Recipe for Love

CHAPTER Thirteen





ONCE SHE’D KITTED Zoe out in a chef’s jacket, apron, check trousers and hat (which made Zoe realise that Cher was the only one they looked cute on), Sylvie took Zoe back to Pierre. As they left the changing room Zoe saw Cher protesting prettily against the hat. Sod’s law would mean she didn’t have to wear one.

‘I want her on the fish section,’ said Pierre, scowling.

Zoe felt he must have read her mind. Not only did he sense she was totally distracted but he knew she also couldn’t do fish.

And being looked after by an old flame of Gideon’s who’d made it quite clear that having anything to do with him would end in heartbreak didn’t help.

‘She can prepare the monkfish,’ he continued and then went away, sneering Gallicly, hygiene regulations possibly being the only thing that stopped him spitting.

Sylvie took hold of Zoe’s arm. ‘You may have picked up that he’s not over keen on this TV thing,’ she said, leading Zoe to the fish-preparation area. ‘He’s been forced into it by the executive chef – who’s a friend of Gideon’s, naturally.’

‘Why naturally?’

‘He’s a feared food critic but people like him. Women too. As we’ve discussed.’

While she was obviously trying to imply she was fine about it now, Zoe got the impression that Sylvie’s heart was still a bit battered, if not actually broken.

‘So, the monkfish? I’d like to be able to do something before the crew come back.’ Zoe didn’t want to talk about Gideon any more. Thinking about him every second was bad enough and she had to try and concentrate. It was more important than ever that she didn’t go out through being too distracted to give it her best.

‘OK. Well, at least you don’t have to worry about the head,’ said Sylvie, ‘as they’re cut off at sea. They take up far too much room. And the skin is OK too, what you need to really worry about is the membrane. It’s practically invisible and sticks like glue.’

Fifteen minutes later Zoe was still struggling. ‘I can’t get the bloody stuff off!’ she said, forgetting the crew had returned and her bad language and frustration was going to be shown to thousands of people. ‘I can still pick up the fillet with the membrane!’

‘Just tug it with your fingers. There’s a bit of a knack to it. But don’t leave any on or Pierre—’

‘I know, you said: use my guts as a garnish.’ She got hold of another bit and managed to get it off. ‘I thought the skin was tough, but at least you can see it.’

‘You’re doing well,’ said Sylvie, but Zoe didn’t believe her.

‘How many do I have to do?’ Zoe asked in horror.

‘Not many. Only half a dozen.’

Six! She had to struggle like this five more times. She got off a piece of membrane, which encouraged her to ask. ‘So how will I cook this? Do you know?’

Sylvie laughed. ‘Oh, you won’t be cooking this. Pierre says monkfish is far too expensive for amateurs. You’ll be cooking mackerel.’

Zoe managed to stay silent this time and just made a face. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s lovely really.’

Sylvie nodded. ‘He is, actually. He just has very high standards and really cares about food.’

‘So do we all,’ said Zoe sharply. ‘It’s why we all work so hard.’ Then, feeling guilty for snapping, she added, ‘What will I be cooking?’

‘Fishcakes,’ said Sylvie.

‘I think I can manage them,’ said Zoe, somewhat mollified.

‘We serve two fishcakes per portion. You’ll need to do about fifty.’

Zoe made a little sound like a kitten needing milk. Sylvie laughed. ‘I’ll be there to help you. Pierre wouldn’t risk you messing up. And you can start really early in the morning and give yourself plenty of time.’

Only Cher was still perky after her afternoon at the restaurant, having been doing pâtisserie at which, with her delicate touch, she was maddeningly good. Everyone else was exhausted. Becca had spent her time boning tiny birds and looked ashen. Shadrach had been shaving vegetables so finely you could see through them. Everyone had some horror story to relate but Zoe was sure she was the only one who had nearly been reduced to tears – or if she was, she was the only one admitting it. Zoe went with the others for a quick drink in the bar but was the first to leave. She needed to be in the kitchen at dawn the next morning or she’d go out of the competition – and then she might never see Gideon again.



