Chapter 9
Cognac – eau de vie! A classic post prandial digestif
L ivvy called Young Karl and interviewed him the following day.
He was a compact, stocky man with tattoos and muscles.
The very sight of him reassured her he’d be useful to have around, not only for the heavy lifting, but should there be any trouble from customers.
She was skilled in deflating tension and dealing with drunks but there was the odd occasion when even she admitted a man with muscles was the only answer.
Karl’s outward appearance belied his quiet, intelligent personality and, as Pete had suggested, he was glad of the offer of a job, having been made redundant from his warehouse manager’s role.
What was even better, Karl had worked his dues in pubs when younger so he knew the job, although confessed he might need retraining. Livvy was relieved. He was perfect. After last night’s spook, it would be good to have someone reliable and fatherly around to help lock up.
Once he’d gone, she popped into the function room, now stripped of wall coverings and flooring and asked Darrell if he’d take a look at the outside lighting, bribing him with chocolate digestives and a giant mug of strong tea.
‘Will do, my lovely,’ was his cheerful response. ‘Reckon they can be a bit temperamental, like. Sea air don’t help. Damp gets in everywhere.’
Thanking him and blessing the tradie gods who had sent him her way, she left the entire packet of chocolate digestives with him.
Despite the discouraging interviews of the other day, she then had a run of more successful ones and soon filled the other staff vacancies.
Stewie, a part-time catering student, tall and skinny with a thatch of bright red hair, grabbed the opportunity to be sous chef, and she took on Eli Wiscombe as part-time bar help for Brittany.
She was a little uneasy about Eli, despite his good references from his other job at the animal sanctuary on the outskirts of Lullbury.
However, he’d been upfront about the spot of trouble he’d got in a few years ago and she’d appreciated his honesty.
Good-looking, with a broad face and his dark hair gelled into a quiff, he came across as overconfident. But then, he was eighteen. It came with the territory.
All were employed on a trial basis. They’d have to prove themselves, as would she as a good boss. She eased her shoulders, shaking out her hair. It had been a satisfying day’s work. Now there was one more phone call she needed to make.
If Mark was surprised at being invited to dinner the following evening, he didn’t show it, he simply accepted with a pleasure that was obvious.
The Three Ds had nearly finished the bar.
The stone flags had yet to be cleaned up and the lighting and wood burner weren’t installed but there was room for a table for two.
With light coming from the bar area and a couple of fat candles on a table salvaged from the skip and covered with a snowy tablecloth, and a standalone heater taking the edge off the chill, it just about passed muster.
‘After all,’ Livvy muttered to herself as she fished out cutlery from a yet unpacked box and laid the table, ‘it’s not as if it’s a date. It’s actually an interview, or dinner with a friend. I haven’t got time for dates.’
Fabio poked his head out from the door to the kitchen and heard. ‘If your dining companion is the guy I’ve just seen getting out of a taxi, maybe you should rethink that philosophy, babes.’
Livvy laughed and tweaked the position of the napkin and the water glasses. ‘I really haven’t time for dating, Fred.’ She turned. ‘Or should I call you Fabio?’
‘Just call me Fab-u-lous darling,’ he answered camply. ‘That’ll do. Amuse bouche at eight. Get him sat down by then.’ He gave a little wave and disappeared.
Mark duly admired the work in progress that was the bar and sat, as instructed, at the little table.
It was wobbly and Livvy hoped the wedge of The Lullbury Bay Echo she’d shoved hastily under one leg would last the evening.
She flicked his napkin open and spread it on his lap.
‘What can I get you to drink, sir?’ she asked, on a laugh.
‘I’ve a good Sicilian white open, or a local Pinot Noir.
Or would you rather a gin and tonic as a pre-prandial cocktail? ’
‘Perfect.’ He grinned. ‘I’m glad I decided not to drive.’
Livvy squeezed past Darrell’s toolbox and went behind the bar. She decided to join Mark in his choice of drink and poured two glasses of locally produced gin. Adding ice and lemon, she put one in front of him, and she slid onto the chair opposite.
Mark picked up his glass and chinked it with hers. ‘Cheers,’ he said. He nodded to their surroundings. ‘Might catch on, you know. Shabby chic.’ He pulled a face. ‘Or should I call it builder’s chic? Looking good so far, though.’
Livvy sighed. ‘It seems to be taking forever. I mean I know it isn’t, but I’m not blessed with patience.
I’m dying to get the place up and running.
There’s been a delay on the stove; that should have been installed by now and the Three Ds weren’t even here today, they were finishing another job over in Weymouth.
’ Livvy had hated being alone, without their jaunty, noisy presence.
She was a determined cynic when it came to ghosts.
She’d lived and worked in places with a haunted reputation and thought it was all a load of nonsense.
Even so, the pub was a rambling, rabbit warren of a place to be in on your own.
‘That’s builders for you. The Three Ds?’
‘It’s what I call them.’ Livvy blushed. ‘To my shame I can never remember which is which, although I’m pretty sure, by now, that Darrell is the dad.’
Mark gave a low rumbling laugh that Livvy liked very much. ‘They’re good blokes though. They’ll finish on time. Or thereabouts.’ Picking up his water glass, he studied her over the rim. ‘Thank you for inviting me, by the way.’
Livvy felt her face heat again. ‘It’s to thank you for the day at the auction. And for popping by the other night to help clear up. Besides, I didn’t fancy eating on my own. I’d value your opinion of the food too, of course,’ she added, worried she sounded needy.
‘Looking forward to it,’ Mark replied warmly. ‘And, if you take this Fabio on, there’s every chance I’ll be eating here regularly. It’s no fun cooking for one.’
