Chapter 53
‘…As soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards.’
Monday came. I made a coffee strong enough to shock the dead and opened the battered notebook that had carried me through the renovation. One page stared back at me with ominous wording:
STAFFING.
If I wanted The Black Horse to open on time and run like the place I’d imagined, it wasn’t just about wood panelling and waxed floors anymore. I needed bodies. Skilled, friendly, reliable bodies. Preferably local, not allergic to long hours or tricky customers.
First on the list: Chef.
From the beginning, I knew I didn’t want a fussy plate kind of menu. I wanted food good enough to draw people in from the local town but comforting enough that Minna’s mother could order the same roast chicken every Sunday without complaint.
Dom had sent me a list of names. I ignored them. His idea of a chef leaned towards ego, fire, and a dozen Michelin dreams. Instead, I posted a listing on a regional hospitality board and asked Dylan to put the word out through his wine supplier contacts.
I held interviews in the snug.
The first candidate wore chef’s whites and carried a portfolio of laminated menus featuring beetroot foam and something called ‘carrot essence.’ He lasted twelve minutes.
The second was a food truck convert who wanted to turn the cellar into a fermentation lab. Also a no.
But the third was Ben. Mid-twenties. Messy red hair. Corduroy trousers and a battered Barbour. He smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wild garlic.
‘I like food with provenance,’ he said. ‘Stuff you can trace back to a hedgerow or a dairy. I forage a bit. Mushrooms, wild greens, berries. But I’m not one of those twigs-on-a-plate people, I promise.’
He opened a small cooler and revealed a Tupperware box of rabbit terrine. It was excellent. Subtle. Earthy. And he paired it with a home-made sourdough.
‘I want a place that feels rooted,’ he said, ‘where people know they’ll eat something that’s travelled less than they have. I get eggs from the next village, meat from a friend’s smallholding, and I know where the best blackberries grow if you want a killer crumble.’
We shook hands in front of the hearth. He was hired.
Next: Bar Staff.
Alice popped in the next morning while I was putting together a rota board. She dropped a fresh croissant beside my elbow. ‘You’ve got that look,’ she said.
‘What look?’
‘The look of someone who’s realised she’s now responsible for employment law, food hygiene, and how to change a barrel of ale.’
I smiled wearily. ‘Exactly.’
She perched on a stool. ‘Anyone promising?’
I gestured to a small stack of CVs. ‘We’ve got a few. Some village kids, a retired accountant who wants a social job, and a mum who wants evening work to escape the family.’
‘Perfect. Hire them all. Also,’ she added, rummaging in her tote bag and pulling out her own to-do list, ‘Tania’s booked us in at the costume hire place in Haversleigh. They’ve got a massive Regency collection. We’re going big.’
I groaned. ‘I’ll never live this down.’
‘You’ll look divine,’ she said, reading down the list. ‘Empire lines for a long, flowing silhouette, shifts, petticoats gloves, shoes, and wigs if we want the hair pre-done.’
‘No wig for me.’
‘We’ll need a lot of hairspray then.’
I sighed, setting my coffee aside. ‘There’s no stopping this, is there?’
‘None whatsoever. Now, on a more practical matter, have you thought about doing a test dinner before the launch?’
‘Trial run?’
‘Yes. You’ve got a team. You’ve got a chef. Get the book club in. Let them eat, drink, and get tipsy. It’ll be the best training possible. They’ll love it, give you honest feedback, and your staff will get to practise without the pressure.’
I rubbed at a coffee stain on the edge of the rota board and considered it. She had a point. ‘I’ll add it to the list,’ I said.
She looked pleased. ‘I’m available for consultation. Payment in tequila shots. Got to go, a hair appointment.’
With that as her parting comment she jumped up and left me to it.
I absently ran my hand through my own hair as I put pen to paper.
Dry, brittle, too long and in need of a cut.
It’d been eight months since I last set foot in a hair salon.
How in hell was I going to get Regency ready with so much to do?
I started with the interviews.
Mickey: early twenties, cheeky, grew up in the village. Was saving up for a van to tour Europe. Could pour a pint like he was born doing it.
Elaine: late fifties, recently retired accountant. ‘I make an excellent G&T,’ she said, crisply. ‘And I can organise rotas in my sleep.’
Sasha: teenager, studying, in need of cash. Funny in a dry, observant way.
By Thursday, I had a team. Ben in the kitchen. Mickey, Elaine, and Sasha on the bar and tables.
We ran mock services in the evenings. Ben tested out the first version of his menu: rabbit and leek pie, wild mushroom risotto with locally made goat’s cheese, and summer pudding that had Igor’s crew begging for seconds.
Elaine set up the tills with military precision. Sasha alphabetised the wine list without being asked. Mickey learned to pour Guinness with almost reverent care.
The pub began to feel like a real place – a comfortable, warm cocoon.
At the end of one long training day, Alice dropped by with a bottle of chilled champagne. ‘Here’s to your first real team,’ she said, pouring.
I looked around at the dimmed lights, the smell of warm bread drifting from the kitchen, and Ben’s playlist humming from the snug speakers.
‘Here’s to people showing up,’ I said.
Two nights later, we held our trial dinner.
The book club arrived just after seven, carrying a mixture of excitement and local gossip about the pub’s launch.
Igor and his crew were seated at the second table, muddy boots hastily cleaned, their voices low and reverent as Ben’s food began to arrive. Igor gave me a firm nod as I passed, the kind that said, without words, ‘You did good.’
Elaine ran the bar like a commander, checking glasses for smudges with clinical precision and reminding Sasha gently, but firmly, to smile before approaching each table.
Mickey served drinks, his shirt untucked but his instincts razor-sharp, and making guests laugh.
Ben worked up a quiet storm in the kitchen, emerging occasionally to check reactions. He stood at the doorway just long enough to hear Amanda say the terrine was better than anything she’d had outside of London. Then he vanished again, cheeks slightly flushed.
Plates came out in steady waves: pan-fried trout with lemon thyme, slow-cooked lamb shoulder, and the star of the night – his summer pudding, drizzled with fresh cream.
Everything ran smoothly, until one of the plates slipped from Mickey’s tray and shattered at Igor’s table. There was a breathless pause. Then Igor chuckled, waving it off with a muttered joke about superstitions.
Elaine moved swiftly to Mickey’s side. ‘Go grab a cloth, love. I’ll finish up the table clear.’
It was handled in thirty seconds flat.
Alice whispered to me, ‘That’s your drama quota sorted.’
After the book club and Igor’s crew left contented and full of food and wine, the team sat at the bar, eating the leftovers. Rocky dozed at our feet.
I looked at them, laughing over a kitchen mishap that Ben was recounting, and thought: This isn’t just a pub anymore. This is my beginning.