Ten
On Saturday evening, a new woman joined the serving team.
Kim. She was the daughter of Rose’s accountant.
Kim’s parents had invested in several local restaurants, and she was keen to learn all about fine dining.
Kim was in her mid-twenties and physically reminded Fiona a little of herself, being short, with a round, pretty, smiley face.
But unlike Fiona’s curves, the new waitress was petite and evidently not short of money.
Kim wore the sort of designer clothes Fiona was used to seeing customers wear, not the waiting staff.
When Rose introduced the new team member to Josh, Ru and George, Fiona felt the pulse of testosterone shoot round the kitchen.
That evening, the packed dining room buzzed with anticipation, as if everyone expected a rock star to entertain them.
Against a backdrop of clinking glassware and the gentle scrape of cutlery on plates, Fiona soon forgot about who was cooking the food.
Murmurs and gasps of appreciation rewarded each meal she delivered.
She pasted on her professional smile, serving meticulously arranged plates, with the aromas of truffle oil and the familiar unctuous sauces Ruben was famous for, casting her back to life at the London restaurant.
‘Not a problem, sir.’ Fiona said, smiling, ‘I’ll tell Chef now.’
‘And could you find out what’s happened to our wine?’
Fiona’s smiled slipped. This was Kim’s table.
She told herself not to be critical. A busy restaurant was a tough place for a new waitress on her first night, and if the couple was waiting for a cellared wine, Kim wouldn’t be able to fetch it.
‘Let me investigate that for you now, sir.’ Hoping to ease his tension, she verified the order, fetched the wine, then scanned the room.
After a few moments, she concluded Kim must be in the kitchen.
Fiona pushed at the swing door, heard the hum of ovens, and inhaled the delicious smell of baking bread. At the service counter, Kim was fiddling with her hair, a moonstruck expression on her face. Fiona took a closer look; Kim was staring at the sous chef.
‘Service!’ Ru called out, sending a shiver of regret through Fiona. She dipped her head to avoid meeting his eyes, and said, ‘Table 3 now wants their steak blue.’
Someone grunted. She looked up. Ru was pointing at the service bar: ‘that’s Table 3.’
‘Is it blue?’
‘No, it’s rare, like the order slip says.’
Fiona swallowed, fixing her gaze on the plate. ‘The wife wants blue.’
‘The order slip says rare .’
Fiona lifted her eyes, meeting Ru’s dark ones, which seemed to radiate misery. ‘She changed her mind.’
‘I’m good,’ said Ru. ‘I’m intuitive, but I am not telepathic.’
Fiona glared at Kim, who was smirking as she chirped. ‘I didn’t take the changed order, so don’t expect me to take this to their table. They’re friends of my parents. He will not react well to this mishap.’
Wiping his hands on his apron, George joined the crowd at the service bar. ‘What’s going on over here?’
Wanting to point out that if Kim knew the customers, it would be better for her to handle the incident, Fiona gritted her teeth.
‘Let me try,’ she said. Collecting the plates, she turned and, hearing a giggle, peeked out from the corner of her eye.
Kim was leaning on the service counter, batting her eyes at Ru. Fiona stalked out.
Before she reached Table 3, the man called out, ‘am I too late to change the wine order?’
What was it about this couple flip-flopping around with their order? Then she had a sudden thought – this was just the sort of sneaky tactics some restaurant critics used. ‘No, sir,’ she said, forcing herself to look at his florid face.
‘Can you recommend something a little cheaper?’
She put the steak down in front of Mr Florid’s wife, apologizing that she’d been too late to change it to blue.
‘Well, you can take that back then, straight away,’ the man snapped.
‘Richard,’ scolded his wife, ‘it’s my meal. I don’t mind if it’s rare. You know I only ask for it blue because I expect it to be overcooked.’ The wife looked up at Fiona, ‘If this is properly rare, it’ll be just as I want it.’
Fiona spoke confidently; Ru would never over cook meat. ‘Chef knows how to cook a rare steak, and the good news is that I have the perfect wine for you to try. If you want a great value Bordeaux blend, I recommend the Kanonkop Paul Sauer, from South Africa.’
The customer’s face went from florid to red. ‘I don’t expect a sommelier to try flogging me a wine I can buy in the supermarket for a tenner.’
Realizing the customer had mistaken her recommendation for Kanonkop’s signature wine for their entry-level Bordeaux blend, she lowered her voice, careful not to aggravate him further.
