38
Griff
Scotty bursts from the pantry like a kid on Christmas morning. “Martin, you’re finally here. Check out these ingredients!”
He holds up lychees and a bunch of micro herbs. “I don’t even know what half of these are . . .”
“You’re late, Martin!” Nishan says, arms folded. “We had to do breakfast without you, it’s about to go out now.”
“Sorry, traffic was bad.” Technically true, if you count getting stuck behind two mobility scooters doing five kilometers
an hour in the corridor. I glance at the steel trolleys, lifting a lid. Overcooked scrambled eggs. Barely cooked bacon. Soggy
white toast. I curse my stupid cat alarm clock, which I slept through after my midnight grocery haul. Too late to fix breakfast,
I’ll have to knock lunch and dinner out of the park.
“What in the world is all this extra food?” Nishan asks.
“It’s a new menu today, guys. We’re stepping it up.”
He snorts, arms crossed. “Bet it’s a mistake. No way management sprang for this fancy stuff.”
Scotty picks up the tarragon and breathes in the scent. “This smells amazing!”
Nishan eyes him. “This isn’t a fancy restaurant. The oldies won’t appreciate this.”
I wince; I hate that word. “Let’s give them a chance. Scotty, what do you reckon that would go well with?”
“What are you asking him for?” Nishan huffs.
Scotty reddens. “Yeah, um . . . I don’t know,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Give it a go.”
Nishan exits into the office, shaking his head.
Scotty’s eyes light up, scanning the walk-in fridge like it’s a toy store, stopping at the chicken. He looks at me, uncertain.
“Maybe, like, um, a chicken casserole or even a paté? My nan loved chicken paté, said it went with everything!”
A cold shudder rises through me, dragging up the memory of that godforsaken dish. I shake it off. “Let’s leave the paté for
now, but a casserole sounds great.”
He smiles enthusiastically.
I head into the office, where Nishan is hunched over the computer. “I don’t know why you’re going to all this fuss, Martin.
You don’t understand the battles we face with time and money. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“But it is broke, Nishan. Have you seen the residents lately?”
“No. My job is to feed them, not visit them.”
I clench my fists. “Come with me. Now.”
He sighs but follows.
“Scotty, you too.”
“Where are we going?”
“To see what’s broken.”
I adjust my face mask as we walk into the main dining room. I’ve never eaten in here, always preferring solitude. Still, I’m
careful to position myself behind Scotty, out of sight, though I’m becoming more confident that no one will recognize me without
my beanie, slumped posture and lack of words. The mood is like a wake, quiet and heavy. A sea of gray and white heads are
bowed over barely touched plates. We stop at the nearest table. Gladys pokes at her eggs. Patricia nibbles a corner of toast.
Rob stares straight ahead.
“Ask them what they think,” I whisper to Nishan.
He rolls his eyes but steps forward. “Hello, how’s everyone finding breakfast?”
A cluster of faces looks up. Patricia smiles politely; the rest can’t even manage that. “It’s, um . . .” she starts.
“Please feel free to be honest,” Scotty chimes in, more confident than usual. He crouches beside her. “We want to make things
better.”
She glances at Nishan, who gives a curt nod. “Well,” she says, “I hate to complain, but the bacon is a bit . . . impotent.”
Patricia holds up a limp pink strip.
“And it tastes like freezer burn!” Gladys pipes up, with the zeal of a soapbox preacher.
Nishan flushes.
“You know, my mum makes brunch on weekends,” Rob adds dreamily. “Pancakes, French toast . . . even crepes sometimes. Not every
mum does that. Alexander’s mum gives him soggy Weet-Bix. I know all mums love their kids, but”—his voice drops to a stage
whisper—“I think mine loves me more.” He grins, but it fades as he looks at his plate again.
I glance at Nishan. Is he getting it?
An orderly walks past with a trolley. She pauses. “Poor Rob’s lost weight. A lot of them have.”
“How much food gets thrown out?” I ask, face still down.
“Heaps. The dietitian says most are malnourished. Some plates haven’t been touched at all.”
Nishan’s jaw slackens.
“Can I take one?” I ask.
She nods, handing it over.
Back in the kitchen, I pass out forks. “Come on. You expect them to eat this? You need to try it.”
They do, grimacing as though they’ve just tasted feet.
“Alright then, chef,” Nishan says, a little softer, “I get it. What’s for lunch?”
“Let’s do special brunches on the weekend, like Rob’s mum used to. We’ll start today with crepes.”
