Just a Taste

Two Years Earlier Noelle

The vegetables are burnt.

In quick succession, my heart leaps into my throat then sinks to the bottom of my stomach as I yank open the oven door. Thick, dark smoke wafts out of it and that unmistakable, charcoal-like burning smell invades my senses.

Shit.

They’re not just burnt. They’re utterly unsalvageable.

‘Who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the veggies?’ I call as I pull on my oven mitts and yank the tray out. There had been rows and rows of perfectly sliced carrots and parsnips on the tray just two hours ago. Now it’s just one blackened rectangle. I swallow down a sob.

‘Uh,’ says Jamie, barely lifting his head to spare a glance in my direction. He’s been ‘working’ on the same dish – the cranberry sauce of all things – since he arrived this morning. ‘Pretty sure veggies were on you.’

‘No,’ I grit out. ‘They most definitely were not on me.’ I stride across the kitchen and toss the remains into the bin. ‘The pheasant was on me. The lamb was on me. The potatoes were on me. The scallops were on me. The gravy was on me. The Brussels sprouts were on me—’

‘And, last time I checked, Brussels sprouts are a vegetable,’ Will cuts in with a smirk. He’s over at his station kneading a giant bowl of stuffing into precise little balls. ‘Like Jamie said, veggies were on you.’

It’s an unfortunate testament to how used to this kind of behaviour I am, that I don’t turn around and march out of the kitchen, middle fingers held high. Though it is getting more and more tempting.

You’re a professional, I remind myself as I pull out a fresh bag of carrots from the fridge. Don’t sink to their level.

Sometimes, being the bigger person really sucks. If Eve, my twin sister, were here, she wouldn’t have thought twice about tossing the tray straight at their heads. A smile tugs at my lips as I lean into the daydream of smacking both my annoying co-workers with a tray of burnt vegetables.

It wasn’t always like this.

When I first started at The Avalon, a four-star restaurant attached to one of the city’s most luxurious hotels, I would have bet good money that nothing could douse the excitement I felt for the job.

I’d spent years working in kitchens that should never have passed the health inspection; they were grimy, cramped spaces with unimaginative menus and the only thing more filthy than the floors was the attitudes of my fellow co-workers.

Food standards, who?

Health and safety, where?

That, and the fact that they barely paid minimum wage, has left me feeling like a cog in a relentless, greasy machine.

I’m just another line chef in a sweat-soaked kitchen where the stench of old oil clings to my rapidly yellowing uniform and the closest thing to a break I ever get is a five-minute respite in a grimy staff room that smells like cigarettes and burnt coffee.

In short, my current career status is most definitely not what I spent thousands of pounds on culinary school for.

But working at The Avalon was supposed to be different. Here, the walls were pristine, the countertops gleamed like polished silver, the air smelled like fresh food instead of stale cigarettes, and the staff had a level of professionalism I’d never seen before.

It was like a dream come true.

Until it wasn’t.

The decline snuck up on me so gradually, it’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment things started to fall apart.

All I know is that, in the last six months, we’ve gone from a team of eight to three, and Will and Jamie have lost any kind of enthusiasm and commitment for the job.

They’re like ghosts floating through the kitchen.

Anything and everything they can push on me, they do.

And I let them.

I let them because I genuinely love cooking. I love the way the ingredients come together to create something magical. I love seeing a table of full, satisfied customers and knowing that I did that. Me. Something I made. Nothing beats that feeling.

And Will and Jamie know that about me. They know I’ll never say no and let the kitchen fall into chaos, because cooking is my passion.

I’m the one who comes in early every morning to prep for the day, even though we’re supposed to be on a rota.

I’m the one who stays late every evening to clean up and make sure we don’t lose our perfect health rating.

I’m the one who meets with Gareth, the restaurant manager, to fine-tune the seasonal menu every three months.

They know it all. They know I’ll always be there, picking up the slack and putting in the extra hours.

‘Not for long!’

Eve’s sing-song voice trills in my mind as I place the newly sliced carrots into an oven tray and reach for the parsnips. She’s the constant recipient of all my work-related woes and her advice hasn’t wavered even once over the last three years:

‘Quit and start your own restaurant.’

I wish it were that easy.

If it were only about passion and dedication, I’d have started up my own place years ago. But there is a mountain of obstacles standing in the way, and each one is more daunting than the last.