The next day in the restaurant didn’t go much better. Although gutting the mackerel was a lot easier once she’d got the knack of pulling out all the innards by the head, she burned several of them by having her grill too hot, and later burned her fingers trying to flake them when the flesh was too hot. Before she could think about cooking the fishcakes she had to clean off her fingers, which, in spite of trying very hard, had become banana-sized, covered with flour and breadcrumbs. Yet in the end she was privately pleased with the neatness and uniformity of her fishcakes, and when Pierre had seen them he had just grunted, which was equal to high praise in Zoe’s eyes.

By the time they came to cook the first portion, Zoe was feeling her lack of sleep. Fear and nerves had kept her going in the beginning but now the fact that she had spent most of the night turning her pillow over and over in an attempt to get comfortable interspersed with bouts of thinking about Gideon meant she felt slightly dizzy.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was getting to her too. It was exciting but also terrifying.

‘You either get off on the adrenalin or you don’t,’ said Sylvie. ‘Me, I love it. I love the tension, the sense of theatre, all that. But if you like to be calm with nobody shouting, a restaurant kitchen is probably not for you.’

‘Maybe I’ll get into it,’ said Zoe, forcing enthusiasm into her voice and bouncing around on her toes hoping to get into the mood. ‘You know, I’ll be stressed at first and then I’ll really get into it and come away flying!’

‘Maybe,’ said Sylvie, looking doubtful.

Cher as ever had been infuriatingly perky. The others were quieter but no one seemed as nervous as Zoe was.

Pierre loomed like an evil apparition just as she was cooking her test batch of fishcakes. She’d already had to do a piece to camera about it all and Zoe had noticed Pierre scowling at her out of the corner of her eye. He was willing her to fail.

She lowered the first fishcake into the sizzling oil.

‘You’ve got that too hot,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s burning the fishcakes. Throw it away.’

Zoe didn’t dare argue although she felt a slightly browner fishcake would still be acceptable. It was his restaurant and she did understand that the filming thing was taking up a lot of time and space. She took out the fishcake and moved the pan to the side so it could cool down a little.

‘Now try another one,’ said Pierre.

This time the sizzling was a little quieter.

‘Perfect,’ said Pierre when she removed the fishcake. ‘Now I’ll try it.’

Zoe swallowed, hoping against hope that she’d seasoned it correctly – which, in chef’s terms, she had discovered, meant lots of salt.

‘Mm, not bad,’ said Pierre having taken a bite, opening his jaw like a boa constrictor to do so. ‘Carry on.’

‘There! I told you he was a sweetie really!’ said Sylvie.

‘I do not think saying “not bad” and “carry on” exactly defines being a sweetie, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.’

‘It means he’s impressed. If he wasn’t happy there’s no way he’d let you serve those fishcakes.’



There was just time to do a quick ‘how are you all feeling about the challenge’ piece together. Afterwards Zoe found herself huddling in a corner with Muriel and Cher while the others went off to the loo or for a sneaky cigarette.

Muriel looked suddenly ten years older but Cher was glowing. She’d been doing well at pâtisserie and her nimble fingers combined with a very kind and susceptible pastry chef meant she’d been producing genuinely beautiful pastries.

‘Pierre’s a sweetie, isn’t he?’ she said, sipping water from a bottle. ‘He was so kind about my little confections.’

‘Is that what they’re calling them these days?’ said Zoe, before she could stop herself.

‘Ooh, saucer of milk for table eight!’ said Cher, laughing in a way that made Zoe feel patronised and catty at the same time.

‘Personally I find Pierre a complete bastard!’ said Muriel, after a hasty look over her shoulder to check he couldn’t hear. ‘I swear there wasn’t one scrap of fat on that lamb bone but he had to go and find a huge slice of it.’

‘Well, he’s not going to put up with incompetence, is he?’ said Cher. ‘I mean, this is his restaurant! He’s got a reputation!’ Another sip of water went down. ‘I saw him reporting to the judges.’

‘We won’t be judged until after the lunchtime service,’ said Zoe.

