Chapter 14
Mebel should have known that nothing good can last. It has been over two months since she arrived at Cowley, England, and she has made the best of her time there.
She has gone to an appropriate number of events that require her to dress up in luxury attire, which, for someone who is unfortunately living in Cowley, is quite the feat.
She has a clear goal that she is working steadfastly toward, she has a solid group of friends who broaden her horizons every day, and she has a lover who broadens her…
horizontally. Oho! And she is in such high spirits that she makes little dirty jokes now and again, which says a lot, really.
She should’ve known that things were going too well and life was about to swoop in and shit all over it, just as it is wont to do.
It happens on a Thursday, which feels doubly offensive because all bad news should arrive on a Monday, everyone knows that. But, no, this piece of bad news not only has the audacity to swoop in on a Thursday but also has the cheek to come in parading as good news.
“Attention, everybody,” Chef Clarke says that cursed morning. “I have a rather exciting announcement to share with you.”
Mebel and her classmates stand a little straighter.
In the past couple of months, Mebel has been bitten by the culinary bug, and she now finds herself being motivated by silly things like being praised for making the perfect consommé (she is still glowing over that one) and removing the beard off a scallop efficiently.
“For the first time in the history of the Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts, we are proud to present an exciting end to the year.” Chef Clarke spreads his arms wide open.
“We will be catering the prestigious Pemberton College Ball at the end of the Michaelmas term. Oh, that’s the end of the fall term for those of you not familiar with Oxford terms.”
An animated whisper rises from the group of students. Gemma raises her hand, her face bright and lively.
“Gemma?”
“Chef, are you saying we will be cooking the food for the Pemberton Ball?”
“Yes, and not just cooking it, but you will be designing the menu.”
A handful of gasps rises around the room.
Chef Clarke raises his index finger. “Now, to make things even more exciting, this will be a competition. You will be pairing up with a fellow classmate to design one course of the menu. The students who come up with the winning course will win a cash prize and a spot in the kitchen of Canard et Vin, the restaurant in Paris with three Michelin stars.”
Everybody gasps this time. Even Mebel does so, because by now, she knows the importance of Michelin stars and how they are coveted with the same amount of fervor that a CHIP would covet a crocodile-skin Birkin. The students begin to chatter animatedly among themselves.
Gemma catches Mebel’s eye and points to her, mouthing: You and me?
A flush of pleasure washes across Mebel’s body, and she nods.
Designing a course with Gemma sounds like a dream come true.
But then she looks over at Bella, Adam, and Bruce, and her smile wanes.
There is an odd number now, and she wonders, for a moment, if she should step aside and let one of them partner up with Gemma instead.
But then Chef Clarke calls out their names and assigns them their partners, and Mebel is partnered up with Gemma anyway. Well, she’s not about to complain about that. She exchanges a glance with Gemma and throws her a smile, which Gemma returns with a full-on sun-at-midday grin.
After class, Gemma goes to Mebel’s room, where she immediately makes herself comfortable by trying on Mebel’s extensive shoe collection.
“Yes Gemma, you can try on my Manolo Blahniks,” Mebel says dryly.
“They kind of pinch my toes,” Gemma says, trying on different poses in the mirror.
“That is Manolo for you. I don’t think he likes women very much.” Mebel hands Gemma a cup of tea.
“Neither does Jimmy,” Gemma says.
“You mean Jimmy Choo or Jimmy in our class?”
“Both, come to think of it.”
“Yes, I think you are right.” Mebel sips at her tea.
She isn’t a big tea drinker in Jakarta, mainly because it’s so hot and humid there that to drink anything warmer than tepid water is asking to be bathed in sweat.
But here in England, she has found a taste for the hot beverage, and now she can’t go five minutes without holding a hot cup of tea in her hands.
“So, what are you thinking for our course?”
They’d been assigned the poultry course for the evening’s menu.
Gemma takes a long slurp of tea and ponders the question. “I’m thinking roast pigeon, what do you think?”
“Okay,” Mebel says simply.
Gemma frowns at her. “Mebel, you’ve got to tell me your honest opinion.”
“I think pigeon is good.”
“Okay, or what about duck? We could do duck, or even turkey, since it’s close to Thanksgiving?”
“Thanksgiving? Isn’t that American holiday? To celebrate freedom from…you?” Mebel says.