‘Amen to that. It’s why I’m a beans on toast fan.’
‘Well, if I may say so, the diet suits you.’ There was a pause. ‘And what have you decided to do about the name? Are you sticking with The Runaways, or changing it?’
‘Haven’t decided. It was a coaching inn at one point. I’ve been doing some research while it’s been shut. The London to Exeter coaches stopped here, apparently. It was probably called the Coach and Horses or something like that.’
‘And that’s not what you had in mind?’
‘Not entirely sure. I’d like something classy, something unpretentious.’
‘There’s a new pub opened up over in Bridport called The Bell and Colander. And there’s our very own Toad and Flamingo on the other side of Lullbury.’
Livvy pursed her lips. ‘That’s one thing I’ve definitely decided I don’t want. A made-up name like The Fig and Florin, or Parrot and Pug.’
‘You’re no fun. What about The Key and Loch? The Ferret and Parsnip? The Brain and Artichoke?’
‘The Flag and Quiche?’ she countered. ‘The Fox and Fart?’
Fabio interrupted their laughter. He stood importantly by the table, a silver salver resting on his arm. ‘Your amuse bouche , sir, madam.’ With a flourish, he removed the lid and deftly served two plates of tiny, exquisite-looking food – scallops in a sauce.
After they’d eaten it, Mark sat back in his chair and said, ‘That was delicious. The lemony sauce was amazing.’
Livvy perused the handwritten menu Fabio had supplied. ‘Leek velouté with lemon gel,’ she read.
‘Gorgeous. If the rest of the meal is half as good, I think you should get in that kitchen and snap up that chef. And if you don’t, I will!’
The rest of the meal was good. It was better than good.
It was excellent. After a six-course tasting menu including a winter salad of caramelised walnuts and pickled beetroot, pollack with an oyster sauce, tender strips of dukkha spiced steak, a creamy cauliflower risotto, marmalade and blood orange pudding and a rhubarb parfait, Livvy and Mark sat picking at a cheese board.
‘It’s no good,’ he moaned. ‘I can’t do justice to this Ticklemore and it’s too delicious to eat just for the sake of it.’
‘Time for coffee?’
‘I could possibly, just possibly, squeeze down an espresso.’
Livvy left him at the table and went to find Fabio. He was wiping down the food prep tables. ‘Fabio, that was the best meal I’ve ever eaten.’
He shrugged, completely without humility. ‘Naturally.’ Straightening, he tossed the cleaning cloth into the sink. ‘So, the job’s mine?’
‘Of course the job’s yours! Come and join us for coffee and cognac.’
‘I wouldn’t be intruding? You and Mark seem to be getting on well tonight.’
‘You wouldn’t be intruding at all. We’re just friends. I told you earlier, the last thing on my mind is a boyfriend. I haven’t the time, for one thing.’
‘Just wanted to add my congratulations,’ Mark said, making Livvy jump. She hadn’t heard him come in. ‘That was a magnificent meal, Fabio. I hope Livvy’s given you the job?’
‘Looks like it.’ Fabio grinned. ‘You two go back in, I’ll get a pot of coffee on.’
When he joined them, bringing home-made petit fours, Livvy had set out three brandy glasses and a bottle.
‘Delamain Pleiade,’ she said, opening it.
‘Aged for sixty years. I’ve kept it to one side for a special occasion.
’ Adding a measure to each glass, she raised her own and added, ‘Which this most certainly is. Welcome aboard, Fabio! Welcome to The Runaways.’
They clinked glasses and sat in silence for some time, savouring the spirit as it warmed its way down.
‘You still going to call it The Runaways?’ Fabio asked, unbuttoning his chef’s white tunic.
Livvy swirled cognac around her glass, staring at the mellow tones as they shifted and caught the light from the candles.
It had been a bottle her father had given her and not one for sale behind the bar.
He’d know exactly what to name the place.
Something that would sum up what it was all about.
Good food, seasonal and mostly locally sourced, great company, decent beer and wine.
Branding had been something the Smith-Lygott organisation had excelled at.
Over the last few weeks, she’d often considered giving him a ring and asking his advice.
But she wanted her pub to be just that – her pub.
Not part of her father’s empire. Some stubborn part of her wanted to prove to him that she could do this herself, go it alone.
‘I don’t know. I don’t like the name, but I don’t, as yet, have an alternative.
’ She put the glass down carefully. ‘Do you happen to know what it used to be called, Fabio? I might reinstate the original.’
‘I do, as a matter of fact.’
Something in his tone worried her. ‘Oh God, don’t tell me it was The Hang’d Man or something like that?’ she asked, horrified.
‘Nah, babes. Nothing so gruesome. It was The George.’
‘The George,’ Livvy repeated. She thought it over. A not unusual pub name, especially for one of this age. Ordinary but classy. ‘It might just do,’ she said out loud.
‘And what about the restaurant?’ Mark put in.
‘Something simple,’ Livvy answered, while thinking it through. ‘Eat at The George?’
‘The George,’ Fabio added. ‘Eat and drink and a warm welcome awaits.’
‘Or The George. Drink. Eat. A warm welcome. That’s it!’ Livvy cried.
‘Perfect,’ the men chorused.
‘Perfect,’ Livvy echoed. ‘I think this calls for another drink, don’t you?’ She poured them all another measure. ‘Thank you, Fabio,’ she said as she toasted him. ‘And thank you, Mark. To a successful partnership, and friendship.’
For a second Mark’s eyes flickered, then he raised his glass. ‘To friendship, he murmured.’