There were three of us who worked in the heat of the kitchen, Carl, Gary and me, while Julie dealt with the cold dishes, including the salads and desserts. It was not a big operation compared to the large London restaurants, but, at the height of the service, it was an energetic kitchen, with everyone working hard. The plan was that the bookings were taken to stagger our busy dinner period over at least a couple of hours, but our customers were notorious for not being on time for their reservations so sometimes we were madly rushed to get everything out on time.
Food is fickle stuff. The difference between vegetables that are just right and vegetables that are overcooked can be a matter of a minute or two. For a steak, or a tuna fillet, it can be much less time than that. Our clients, understandably, want their food delivered to the table when it is perfect. They also want all the servings for the table delivered at once-who wouldn’t? They expect their food to be attractive, to be hot and to have an appetizing aroma. And, in particular, they want the food delivered in the same sequence as the orders were taken. Nothing, I had learned, upsets the customers more than to see a party that ordered after they did being served ahead of them.
To the casual observer, the kitchen might appear as a chaotic scramble, but, in reality, it was only as chaotic as a juggler’s hands keeping four balls in the air at once. Appearances, in either case, are deceptive.
Needless to say, we didn’t always get everything right, but, overall, the number of compliments far exceeded the few complaints, and that was good enough for me. Occasionally, someone would say that they weren’t coming back, but, usually, it would be someone I didn’t want back anyway. I would just smile and politely show them the way to the parking lot. Thankfully, those were few and far between. Most of my customers were friends, and it was just like having them to my house for dinner except, of course, they paid.
My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a delivery from my butcher. I used a man from Bury St. Edmonds who slaughtered all his own meat. He had told me that he knew all his farm suppliers personally, and he claimed that he could vouch for the well-being and comfortable life of every one of the animals. That is, of course, until he killed and butchered them. I had no reason to doubt his claims, since his meat and poultry were excellent. A fine restaurant obviously needs a good chef, but even the best chefs need good ingredients to work with and so the choice of supplier is paramount.
The driver had almost finished stacking the delivery in the cold-room by the time the rest of my staff arrived at ten o’clock. Gary was all excited that the padlocks had been removed and went around the kitchen like a little boy allowed to roam freely in a toy store. He was having one of his good days, I thought. He had the energy and the enthusiasm to be a good chef, even a great one, but I felt that he had to learn to be slightly less adventurous in his combinations of flavors. He was, like me, a great believer in using fruit with meat. Everyone was familiar with pork with apple, turkey with cranberries, duck with orange, gammon with pineapple and even venison with quince. The flavors complement one another, the fruit bringing out the best in the meat, and satisfying the palate. Gary was apt to choose exotic, strong-tasting fruits and, to my mind, serve them inappropriately with meats of a delicate flavor, such as veal or chicken. It was a matter that we had discussed at length and with passion.
Ever since he had arrived a couple of years previously, I had attempted to have at least one dish on our menu of his design, and, at the moment, it was an herb-crusted red snapper, topped with a roasted caramelized pear, over a lightly garlic mashed-potato base, with a pear reduction. It was a tasty and popular dish, and it usually kept Gary busy throughout the service.
However, the bookings for lunch on that particular Tuesday were not spectacular, and, during the morning, several calls to cancel left us looking very bare. More calls canceling dinner reservations made the day look bleak indeed.
I called a short meeting of the staff in the dining room at noon.
“It seems that a combination of the bombing on Saturday and the problems we had on Friday evening may result in a bit of a lean time this week,” I said. “But I am sure that things will pick up soon. We will continue as normal and do our best for those that do come. OK?” I tried to sound upbeat.
“How about Louisa’s job?” said Jean. “And when is Robert coming back? Ray and I can’t do the whole dining room on our own.”
“Let’s wait and see how many covers we will be doing,” I said. “Richard can help out in the dining room, as he usually does anyway when we’re busy.” I looked at him and he nodded in agreement. “I will call Robert and find out when he will be coming back. Anything else?”
“I spoke to the Whitworths,” said Richard. “They said to thank you for the offer, but they wanted to have the wake at home. And Beryl, that’s Louisa’s mum, said that she will do the food, if that’s all right.”
“Of course,” I said, and wondered if the Whitworths blamed Louisa’s death on her job. I decided that I had better go visit them. It would be the proper thing to do anyway.
“Do you know yet when her funeral will be?” I asked.
“Friday, at two-thirty, at the crematorium in Cambridge.”
Damn, I thought, I’d have to rearrange my lunch with Mark.
“OK,” I said. “We will be closed all day on Friday. You can all have the day off to go to the funeral, if you wish. I will be there.” I paused. “Is there anything else?” No one said anything. “OK, let’s get to work.”
In the end, we did just four lunches, two separate couples who stopped while passing. None of the six still booked actually turned up, and there were three more calls during lunch to cancel for the evening. That left us just twenty-four from what had been a full dining room, and I seriously doubted whether even those twenty-four would show.
I spent some time during the afternoon calling the clients who had made reservations on Friday to tell them that we would be closed and why. Most said they probably wouldn’t have come anyway, but only two said rather tactlessly that it was because they had heard that you could get poisoned at the Hay Net. At one point, I had dialed a number and it was ringing before I realized that it was the Jennings number I was calling. I was about to put the phone down when Neil answered.
“Hello,” he said slowly. “Neil Jennings here.”
“Hello, Neil,” I said. “It’s Max Moreton from the Hay Net.”
“Ah yes,” he said, “Hello, Max.”
“Neil,” I said slightly awkwardly, “I’m so very sorry about Elizabeth. Such a dreadful thing.”
“Yes,” he said.
There was an uncomfortable pause. I didn’t know quite what to say.
“I saw her at the races on Saturday,” I said, “at lunchtime.”
“Really,” he replied, seemingly rather absentmindedly.
“Yes,” I went on. “I cooked the lunch she attended.”
“Didn’t poison her, did you?” I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or not.
“No, Neil,” I said, “I didn’t.”
“No,” he said, “I suppose not.”
“Do you have a date for the funeral?” I asked. “I would like to come and pay my respects.”
“Friday,” he said, “at eleven, at Our Lady and St. Etheldreda.”
I hadn’t realized that they were Roman Catholics, but, then, why would I.
“I’ll try and be there,” I said.
“Fine,” he said. There was another difficult little pause, and I was about to say good-bye when he said, “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”