“Crepes?” Nishan frowns. “We’ve never made those before. This isn’t usually the way we do things. You have a recipe?”
“It’s all up here.” I tap my head. God, I hope it hasn’t fallen out.
I gather ingredients and equipment.
Scotty comes out of the freezer with a bag of frozen gluten-free bread, frosted white.
“What’s that for?”
“The celiacs always have this.”
I shudder. My cousin was celiac, and the supermarket gluten-free bread wasn’t worth a swallow. “No,” I say. “We can do better.
There’s no reason they shouldn’t have crepes too. Get the gluten-free flour.”
“Uh . . . we don’t have any.”
“What? How do you make gluten-free cakes and scones?”
He glances at Nishan. “We don’t.”
I curse myself for assuming. “What do they get then?”
“Jam on toast.” He points to a tub of Strawberry Flavoured Spread.
“Hell no,” I say. The poor celiacs must be more depressed than me.
“There’re only two of them. The previous weekend chef said it’s too much trouble. Same goes for soft diets—we just use these.”
He reveals four tubs of “Dream Dessert Powders.”
I scan the labels. Essence of Vanilla. Essence of Chocolate.
“Essence of Shit,” I mutter.
“Most of them have dementia anyway,” Nishan adds. “It’s not worth making anything else.”
I freeze. A mental image flickers: a thin face, hands trembling over a plastic spoon, bland mash congealing on the plate.
“Not worth?” The words hit hard. “Stop. Both of you. Stop what you’re doing and listen.” They stare at me. “I never want to hear those words again.”
“What words?” Nishan asks, quieter now.
“Not worth. What makes someone worthy of good food?”
Silence.
“Youth? Health? Being in the majority?”
“No, I guess not . . .” Scotty mumbles.
“Food is dignity. Who are we to decide who deserves that? Believe me, I know what it’s like to be pushed out to the edges, to be made to feel that you’re less. And I’m telling you now—in my kitchen no diner is less.”
Nishan shifts, his gaze lowered.
“One day it’ll be you or someone you love in here. Then you’ll understand.”
Scotty picks up the bread bags. “I’ll put these back, sorry, chef.”
“I’m sorry too,” Nishan says, eyes still on the floor. “So . . . what’s our first step?”
“We have rice, right?” I ask, recalling the monstrosity that passed as risotto last week.
“Yeah. Loads.”
“We’ll make our own gluten-free flour.”
They stare at me like I’ve lost it, an expression I’ve become well accustomed to.
“Scotty, grab a new, unopened bag. That Thermomix clean?”
“Yep,” Nishan says. “Ran it through the dishwasher myself.”
“Great. Chuck in the rice and blitz it—two minutes, speed ten.”
Scotty does it. When the lid comes off, a cloud of white powder rises. “Didn’t know you could do that.” He grins.
“Impressive,” adds Nishan.
We get cracking—literally. Eggs, flour, milk. The rhythm comes back. For a second, I don’t know if I’m hearing the present
or remembering the past.
Soon an intoxicating aroma fills the air as the crepes begin to fry. I instruct the men to chop up fresh orange segments and
mix some mascarpone with brown sugar.
“What about the puréed—the soft diets?” Nishan asks. “Sure you don’t want the powders?”
“No! They aren’t food. Everyone gets the same. I’ll show you.”
We blend some crepes into a smooth purée and taste.
“Not bad!” Scotty says.
“What else does it need?”
He hesitates. “More vanilla?”
I nod. “Good instinct.”
He adds a few drops. We blitz again.
He bites his lip. “I don’t suppose some nutmeg would be good . . . ? Nah, it’s probably a bad idea.”
“Do it.”
He finds the jar, inhales deeply. “This reminds me of Gran. She let me help make biscuits when I was little.” He sprinkles
it in.
We taste, his eyes glued to my reaction.
“Nishan, we’ll put some nutmeg on the rest!” I command.
“You sure about that?” Scotty asks. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Haven’t had any training.”
“Some of the best chefs haven’t. It’s about instinct. Palate.” We wash some fresh raspberries and turn half into a reduction,
which I plan to pipe on. “I don’t suppose we have piping bags or icing syringes?”
“What the hell are they?” Nishan asks, answering my question.
I send Scotty out to nick a couple of packaged syringes from the nurses’ cart.
My sous-chefs begin to dish up. Scotty drops each crepe in the centre of the plate like a crumpled serviette. Nishan follows,
dumping a mound of brown-sugar mascarpone on top before chucking on raspberries and orange segments without even looking.
