive?’ I ask Bill as I arrive at the bar with the aggressive Sancerre. ‘Like, are there separate government-recommended guidelines for what makes you too drunk to drive a Bentley?’
Bill has been on the straight and narrow since last week, as far as I can tell, although I know better than to hope it was the last time. I wonder once again why Irene would let him work the bar.
‘Oh yes. And don’t forget the farmers,’ says Bill. ‘So no walking along the hedgerows at dawn or dusk. Here, try.’
He pours the last of the Sancerre into a glass and I taste the tiniest amount. It has what I can only describe as bracing acidity. My notes say gooseberry but, frankly, it tastes like that wine you left in the fridge for a week.
‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’ says Roxy sliding up next to us, handing Bill an empty bottle of sparkling water, nodding that she needs another. ‘We’re nearly out of the sherry.’
‘Oh, but the duck!’
‘I know, we’ll just have to pair something different while we wait for a new delivery.’
She looks at me, waiting, and I swiftly reply, ‘Well, get on it. What do you recommend?’
Roxy beams. ‘I’ll come back to you before evening service tomorrow.’
One of the younger waiters wanders past with a large black tray to deliver the main course for table four. My tongue rolls out of my mouth at the smell. Venison, three ways, with porcini and barley. I must remember to ask Anis what the foamy white stuff is on top of the loin. My stomach rumbles.
I so want to learn to cook this stuff. Even just one or two of the dishes, to roll out for a hot date or to impress Heather.
‘Do you mind if I go into the kitchen and watch for a bit?’ I say, longing to find out how they get that blackened crust to cling to the outside of that lean burgundy flesh. ‘Tables four and five are done.Oh, balls, a gin and a splash of tonic for Mrs Cardiff. She had an altercation with the Sancerre.’
