8. Dara
8
Dara
I texted Alex ahead of time to let him know that I managed to get off shift two hours early, and now that I’ve arrived, he shows me into the kitchen.
Scanning the island in the middle of the cooking area, I nod appreciatively. “This is great,” I say, eyeing all the food I asked him to order. “Did you have any trouble getting any of it?”
It’s a stupid question but it’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself.
“Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
Of course, he didn’t have any problems getting any of it. He’s a gazillionaire. If he wanted to, he could have imported the quail and had the birds lay those eggs this morning.
“Right, I’ll let you get on with what it is you do best.” He gestures toward the food. “I’m going for a shower. Shout if you need anything.”
“Okay.” I say.
Yeah, right. Like that’s going to happen. The last thing I need is another humiliating experience, thank you very much. I’ve only just got over the last one. Yes, it’s been nearly a week, but the scenario lived rent free in my head for far too long. Besides, what Alex knows about cooking I could probably write on my eyelids.
I straighten my chef whites and start by organizing the groceries in order of course. There’s going to be a lot to do this evening, and preparation will be key if I plan to serve out hot meals. His guests won’t be here for another couple of hours, but I have shallots to chop, potatoes to peel, and lots of things to measure out.
Quite some while later, I hear the doorbell ring
I glance at the clock because, surely, it can’t be that time already. A minute after that, two very well-presented men dressed in black enter the kitchen, followed by Alex.
I try to listen to what he says as I admire the dark gray suit he’s wearing. Again, his shirt is open at the neck, and tiny hairs peek out, desperate to see what’s beyond the white cotton that imprisons them.
“Dara, meet Craig and Jack. They’re going to be your servers for the evening. They work professionally, so they know what they’re doing.”
“Oh, excellent,” I say, feeling a little relieved. “Nice to meet you.”
They both greet me, and then Craig says, “What do you need us to do?”
I point to the far counter. “I have all the plates, cutlery, and napkins already out. Could you set the table for me please?”
“Sure.”
I’m actually more than relieved. It takes another job off my hands, and believe me, my hands are well and truly full. I’ve chosen a pretty comprehensive menu, and to get this right, things are going to have to go like clockwork.
Another half an hour passes, and I can hear guests arriving. Alex has told me to start service at eight, so at 7:40 I put the quail eggs into boil. Once the water is boiling, I take them out and cover them. Four minutes later, I plunge them into cold water.
Next comes the tricky job of peeling them and slicing them in half. They’re tiny little things, and more than a pain in my behind, but it’ll be worth it. With the yoke removed and mixed with the crème fraiche and Dijon mustard, I add salt and pepper to taste.
Placing the mixture in a plastic bag, I snip the corner off, and then need a hand that’s steady as a rock to squeeze it back into the tiny eggs, filling them to the top. Finally, I add approximately an ounce of caviar, garnished with a snip of chives.
“Service,” I call out, pushing the plates across the counter.
Craig and Jack grab the plates, expertly taking four each, and leave the kitchen. But I don’t have time to relax. I have to start on the entrée, and half lobster thermidor is not a five-minute job.
Diced shallots sizzle in the pan, basking in the melted butter. I add sprigs of tarragon, which will give it a wonderful aniseed flavor, letting it simmer for just a minute before I add the fish sauce. Then I blast the heat and let it bubble away.
I grab another pan and start the bechamel sauce, the staple of all sauces. With the butter melted, I add the flour, letting it soak into the butter. Then the milk goes in, a little at a time.
Straining in the contents of the other pan, I let the sauce thin down, stirring it until it’s smooth. It smells delicious. I then put the sauce in a bowl to cool. A minute later, I add egg yolk, mustard, grate some nutmeg, and dash in some salt and pepper.
The door opens, and plates are already coming back.
Don’t panic, Dara. Do not panic.
Thankfully, I’ve already prepared the lobster, and warming it in the pan, I ready the cognac. A quick flash of a flame jumps up as I light the brandy, and a minute later, the alcohol is completely burned off. Only then do I add the half lobster to the sauce.
With the finishing touches added, I plate it all up in the lobster shells and call out again, “Service.”
Craig and Jack repeat the process, leaving me to check on the lamb shank that’s been braising. I’m doing that in a red wine sauce with roasted garlic, roasted baby carrots, baby pearl onions, fondant potatoes, and a parsnip puree.
Alex’s kitchen is nowhere near as hot as the diner, but I can still feel the sweat breaking on my brow. Downing a glass of water, I carry on, and twenty-five minutes later, the main course is being carried out to the guests.