Syrup is poured with a heavy hand, flooding the plate.
“Stop,” I say. Harsher than I meant.
They pause, glancing at each other.
I step in, wipe the countertop, and reach for a fresh plate. “Let me show you.”
I lay down a crepe and fold it in thirds, pressing the edges just enough to hold shape. I brush over a light coat of syrup—no
drips, purely shine. The mascarpone is shaped smooth with two spoons into a quenelle, then I pull the sanitized tweezers from
my apron pocket—a pair Gladys lent me. Five raspberries go on, spaced evenly. A segment of orange rests on the mascarpone
finished with a dusting of nutmeg and an intentional crescent of raspberry reduction from the syringe. I wipe the edge of
the plate clean.
Nishan stares. “That’s a bloody work of art, mate. But why go to that much trouble?”
“Because we eat with our eyes first.”
“What about the residents with dementia? Don’t they lose the ability to differentiate between food?”
My hands clench into fists, a sickening shadow edging in. “That can happen. But never assume it. In any case, food still matters—the
smell, the taste, the texture. It has the ability to reach something deeper. We serve them the best, no matter what. You wouldn’t
hand someone a threadbare blanket just because they might not notice the difference.”
The two men nod and plate the rest in the same way.
I move to the modified diet tray. The puréed version is a single mound. But I don’t dump it; I use a ring mold to give it
height and structure, smoothing the edges with the back of a spoon. I put a quenelle of mascarpone beside it then a swirl
of puréed orange and three dots of raspberry reduction to echo the original dish.
It’s still puréed, but it looks deliberate. Clean. Dignified. Because care doesn’t depend on texture.
After I’ve approved each plate, the food goes out.
Scotty taps me on the shoulder, “Martin . . . um . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For letting me try stuff. With the nutmeg and all. Not many people give me a shot.”
“At work?”
“Anywhere.” He pauses. “And that thing you said—about being worthy . . . I liked that.”
I nod and head back to the office, a flicker of something warm resting in my chest. Perhaps I just did something that matters.
The rest of the day is a blur of savory scones with rosemary, beef bourguignon pies, and chocolate soufflés.
It’s getting harder to fake the dementia now I’m finally being myself in the kitchen.
I almost have a lucid conversation with one of the carers over lunch, but they don’t seem to notice.
I suppose once you are labeled senile, it becomes the sole thing people see, no matter who you really are.
Before dinner, I teach Scotty how to make ricotta from scratch using only milk and vinegar. It blows his mind. We don’t have
a cheesecloth, but Gladys was kind enough to give me one of her thin muslin scarves in exchange for some good chocolate and
a case of VB—the woman knows how to barter.
When dinner goes out, I strip off the uniform and glasses, but instead of heading back to my room to be served mine, I put
on my beanie and take a seat in the dining room at the back table.
“Oh, hello, Griff!” says Tessa. “We don’t usually see you out here. Did a carer bring you out? Want to eat with everyone tonight?”
I nod.
Soon we are served the beef bourguignon pies, an old favorite. I look around at what is normally a gloomy sight. But tonight,
it’s different. The residents sit straighter. Patricia lets out a soft, surprised laugh. Rob gives his plate a cheeky lick
until every bit of sauce is gone. For so long, they’ve been served food that mirrored how the world saw them: bland and stagnant.
But tonight, I’ve given them something that mirrors who they are inside: complex, surprising, evolving.
The chocolate soufflés evoke an even bigger reaction. I hear two women reminisce about their favorite recipes for pavlovas
and Christmas puddings. There is laughter and life. One of the staff even turns on some music.
Tessa takes my plate, the residents’ joy reflected on her face too. “That was really something, wasn’t it?”
I return to my room, catching myself in the mirror—shoulders squared, eyes level. I don’t look away. It’s the first time in
months I haven’t flinched. My reflection shows an older, sadder man, but not a completely broken one, and definitely not one
likely to order from The Death Menu anytime soon. A bloke whose life is being stuck back together with lemon curd and butter.
Flexing my wrists, I succumb to the couch, absolutely knackered.
The midnight cooks with Gladys on weekdays over the past fortnight are probably a bit crazy, but I couldn’t say no, they are fast becoming the highlight of my otherwise boring week.
I’m hoping she’ll help me add Serbian food to the menu.
“Your dinner is here, Griff,” says another orderly, placing a meal on the tray.
The travesty of being nonverbal is I can’t very well tell them I’ve already had dinner, so I loosen my belt, crack my knuckles
and take one for the team.