‘The Paul Sauer is their flagship wine, sir, made from selected, mature vines that are over twenty-five years old. The older vines produce smaller fruit, which contribute to greater concentration, complexity and depth in the wine. It will only cost you ￡50, not the ￡125 your initial choice would have cost.’
As the man digested the news, internally Fiona ran through her reasons for pairing her selection with a rare steak.
‘Sounds ideal doesn’t it, darling?’ said the wife. Fiona warmed to her. This woman endured her husband daily; Fiona could manage an evening.
After the last guest had left, Fiona cleared their coffee cups congratulating herself on defusing ‘Steakgate’.
At a corner table, George and Rose were deep in discussion, a pile of credit card slips in front of them.
Fiona took her loaded tray into the kitchen, where Ru was chopping fish bones, the knife flying up and down as fast as lightning striking the ground.
Ru wiped his hands on a tea towel, a half-smile forming as Kim stood beside him untying her apron.
‘Quick opinion – trying out a new halibut dish. You think it’d sing more with white wine, a splash of brandy, or maybe something citrusy? ’
Kim froze mid-step, caught like a dropped plate. ‘Oh! Uh ... I’d say ... brandy? Or citrus? Both?’ Her voice wobbled into a laugh. ‘Hard to say, really. I’m not great at ... those kinds of details.’
Ru tilted his head, amused. ‘Alright. I’ll ask Fiona.’
Kim’s smile faltered. She turned too fast, and as her eyes caught Fiona’s her jaw twitched. As Fiona passed Ru, carrying her tray to the washing area, he spoke, ‘I need to marinade some meat. What wine do you suggest?’
It was a simple request; one he’d often made in London. Why have a trained sommelier and not seek advice? But she suspected he had been waiting all evening to corner her. She dumped the tray next to the sinks.
‘Is that the last of it?’ asked Josh, ‘If not, I’m taking a vape break.’
‘Last load,’ she said confidently. ‘What’s this wine for, Ruben?’
Putting the knife down, he turned and gave her a challenging look. The familiar intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down her spine, a painful reminder of everything she had lost. Regret coiled in her chest; it was difficult letting go of someone so effortlessly charismatic. ‘Boeuf Bourguignon.’
‘Well, it has to be a red Burgundy then, doesn’t it.’
‘None of that in the kitchen.’ He said flashing her a knowing smile.
‘Come on then,’ she said, opening the drawer and collecting the key. Reminding herself to stay brisk and professional she added, ‘this way, Ruben,’ and waited for him to follow.
In the corridor, they met George, and she mentioned they were fetching a Burgundy ‘for Ruben’s marinade’.
‘As long as you only use the old stuff,’ he quipped, chuckling to himself at his own joke.
Fiona unlocked the cellar and switched on the lights.
Halfway down the steps, feeling the cool damp of the cellar pressing against her skin, she stopped and sighed.
With her eyes closed, the electric memory of their first kiss flickered through her mind.
Like their anniversary date, their first kiss had been in a cellar, suffused with the same faint, earthy scent of aged pine and damp stone that she could smell now.
That night, hints of thyme and the aniseed scent of fennel had drifted down from the kitchen above – a kitchen where, until seconds earlier, Ru had been working.
On a whim, they had slipped away, escaping the rattle of plates and the low drone of the exhaust fan.
She could still feel the thrill of that stolen moment, the way the world had seemed to pause as they’d descended into the dim, quiet space together.
That night the only light had been from a single, dusty bulb that etched murky patterns along the stone walls.
They paused by the tasting table, and he had taken a tentative step closer, before slowly raising a hand to touch her face with his thumb.
Fiona had taken his other hand in hers, fingers stroking his palm, caressing the skin, rough from years of work.
She’d pulled him towards her, felt the faint scratch of uneven bricks as she leaned back against the wall and drew him closer still.
Their breath echoed softly in the small space, each exhale mingling with the still, damp air.
There was a pause, a quiet that seemed to stretch, filled with something both tender and electric.
Fiona felt the heat radiating from him, warming her skin in the cellar’s chill.
Then, his lips had found hers, tentative yet sure, soft and tasting faintly of salt.
The touch sent a spark down her spine, the faint aroma of herbs and wine lingering between them.
Fiona tried to blink away the image now as she walked down the stone steps, but with Ru behind her, his breath moist on her neck, the intense memory lingered.
Was he remembering the moment too? Or had he now successfully closed his heart, and really did just need help choosing a Burgundy?
She turned, looking up into his eyes. His lips parted, his mouth lowered towards hers.
She could almost taste the salty tang of him.