I’m making a layered coconut panna cotta with passion fruit on a pate sable cookie base, so I’ve got no time to waste. Not only because of the design and mold I’m using, but also because I need time to freeze the layers so they won’t melt into each other.
I already have my gelatin sheets soaking in cold water when I start to heat the coconut milk and sugar. Once the sugar dissolves, I squeeze the excess water out of the gelatin sheet and drop it into the pan. It dissolves pretty quickly, and I give it a good stir. The passion fruit compote is made in a similar way, and soon, they’re both ready.
Grabbing my doughnut mold, I start the process, filling each layer, and then adding them to the freezer until they’re set. In the meantime, I prepare the cookie bases I baked earlier. Layering them with white chocolate, I sprinkle desiccated coconut over them and leave it to set. Now for the tricky part. Getting the panna cotta and passion fruit out of the mold.
I silently pray that they’ll come out smoothly. Holding my breath, I ease each one out of the mold, finally gasping for air before I pass out. That wouldn’t be great.
The empty plates from the main course are starting to come back now, and after Craig and Jack leave them on the counter, they watch me intently as I release the last two desserts. The tension in the room is palpable, and I can physically hear them breathe out when the last one releases. It seems someone upstairs was listening.
“Well, thank the Lord in heaven for that,” I breathe.
When I look up at Jack and Craig, they’re grinning from ear to ear.
“They look pretty amazing, Dara,” Jack says. “Well done.”
“Thanks. All right. For the last time this evening, service,” I say.
The men take extra care with this dish, for which I am eternally grateful, and even I can hear the exclamations of delight from the guests as the desserts are served.
It gives me a great sense of pride. I also realize, now that I can relax, how much fun I’ve had over the last four hours.
It’s been hard work, but I’ve loved it.
And I’m not done yet. There’s a mountain of dishes behind me, and it’s going to take an age to get through them.
A little while later, while my arms are elbow deep in soap suds, the dessert plates come back, every one of them scraped clean.
Good.
I’m about to ask the greatest servers in the world whether anyone wants coffee, when Alex strides into the room. His eyes widen when he sees me washing up.
“What are you doing? There’s a perfectly good dishwasher there.”
I shrug. “Honestly, this is quicker. Besides, I kind of like leaving a clean kitchen.”
He’s about to say something else, when he notices Craig and Jack standing to the side, clearly unsure what they’re now supposed to do.
Alex thanks them for all their efforts and tells them they’re free to go. They say farewell to me before leaving out the back door.
Turning back to me, Alex beams a grin, which takes me by surprise. It also makes him look even more gorgeous.
“Honestly, Dara, I can’t praise you enough for tonight. Everything was delicious, and all my guests are eager to meet the chef.”
My eyes fly wide in mortification. “I can’t,” I say, looking down at my now, not-so-white, whites. “Look at the state of me.”
“I don’t think they expect you to be spotless after what you’ve just pulled off. Please? Just a quick hello?”
I roll my eyes. This was absolutely not part of the deal. Drying my hands, I follow him out of the kitchen and into the dining room. When everyone stands and applauds, I’m even more mortified.
My cheeks are bright red, and it has little to do with the heat this time. All I can do is nod and smile, and before Alex has a chance to stop me, I’ve turned on my heels and hurried back to the safety of the kitchen wondering if I can strangle Alex without anyone noticing.
It’s much later when I see him again.
“You’ll be glad to know that everyone has left,” he says, making his way to the fridge.
I’ve just about finished cleaning all the surfaces and the oven, as well as the cupboards.
He lifts two glasses out of a cupboard, pours some wine, and then hands me a glass. “You deserve it after what you pulled off tonight, Dara.”
I eye the glass and feel strangely uncomfortable. He asked me to do a job. I did it. I don’t really want to celebrate with the man.
“Please?” he says, seeing my obvious hesitation.
Reluctantly I take it off him. “Thanks.”
“Your talents really are wasted in that diner,” Alex says.
I give him a warning look, and he raises his hand. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, one day, I’ll have a place of my own.”
“Oh, of course,” he says, like he’s forgotten something. He then strides out of the kitchen and leaves me wondering what on earth he’s doing. When he returns, he’s carrying a fat, brown envelope.
I eye it uncomfortably. “I can already see that’s far too much.”
“How do you know?” he smirks. “It might all be one-dollar bills.”
I smile in spite of myself, and when he hands over the envelope, I take it. I don’t want to make this situation anymore awkward. When I leave this evening, I don’t want another red face.
“Will you be available for any other dinner parties I might have?” Alex says, sounding hopeful.
“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to commit right now.
“My friends are likely to go back to the city and brag about you now, and if I don’t provide the same service for everyone, there’ll be murmurings of favoritism.” He winks.