charm. Some had even been so bold as to suggest he had the cruelty to match his devilish good looks. But Trudy had only ever thought of him as Donny, one of her flatmates and an occasional study-buddy.
She didn’t believe she would ever think of him in any other way.
‘To our first Michelin star,’ Donny decided.
‘And our second,’ Charlotte added.
The pair of them finally noticed that Trudy was not participating in their extended toast. Her eyes were wide. She had her lips closed to jealously guard the prize on her tongue. Her cheeks bulged and she was aware that the condition made her features unflattering. But she was inwardly cataloguing the flavours, identifying the ones she knew and trying to deduce the identity of a fantastic and mysterious element in the muffin that her senses hadn’t previously encountered.
The constituent eggs were fresh and creamy and so obviously free range she was sure they had come from the handful of black rock chickens she had seen clucking and strutting towards the coops in the grounds around Boui-Boui.
The flour had the heady rasp of organic, hand-milled wheat.
She could tell little about the sugars involved. Their flavours were lost beneath the blend of citrus stings and blueberry zings that sat in the muffin’s heart and sweetened every light-yet-coarse crumb.
But there was something else.
It was something that elevated the flavour to an experience like nothing she had previously encountered. It was something so exciting and unexpected she thought it was like being an artist and discovering a previously unseen colour, or being a musician and hearing a previously unheard chord.
There were echoes of citrus and vanilla and …
‘Trudy?’ Charlotte frowned with obvious concern.
Whenever Charlotte frowned a small V creased the bridge above her retroussé nose. The V wrinkled her otherwise smooth brow and caused her dark eyes to narrow. The concern always accentuated the sharpness of her angular cheekbones. The expression, instead of making her look caring, made her look like a brooding brunette ballbreaker. The expression was the polar opposite of Charlotte’s sweet-natured personality.
‘Is everything OK, hon?’
Trudy shook her head. Everything was not OK. Her world had been turned upside down by this revelation.
She had spent three years studying food. This meal was intended as a celebration between her and her two dearest friends now that they had graduated with their culinary arts degrees. Yet this was the first time Trudy had experienced a taste as profound and intense as the one that now filled her mouth. Reluctantly, almost feeling bereaved because she didn’t want to part with the new flavour she had just discovered and was now savouring, Trudy swallowed. She glanced frantically around the restaurant. When her gaze fell on the maître d’ she beckoned the woman to join them.
‘Trude?’ Donny had a hand on her wrist. He looked worried. ‘Do the cakes taste really shitty? Are you going to complain?’
She stared at him in bewilderment. Donny’s question made no sense. How could he use the word ‘shitty’ to refer to the muffin she had just tasted? It wasn’t shitty. It wasn’t even perfection. It was beyond perfection.
‘Trudy,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘You’re freaking us out here.’ Her voice was a balance of urgency and concern. She remained in control but she was clearly worried about the excess of Trudy’s reaction. ‘What’s wrong, hon? Can’t you tell us?’
The maître d’ appeared at the table. She was tall, imposing and meticulous in her formal black business suit. Her thin features and improbable beauty suggested she might have had cosmetic work done to maintain her youthful appearance. Her smile conveyed professionalism and authority with a mild suggestion of approachability.
‘May I help?’
She spoke with the refined tones and clear articulation of a newsreader. If Trudy hadn’t seen that the woman was the restaurant’s maître d’, she would have guessed her occupation as an elocution teacher.
Trudy patted a knuckle lightly against her lips. After-echoes of the flavour remained in her mouth. The flurry of sensations was so rich and thrilling she had to swallow twice for fear of drooling her response.
‘Miss?’ The maître d’ was beginning to appear concerned. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘May I talk to the pâtissier?’ Trudy asked. ‘That muffin was …’
Her voice trailed off. The muffin was one of the most stupendous flavours she had ever tasted. Expressing the thought with those words, even though they were true, seemed somehow excessive and inappropriate.
‘I’d like to talk with the pâtissier,’ she insisted. ‘But, if I can’t talk with him or her, may I please have the recipe?’
‘The recipe?’ The maître d’ shook her head and laughed. The sound was soft, polite and only lightly underscored with scorn. Her words came out as though she was reciting an oft-repeated mantra. ‘It’s not the policy here at Boui-Boui to share recipes with customers. Whilst the management are obviously thrilled that you enjoyed –’
‘Please,’ Trudy broke in. ‘I’ve just graduated. I’ve been studying food for the past three years. But I’ve never tasted anything as exquisite. I need to learn more about it. If I can’t have the recipe then please let me talk with –’
‘I’m sorry,’ the maître d’ said. Her voice remained polite but it was now edged with a firmness that said the subject was no longer open for further discussion. ‘I’ve told you Boui-Boui’s policy on this matter. Unless there’s anything else?’
Trudy’s mouth worked silently for a moment.
Charlotte placed a hand on hers and spoke to the maître d’. ‘No,’ Charlotte said with measured politeness. ‘There’s nothing else at the moment. Thank you for informing us about the restaurant’s policy.’
Trudy headed to the bathroom to freshen up. She left strict instructions that her muffin wasn’t to be touched and she told Charlotte and Donny that she would return shortly.
‘Do you want me to come with you, hon?’
Trudy shook her head. She was holding back tears of frustration and determined not to let them win. She wasn’t going to be defeated by a maître d’ and a muffin. She had never let herself be beaten by anything. ‘I need three minutes,’ she told Charlotte. ‘Then I’ll be right.’ She held up the three middle fingers of her right hand. Her thumb and little finger were curled together in her palm. It was such a commonly repeated action between herself and Charlotte the gesture had taken on the familiarity of a gang sign.
‘Three minutes.’
Charlotte blinked acknowledgement and returned the gesture. Three minutes.
Carefully,
