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Ginny
I couldn’t stop smiling as we waded behind Stefano through the sea of tables back to the front corner of the restaurant on the one round table. The energy from the room and its diners was bubbling through me. And if this was what après-ski was all about, I would return without the skis.
As soon as we were seated, Stefano took our drink order, which was a cool bottle of bubbly in keeping with the mood.
‘Can we see the menu?’ I asked, licking my lips at the delicious thought of fondue or tartiflette, which been on my mind all day.
‘Ladies,’ Stefano said in his broken Italian. ‘I will do for you, the best menu for the best price.’
We Flowers turned to one another with a shrug and a giggle. ‘OK, when in Switzerland …’ I said scanning my friends for any disapproval. ‘We have two pescatarians though,’ I told him, knowing Cathy and Angie would balk if they saw an ounce of animal flesh on their plates.
‘Is OK, fish?’ asked the enthusiastic grey-haired Stefano.
Angie and Cathy nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Is good.’ He waved and was gone.
Minutes later, an older waiter who introduced himself as Jean-Bernard placed a bucket with the bottle of Champagne sunk into ice.
Stefano was close behind with flutes. ‘Ladies, it is my pleasure to invite you to see kitchen and chef.’
We jumped up, thrilled and honoured to be asked, and waded to the back of the room again following behind Stefano. We passed the little table and the bar, and then through a doorway of streaming chains. On entering, I was amazed at the space. It was filled with stainless steel benches, large sinks, ovens, gas-burning stoves being attended by young men in lengthy white aprons and chef hats; then I spotted a rosy-cheeked, portly-bellied man in the same attire but also wearing a hearty broad grin.
Stefano walked us over to meet Francesco, his Italian chef. Poor man – like Stefano he was beaded in sweat as he shook all our hands. Stefano reported their story. Thirty-seven years ago, he and Francesco came from the same mountain village in northern Italy, fired with passion for food, seeking a good opportunity. With his savings, Stefano bought the hotel with the restaurant and separate bar beneath and together they formed their business and raised families here. Pride shone in their faces as they introduced their staff and the food being prepared and we thanked each of them for the wonderful welcoming tour.
‘What a lovely story,’ Kim said as we got back to our table and edged around the round bench back to our places.
‘They certainly know how to make you feel welcome,’ I said as a waiter poured our bubbly into flutes, and as soon as they all were all filled, I raised my flute. ‘And you, my beautiful Flowers, have certainly put heart and soul into this trip, making me feel so cherished. So, a thank you from the bottom of my heart, and a toast to you all for being such amazing friends. Santé!’ I chinked all their flutes.
‘Santé,’ they echoed, with beaming smiles, before thirstily swallowing it down.
Angie leaned across and kissed my cheek. ‘And, our pleasure from the bottom of our hearts; everyone’s effort has been tremendous.’
A flutter I hadn’t felt for ages flapped in my belly and I was keen to keep up this joyous momentum. ‘And, whilst we’re all together, and not to put a downer on this evening, because I feel it should be more of a celebration …’ I felt all eyes on me, but it was important. ‘I’d like to do a memorial lunch for Mike on Monday.’
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