Chapter 4 #2
Glancing across at Fabian, who’d also finally joined the table, I could see he was nervously watching as the guests oohed and aahed at the presentation of both dishes before helping themselves to the fragrant warm bread and tucking in.
My heart went out to him – this was the first time he’d cooked other than for family and friends, apart from the stint on Yorkshire TopChef – and I determined I was going to shower praise upon both him and his starters.
I offloaded one of my scallops with its accompanying dressing onto Kamran’s plate, passing it back up the table before lifting my own fork, closing my eyes at the utter deliciousness of the sweet, buttery, and slightly briny mouthful, its texture succulent and tender.
I chewed, swallowed and immediately looked across at Fabian, who appeared too anxious to make a start on the plate Beau had placed in front of him.
‘Divine,’ I mouthed. ‘Utterly ambrosial.’ And it was.
‘And the tart?’ he mouthed back, his shoulders beginning to relax in relief at my praise.
‘She’s pretty hot as well.’ Dean, catching the conversation, guffawed loudly before turning back to the blonde.
‘Hang on.’ I glared at Dean before attempting to ignore him completely.
Feeling myself exactly like a judge on MasterChef, I broke into my portion of the shared tart, knowing Fabian was watching me intently.
There was absolutely no way I needed to make anything up to put him at his ease.
The buttery pastry was crisp, the flavours of the filling perfectly balanced, the texture velvety without a hint of that overpowering liver taste that can ruin an otherwise fabulous paté.
‘Sublime.’ I actually moaned the word out loud, then, realising what I’d done when those around me turned to stare, to laugh even, I hid my face in the glass of white wine that had been poured for me.
‘Darling.’ George, who’d returned to the table, turned, whispering into my ear, ‘I do hope you orgasm with as much reverence as you’ve given that duck paste. Or,’ he added, ‘is it the chef himself who’s turning you on?’
Scarlet-faced, I was saved from any response – if I’d even been able to think of one – by Dean leaning over and hoovering up the blonde’s untouched tart, shoving it wholesale into his mouth.
‘Bloody good pie, is this, Fabian, lad,’ he finally managed to get out.
‘Nearly as good as the steak and ale down at The Green Dragon.’
I closed my eyes on my husband’s bulging cheek, not daring to look at Fabian.
The man had to go.
* * *
‘I thought you were keeping it simple?’ Mum was smiling across at Fabian, who, at the collective praise for his starters, appeared to be finally relaxing.
‘Went a bit overboard with this first course, Lisa, but the main is very simple. And Kamran and I made the puds together.’
‘Kamran’s actually a good cook, isn’t he?
’ Mum said proudly. ‘Can’t believe I’m surrounded by all you fabulous chefs and I’m rubbish myself!
’ She laughed, patting her stomach appreciatively.
‘But you do know, Kamran doesn’t want to be involved in the kitchens.
He’s part owner and management. Leaving it all to you and Jess. ’
‘Not quite, Lisa.’ Fabian shrugged. ‘Jess and I don’t have the experience needed in running a fine-dining restaurant. Kamran and I might have equal ownership of The White House, but we’ll need a head chef to tell us what to do.’
Mum frowned. ‘That’ll eat into your profits.’
‘Tell me about it. I don’t think we can hope to turn the place around and be making any profit for a year or two.’
‘Really?’ Mum stared. ‘I suppose I imagined you and Jess at the forefront, cooking away and being in line for a Michelin star almost immediately.’
‘In your dreams.’ Fabian patted Mum’s shoulder before heading for the kitchen once more.
‘Let me help you, Fabian.’ I was desperate to get away from the obnoxious brother, more of Shirley’s tales of her dead husband and their four sons as well as from Dean who, squinting slightly now from the effects of the free booze, was almost in the blonde’s lap.
‘Please.’ Fabian smiled across at me, grateful, it seemed, for any support, and I stood, more than happy to be where I knew I belonged – in the kitchen.
‘Wow, what a kitchen.’ I stared round at the stainless steel and granite. ‘Hell, I could fit ten of my kitchen into this. How could anyone not want to cook with all this at their fingertips?’
‘In a week or so we’re going to be fitting the kitchens in The White House. Kamran and I have made initial lists and plans, but we need your input, Jess.’
‘Oh, right.’ Pleasure at being included, being at the forefront of this new venture, had me forgetting I’d definitely decided I wasn’t going to have anything to do with the new restaurant; that I was going to stay where I was safe: as manager of Hudson House care home.
‘What do you mean, “oh, right”?’ Fabian frowned. ‘I’m not doing this without you, Jess. It was always going to be you and me before Kamran came along.’
‘It’s just…’
‘Stop it!’ Fabian dropped a kiss onto my head before turning to the six-door Aga where two huge dishes were ready to be taken out. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’ He threw me a shiny metal colander, which I caught deftly in one hand. ‘Drain the veg, would you, and add the lime and garlic?’
‘Ooh, samphire and green beans.’ I looked round. ‘Is that it? I knew you were keeping it simple… Oh wow… Look at that…’ I stared at the dish Fabian had taken from the Aga before bending to retrieve its twin.
‘Fish pie! That’s all. You can’t get much simpler than this.’
‘Oh, come on, Fabian!’ I breathed in the golden melting and bubbling Gouda-topped potato ecstatically. ‘This isn’t just any fish pie,’ I went on, sounding like an M&S ad.
‘This is a recipe I started playing about with at the cookery school in The Cook’s Atelier in Beaune when I was there in my year off from uni.’
‘Oh, of course.’ I nodded, remembering. ‘I forget that you’ve actually had some formal training.’
‘Instinct more than training.’ Fabian laughed, but I could see he was more than pleased with his main course.
‘So, what’s in it?’
‘Here.’ Fabian took a spoonful, feeding me the contents.
‘OK: lobster tails, salmon, pollock…’
Fabian shook his head. ‘Nearly – monkfish.’
‘OK, monkfish. Cream, mustard… and…’
‘Go on… nearly there…’ Fabian was laughing. ‘Hang on, try a bit more…’
‘Dill,’ I said. ‘It’s dill, isn’t it…?’
‘You all right in here?’ Robyn, followed by Mum, brought in the remainder of the used starter plates.
‘I tell you, Robyn, this man of yours is one hell of a cook.’ I smiled as Robyn leaned in to kiss Fabian. ‘If he serves up food like this, The White House just can’t go wrong.’