‘Once the school is no longer there,’ Kamran amended calmly, ‘you could come and work here.’
‘I don’tthinkso.’ Robyn offered up an on/off smile while she fiddled expertly with the machine. ‘OK? Coffee? D’you have some to go in this thing?’
‘Yes, I believe so – hang on. Where’s Fabian?’ Kamran asked once he’d unpacked a couple of boxes from the myriad piles behind us and produced three of the plain white coffee cups that he, Fabian and I had decided upon for the restaurant. ‘Americano, I’m afraid. No milk.’
‘What sort of restaurant is this?’ Robyn sniffed. ‘Fabian? Another meeting with suppliers,’ she said. ‘God, I’m starving. No custard creams?’
‘Wash your mouth out.’ Kamran smiled before opening a drawer and fishing out a packet of Hobnobs. ‘What suppliers?’ He looked directly at Robyn.
‘No idea,’ she said through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Right, just let me go and inspect upstairs; see where all your punters are going to be seated and then I’m off to put my Pink Ladies through their paces.’ Robyn set off, climbing the stairs that led to the main area of the restaurant, the eating area, where, once they’d oohed and aahed over watching us chefs at work on view in the open kitchen, the diners would be escorted to their seat to order, drink and eventually eat. That was the plan anyway. Part of me had balked at the idea of the open kitchen. Wasn’t it all a bit passé; a bit yesterday? Wasn’t it best to keep the cooking with its swearing, shouting chefs, its mess and mistakes away from those who were going to eat it? I was overruled by both Fabian and Kamran, as well as the whole thing being approved latterly by Sally Maynard and Richard Abrahams from the kitchen startup professionals.
‘Fabulous!’ Robyn enthused as she came back down the oak and glass stairway. ‘Absolutely fabulous! Reminds me a bit of being on board a luxury ocean-going liner up there. You know, with all the windows?’ She helped herself to another biscuit before heading for the door. ‘No Fabian yet? Look, got to go. All fab. Might take you up on that waitressing job after all, Kamran…’ And with that, she was off.
‘Doyouknow who Fabian has this meeting with, Jess?’ Kamran asked as I started unpacking boxes, revelling in the new pans and cookware, filling shelves, cupboards and drawers with the top-quality utensils. I’d be taking the best possible care of all this stuff, making sure those who worked in my kitchen would do the same. Or I’d be after them! I smiled at my thoughts.
‘You’re smiling, Jess.’ Kamran climbed down from the stepladder he’d used to access and clean the very top shelves. ‘You know, we will have a posse of cleaners in before opening.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but I just like to see where things are going. And I’m smiling because, well, I’m happy. I feel I can do this.’
‘Of course you can! Starting you off as pudding chef, Jessica, you’ll be in your element.’ He paused. ‘So,doyou know where Fabian is?’
‘Haven’t got a clue. He’ll be out sourcing the best salmon or watercress or something.’
‘I did tell you both Sandro was coming in this afternoon?’
‘Sandra? Sandra who?’ I placed a whisk in a drawer, all attention now on Kamran.
He laughed. ‘Sandro!Alessandro, the head chef I’m really, really wanting to take on. Pinching him from Orlando’s in Harrogate if the package is right for him. And you two agree of course. It’s imperative the pair of you get on with him. Absolutely no point if you’re going to be at loggerheads over the soufflés.’
‘Oh, gosh, no. Absolutely. So, Alessandro? Italian then? Well, at least he should know how to cook spaghetti al dente.’
‘He’ll be here in an hour or so… Need Fabian to be here…’ Kamran checked his phone. ‘Going to have to ring him…’ He broke off and we both looked up as we heard the throaty roar of a motorbike announce its arrival, before pulling up with a couple of over-the-top shouty throttles outside the entrance.
‘Ah.’
‘Ah what?’
‘That’ll be him.’
‘Golly!’
‘Early!’
Both Kamran and I appeared ridiculously nervous. Weren’t we interviewing and takinghimon? Not the other way round?
‘Is there any special way we should be addressing a top chef?’ Kamran asked as he stood and moved towards the main entrance.
‘Top chef?’ I chortled. Nerves and doubt were kicking in once more after several days of my – in common parlance – growing a pair. What if this talented professional laughed at my rhubarb with pistachio praline, holding it up to scorn and derision as a slug-infested Yorkshire weed that no one beyond Wakefield would be interested in eating, while paying a fortune for the privilege of doing so? What was Italian for rhubarb for God’s sake? Rhubarbo? I stifled a giggle:rababaro, that was it.Don’t know why I know that, I thought almost feverishly as, painting a huge rictus of a smile on my face, I stood with outstretched hand.
The leather-clad man, helmet held under his arm, was huge, dwarfing Kamran, who was ushering him to where I stood at the prepping area. Weren’t all Italians meant to be small?Piccolo?Diminuendo? Or was that a musical term? And was it Mexicans who were small, not Italians? Possibly – Sylvester Stallone was no shortarse, was he?
‘Hi, Alessandro,’ I breathed throatily, extending the vowels in what I considered to be my best Italian accent while similarly extending my hand further in the man’s direction.
Kamran gave me a funny look before introducing me. ‘Sandro, this is Jessica, one of the partners in this new venture, here at The White House.’
Partner! Well, that was all right, if not strictly true.
‘’Ey up, love. How do? How’s ta diddling?’ A big warm meaty paw met my own as I looked up into a pair of friendly, inquisitive eyes.