First, there’s the financial aspect. My savings are embarrassing at best, dire at worst, and it doesn’t look like that will change any time soon.

Then there’s the location. Finding the right spot is crucial. It has to be accessible, attractive and affordable. I’ve seen the wrong location doom a restaurant before it’s even opened its doors.

And that’s not even thinking about all the—

‘Excuses.’

The Eve in my mind cuts me off, rolling her eyes exactly as I know she would if she were standing right in front of me. ‘You can have all the excuses in the world, Noelle. Sometimes you just have to take the plunge.’

I shake my head, ridding myself of the vision of my disappointed-looking sister, and refocus on the task at hand.

Outside the double wide doors, I can hear the faint sound of a live band playing a jazzy rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’.

Even for a place like The Avalon, tonight is fancy fancy.

I don’t know exactly who we have dining with us tonight – all I know is that they paid enough to book out the restaurant for just their relatively small party of ten for a decadent Christmas meal.

I’m no stranger to the insanely rich and famous descending on The Avalon, but tonight feels different.

When I poked my head out earlier, the wait staff were setting out gold-plated cutlery on the large table that cuts across the middle of the room, and even Gareth has been more twitchy and overbearing than usual, paying actual attention to the menu I suggested for tonight.

Usually, our quarterly meetings consist of me shoving a painstakingly researched seasonal menu – complete with a list of local suppliers – under his nose, and him simply grunting before signing off on it and leaving me to do what I do best. Not that I’m complaining; I work best when I’m left to do my job, and I’d expected the same for tonight’s meal, but he’d actually been moderately helpful – although a shadow of the restaurant manager he once was – and we pulled together a menu I’m actually proud of:

Appetisers and Starters

Truffle-infused caviar blinis served with a delicate dollop of crème fraiche and microgreens

Wild mushroom and black truffle soup topped with a drizzle of truffle oil and a sprinkle of chive blossoms

Mains

Pan-seared scallops accompanied by a cauliflower purée and a champagne butter sauce

Roast pheasant with a cranberry glaze served with a thyme-infused bread pudding, stuffing and Brussels sprouts

Herb-crusted rack of lamb accompanied with a side of garlic mashed potatoes, and roasted root vegetables

Desserts

A golden Christmas pudding flambéed tableside with brandy and served with a rich custard sauce

A selection of artisanal British cheese featuring Stilton, Cornish brie, aged cheddar, and served with quince jelly and artisan crackers

Definitely a little fancier than the massive meal I’ll be preparing with my grandmother at our annual family Christmas get-together in two days, but it’s the first time in what feels like years that I’ve been able to get this creative with a menu and I’m practically bouncing at the thought of getting it in front of our guests.

At least, I was. The excitement I felt this morning when I entered the kitchen has been snuffed out, replaced by a gnawing sense of irritation and anxiety as I lay the newly sliced carrots on the tray and reach for the parsnips.

‘Focus, Noelle,’ I murmur to myself, shaking my head.

I try to force my mind to zero in on the task at hand, pushing away any lingering murderous thoughts towards my two co-workers.

Instead, I picture the plates being sent out – vibrant, colourful, delicious, the kind of food that can’t help but put you in the Christmas spirit.

‘Hey, Noelle?’ Jamie’s voice breaks though my concentration. ‘You need a hand with anything?’

I look up and see immediately that his show of camaraderie is laced with hostility. What a dickhead. ‘Just make sure the cranberry sauce comes out well,’ I snap back through gritted teeth.

Jamie gives me a mock salute and for the second time in less than an hour – surely this must be a world record – I conquer the urge to fling a metal tray at my co-worker’s head.

‘Everything ready?’ Gareth glides into the kitchen, wringing his hands and nervously looking around. The wait staff for tonight file in after him, all dressed in perfectly pressed and neat uniforms. ‘The guests have all arrived and they’re ready for their appetisers.’

I open my mouth but Will cuts across me and says smoothly, ‘We’re good to go, boss.’

Gareth smiles at him. ‘Thank you, Will.’

Thank you, Will.

Thank you to the man who has done nothing but roll stuffing into – admittedly perfect – little balls for the last five hours? I’m not even entirely sure how he’s managed to stretch out the task for that long.

My eye twitches and I swear I’m about five seconds away from short-circuiting.