‘No, but for some of us, I think you’ll find the decision has already been made.’

Then she swept off, cool and immaculate in her whites, not a hair out of place and no chef’s hat.

‘I feel like an actor about to go on stage to play Hamlet without knowing the lines,’ said Zoe to Sylvie as she returned to her work station.

‘Don’t panic. You’ve practised. You’ll be good at them now!’

She stood at her station feeling like a horse about to run the Grand National, only with other horses setting off first. Other starters were ordered. At first it seemed no one wanted fishcakes. Then the first order came. She managed to remember to shout back, ‘Yes, chef!’ and then she got started. She tested the oil was the perfect temperature and carefully lowered in her fishcakes.

‘Great!’ said Sylvie as Zoe took them out and laid them on paper to drain. ‘Now just plate them up and add the mayo and the garnish and you’re done!’

She still dreaded hearing ‘fishcakes’ being called from the pass but as they were called more often she speeded up until she was waiting, almost eager.

She also learnt to calculate exactly how long they would take so if she was asked she could say, ‘Two minutes, chef,’ with total confidence. She didn’t notice the camera team getting a close-up of the sizzling pan, or the judges, she was just focused on getting out the fishcakes, perfect and on time. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, the only things keeping her going being high-octane adrenalin and a determination to succeed.

She was aware of others struggling. As she went to the chill room she passed the meat section and saw Muriel floundering, surrounded by half-cooked racks of lamb, and Cher screaming as she dropped a plate of pastry cases on the floor. She was fairly sure that no one but her saw Cher put the unbroken ones back on the plate, but she didn’t say anything. Time and the restaurant was the greater enemy just now. Her battles with Cher were not to be fought during a challenge. Besides, she had to get back to her own station.



‘OK, guys, service is over!’ a voice boomed above the din.

It seemed to Zoe as if a great machine had been turned off. The show was over but, very much to her surprise, Zoe was still exhilarated. Somehow during that long, hot morning she’d got in the groove and enjoyed herself. She looked around. Chefs of all degrees were still cleaning up their stations, sluicing down their working areas with hot soapy water and wiping up repeatedly. Kitchen porters carried teetering piles of baking trays, bowls and pans to be washed up. People started to talk; the air had gone out of the balloon.

Pierre came up to Zoe and she tensed; although she knew she’d been fine really, her body expected her to be castigated if not actually beheaded. ‘You did well. You need to speed up considerably, of course, if you’re ever to work in a professional kitchen, but otherwise – not bad.’

He moved on, having smiled like a snake spotting a baby rabbit. Zoe lost some of her exhilaration. He obviously thought the chances of her working in a professional kitchen were slim.

Mike, their producer, came up to them. ‘Right, everyone, we’re going to do the judging now. They’re waiting for you in the restaurant.’

‘Can we tidy up a bit?’ asked Muriel. ‘Ourselves, I mean, instead of this goddamn kitchen.’ That was the first time anyone had heard Muriel use an expletive. The challenge had obviously really got to her.

Mike shook his head. ‘’Fraid not. We want it completely natural, just as you are. Come along please.’

They filed out of the kitchen and into the restaurant to meet their fate.

‘Where’s Gideon?’ asked Muriel in a whisper.

Zoe had noticed he was missing almost before she could see he wasn’t there. ‘I don’t know!’ she said, and then realised she’d sounded a bit panicked. She forced a smile. ‘Oh well, one less person to try and impress.’

‘OK, guys,’ said Anna Fortune. ‘Firstly, you’ll notice that Gideon isn’t with us. He’s gone to New York to see about making this programme over there.’

Zoe moved her dry lips together, trying to moisten them. New York! Wasn’t that where Sylvie said his one true love had gone? Then she mentally kicked herself. New York was huge, and if he was going to follow her he’d have done it years ago.

She forced herself to focus on Anna, who went on: ‘But you’ll be glad to know he sampled your cooking and he’ll be back to judge the rest of the competition.’