“Well, yes, but it’s become popularized, and it’s less of a ‘Yay, we got away from the English’ and more of a ‘Ooh, let’s eat a load of food’ type of holiday now,” Gemma says. When Mebel continues to look skeptically at her, she says, “All right, not turkey. But what about duck?”
“We can do duck,” Mebel says agreeably.
“Mebel!” Gemma cries.
“What?”
“Don’t just agree with me. What do you want to do?”
Mebel pauses, thinking hard. It’s yet another moment when she’s having a mental block because she realizes she hasn’t been in a situation where she’s had to think about what she really wants.
“I—ah—” She’s always just gone along with whatever Henk wanted.
It seemed much simpler that way. She gives herself a little shake of the head, trying to clear her thoughts. “I want—ah—”
Gemma looks expectantly at Mebel.
“Maybe we throw a coin,” Mebel says.
“Mebel!” Gemma snaps. “Just make a decision. Right now! Duck or pigeon? Duck or—”
“Duck!” Mebel shouts.
Silence rings for a moment, then Gemma breaks into a laugh. “Yeah, way to go, Mebs! Look at that, you made a decision for yourself, for once. You are a baddie!”
Mebel looks at her, stunned, then the smile slowly takes over her face. “Yes, duck.”
“All right, duck it is. How do you feel?”
Mebel takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. Is very strange. Who cares about duck or pigeon or chicken or what? Nobody cares. I don’t care about such thing, but…”
“But it turns out you do care?” Gemma says.
“Yes.” Mebel cups her mug of tea and looks down at her lap. “But is like—it feels silly to care about such thing.”
“It’s not though, is it?” Gemma says. “Because you are spending so much of your time and effort to excel at this thing.”
Mebel struggles to try to explain her reticence about accepting the importance of this event. “You know, this kind of thing, in my circle of friends and family, is like a silly hobby. Unless is something that make a lot of money, then otherwise it has no value to us.”
“I understand,” Gemma says.
“You do? I thought you young people are all about, ‘Oh, I love to do this, that is all that matters.’ ”
“Okay, I’m gonna ignore the ageism there,” Gemma says.
“Thing is, Mebs, we’re all raised in this capitalist society.
I mean, I wish we could all be like, ‘Fuck money, we’re doing this purely for the love of it!
’ But at the end of the day, I need to have enough money to be able to pay rent and buy myself some food to eat.
So, yeah, I get what you’re saying and why your culture would place so much importance on ventures that earn you money. ”
“You young generation are very wise,” Mebel says.
“Thank you. We are, aren’t we? It’s because of social media.”
“Mmm, I don’t know if that is true.”
Gemma grins. “Okay, let’s brainstorm on duck dishes. I’m thinking we do something like a confit, cook it in its own fat.”
“Maybe a combo between duck confit and Peking duck?” Mebel suggests.
“Ooh, I love the sound of that! So, like, confit of duck but served in a Chinese crepe with hoisin sauce?”
“Something like that, yes.” Mebel feels the excitement fizzing inside her. She can tell already that their dish is going to be amazing, and the thought of it fills her with so much happiness that it quite bowls her over. She’s so unfamiliar with this feeling.
“I love it,” Gemma says. “We can crisp up the skin really well—”
“You know what I am thinking?” Mebel says. “I am thinking of fish skin, is very popular in Asia.”
“Fish skin?”
“Yes, we fry it until it is crispy like potato chips, and then we season with salted egg powder. Is so delicious, very addictive.”
Gemma looks dubious, but she nods anyway. “Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”
“I wonder if maybe we can do the same with the duck skin. Sprinkle some salted egg yolk powder onto it. Give it that umami taste.”
Gemma continues to look dubious. “I mean, I’m not gonna knock anything until I’ve tried it. I’ve tasted some combinations that I thought wouldn’t work, but they ended up pairing beautifully, so I’m keeping an open mind.”
Mebel smiles, struck by how much affection she feels toward this girl. “I think we going to win this competition.”
“Oh, heck yeah, Mebs. We’re going to crush it!”
Apparently, the other teams feel exactly the same way, like they’re going to destroy the competition, because the following day, when Mebel goes to class, everyone is staring down everyone else with obvious animosity.
“Good morning, Bruce,” she says as she passes by Bruce’s workstation.
In answer, Bruce merely snorts and turns away.
Mebel doesn’t think anything of it, because Bruce behaves like a wounded Chihuahua most days.
What catches her attention is Adam, who, when she greets him, merely spares a quick glance in her direction and says, “Hey,” before turning back to study his notes.