perspiring, the head chef came over and stared at me.
‘Sacre bleu! Tie ze hair up tighter tomorrow. Strands are all over your face.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Eet ees unhygienic…’ He studied my chopping board. ‘Ze slices are too big. Not all ze same size…. You need more speed.’ JC sniffed. ‘But today they will do for ze soup.’ He lifted the board and handed it to another minion who scraped the onion into a frying pan.
Wow – that was an improvement! Up until this point not much I’d done had been up to standard. Apparently I chopped garlic too coarsely and didn’t scrub potatoes hard enough. He’d sworn for five seconds, in French, when I attempted to debone a chicken. Yet his vitriol didn’t bring tears to my eyes, unlike another temporary kitchen hand who left, weeping, after just one day. No, it made me even more determined.
Funny that – I’d always worked hard, over the years, at any job, but now that I’d discovered my passion, I dunno – learning about cookery felt more like a hobby. It made me whistle. Lightened my step. Meant that I didn’t mind overtime or long hours. In recent months I’d felt happier than ever – and not just because my gorgeous boyfriend kissed as if I was a Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler.
And as for cooking in Paris – this made me happier still. Even getting up at the crack of dawn and walking to work felt special. I loved passing by Place du Tertre, the square where the artists assembled. Of course, first thing it was often empty, apart from a few discarded easels, chairs and large golf umbrellas left behind by painters. Old-fashioned black lampposts would light up the cobbled square which felt tranquil without the bustling gazebos and snack tents set up during the day.
In contrast to my peaceful early morning walks to work, hustle-bustle was the name of the game in the kitchen.It was located at the back of the restaurant, near the bar, with its gleaming silver worktops and saucepans everywhere, plus clinical white tiles on the floors and walls. The head chef barked orders. At the frantic, busiest times, I became overwhelmed by the heat and yummy smells. As soon as I got home each day, the first thing I did was soak in a bubblebath.
‘Carrots next,’ said Cindy and I stared enviously at her sauce. She caught my eye and grinned. ‘Perhaps next week JC will give you more challenging tasks.’
‘He’s a bit…’ only one word would do to describe the chef, ‘… bonkers, if you ask me,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘I already know all this basic stuff, but he’s determined to show me his way of doing things. How come you get on so well with him?’
Cindy flashed her white teeth. ‘He sure is temperamental, but when JC’s fired up, that’s when his cooking really rocks. Last week I somehow ordered sweet potatoes instead of the ordinary ones. His cheeks turned purple for a second, before he brain-stormed and began to peel and experiment with spice… The result was a fab-u-lous new addition to the dessert menu: sweet potato pie with ginger and cinnamon.’ Cindy continued to stir the sauce. ‘But he won’t offend me, because he’s dumber than dirt when it comes to computers – so I take care of that side for him. He doesn’t even have a company email address. I order the food online and take care of staff memos… It keeps him sweet.’
Ah, well it definitely wasn’t JC sending out any emails about a MiddleWin Mort.
‘He don’t scare you, though, honey, I’ve noticed,’ said Cindy. ‘Thank gawwd! I’m mighty sick of the high turnover of staff.’
‘It’s probably because I’m addicted to cookery reality shows. Believe me, a whole series of Gordon Ramsay desensitises you to verbal abuse!’
We chuckled and I went over to the stacked plastic vegetable racks to collect carrots, just as Pierre Dubois came in. Lunch would start in two hours. Yesterday Edward and I had worked the evening dinner shift – after that, today had been an early start.
Pierre fired out some French at JC who shrugged and muttered “oui”.
‘Gemma, come with me, please,’ said Pierre, as ever courteous, in English much better than the headchef’s. ‘I have a few words to say to you and Edward.’
Cindy caught my eye and winked as I put the carrots on my worktop. Outside of the kitchen, Edward sat at one of the mahogany tables, in front of a large café-au-lait. Two other coffees were on the primrose mats. With a smile I joined him and underneath the table intertwined my fingers with his. Over the last week we hadn’t seen much of each other during the day. My stomach tingled as I thought about how we’d made up for that, once holed up in our Parisian love nest at night.
Pierre sat down opposite us and his eyes crinkled at the corners. What a gent – always softly spoken, cool and calm, totally polite. Lady C would have definitely given him her stamp of approval.
‘Alors… Just to say you are both progressing well.’ Pierre ran a hand through his jet black hair. ‘Edward, your French comes along well. Such a winning way, you have with the customers. Your occasional struggles with our beautiful language don’t bother them at all.’
I squeezed Edward’s hand and longed to slip my fingers through the small gap in his starched, white shirt, to feel his firm chest and run my hand down his abs whilst he… I shook myself. At this rate I’d need an iced tea, not a steaming coffee! Why did Edward have to look so damn hot in that waiter outfit? No wonder the customers fell for his charismatic manner. During the week, I’d observed him chatting intently with the female customers, oblivious to their giggles and preening in the face of his gorgeousness and heartbreaker smile. Mind you, after being shown to their table by abrupt head waiter, Hugo, anyone would seem like Prince Charming.
‘Edward, all you need to remember,’ continued Pierre, ‘is to … now what is the word in English: up-sell.’
‘You mean to suggest the more expensive wines or tempt them with a dessert?’ said Edward and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.
Pierre put down his cup. ‘Exactement. Already I feel the surge of new tourists, over here for the First World War commemorative events this month. Your English will prove most useful.’
Pierre glanced at me. ‘And Gemma. Well done. Jean-Claude has not tried to sack you yet.’
I grinned.
‘Chère Cindy informs me you are hardworking and a quick learner.’
Aw, Cindy was great, and had already promised to take me and Edward to Disneyland Paris. I couldn’t wait!
The restaurant owner opened a folder next to his seat, took out a sheet and passed it to me. ‘Here are the Chez Dubois email addresses of staff who have access to the company laptop – plus an email address for you and Edward. You have a laptop at your flat, non?’
Edward nodded.
‘Excellent. Alors, any problems, contact people this way. I have given you a password – you can change it if you desire. I find email très efficient. All the time we are so busy, verbal messages often get muddled up or forgotten. So contact Cindy or Hugo if you get home and remember something you forgot to do on your shift – or email me if you are going to be late or for some TRÈS important reason you can’t come to work.’ He smiled.
I nodded and scanned the list. This was just what I needed, to start my investigations. Okay, so MI6 had already hacked the laptop and checked out the staff’s emails, but I fancied a look myself. Plus the Secret Intelligence Service had closed the file now, so wouldn’t be checking on recent messages. Joe had a list of