Zoe was indeed glad to hear that although what she would do if she went out now, she didn’t know. She had no way of contacting him and he had no way of contacting her, except through the production company and she couldn’t risk that in case they wondered why. She hoped he wouldn’t ask, either. Zoe was discovering it was possible to have a lot of deep important thoughts in a very short space of time. She rather wished her brain would just stop though as the thoughts were making her feel sick.

‘You’ve done really well, on the whole, with a couple of exceptions …’ Anna went on, her low, modulated voice managing to cause panic in several breasts.

She seemed to be going on for ever. And then Fred had his say, and then they read out the notes Gideon had made before he left for the airport. And then Pierre came on and in spite of apparently hating the whole television thing, seemed intent on dragging out his five minutes of fame as long as possible.

Everyone was extra nervous. Zoe could feel Muriel beside her almost trembling. This was harder on her, Zoe told herself firmly, to stop self-pity creeping up from her aching feet and swamping her. Muriel was older than the rest of them, she probably didn’t have the same stamina. But Muriel’s heart wasn’t involved. Or if it was, she had kept it well hidden. She crossed her fingers and prayed, very hard.

At last Fred said, ‘This is the end of the line for one of you. But when you leave, leave with your head high knowing you cook better than most people in this country and you’ve learnt more in this past fortnight about cooking than many people learn in a lifetime.’

It was a bit clichéd, thought Zoe, but he was trying to boost the morale of whoever did have to make the walk of shame, taking off their apron, unbuttoning their chef’s jacket.

‘And the person not going through to the next round is … Muriel!’

At first Zoe just felt shocked. Muriel couldn’t go! She was her friend! Her ally! If Muriel went it would just be just Cher, Becca and the boys, Shadrach, Bill and Alan, left.

Then she realised if it was Muriel, it wasn’t her. Relief followed by guilt threatened to swamp her. She turned to Muriel and hugged her. They both started to cry.

‘I’m all right, really,’ Muriel said, recovering first. ‘I’m just tired! I’m so happy to have lasted this long but I didn’t cope well in there …’

There was a lot of hugging and weeping and general congratulation before they were lined up again to do the final shot, when the remaining contestants looked relieved as Muriel walked away.



‘Well, I thought that was fun!’ said Cher as they gathered in the foyer of the hotel, waiting for the taxi to the station. ‘I don’t know why you all thought it was so hard!’

Zoe was very glad Muriel had already left. A car had driven her to her home where her family would be there to greet her.

‘We weren’t all fiddling about with bits of whipped cream and pastry,’ said Becca, empowered by her recent achievements.

‘There’s a lot more to pastry work than just that,’ said Cher seriously.

‘Whatever, we’re lucky to be left in. Muriel was a great cook,’ said Alan.

‘Not as great as all that,’ said Cher. Zoe didn’t have the heart to reply.

Shadrach yawned and stretched so widely Zoe heard his joints crack. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve got a few days off. I want some of my mum’s home cooking.’

‘What do you want most?’ asked Zoe, curious.

‘Macaroni cheese with crispy onions and bacon on top, with breadcrumbs,’ said Shadrach instantly. ‘I’ve been dreaming of it for days.’

Zoe considered. ‘I think it has to be apple pie for me. With pastry top and bottom. My mother makes great pastry.’

‘Baked beans with hot chilli sauce stirred into them,’ said Bill. ‘Hey! I’m hungry!’

The others laughed. At least the competition hadn’t put them off food – apart from Cher, that is, but she didn’t eat much anyway. Zoe realised she’d grown rather fond of everyone. She’d miss Muriel. She couldn’t help wishing it had been Cher who’d been knocked out. She just seemed to get more and more smug. Perhaps after a few days away from her Zoe would feel more charitable and less irritated.

They’d arrived back at Somerby, collected a few belongings and gone their separate ways. Cher had been picked up in an expensive-looking car, giving them all a cheery little wave as she went. Bill had given Becca a lift to the station. Alan and Shadrach were leaving in the morning. Zoe said a quick hello and goodbye to Fenella and Rupert, who were delighted she was still in the competition, and then got into her little car and headed home.