Page 3 of Just a Taste
The light at the end of this tunnel is knowing that by the end of tonight, I’ll be making my way to my grandmother’s house, ready to settle in for a week of nothing but (mostly) good-natured family arguments, delicious food and Christmas cheer.
Just a few more hours to go.
‘Let’s go then,’ says Gareth. He nods to the wait staff and they immediately snap into action. I step aside and watch as they started loading up the first round of dishes – the truffle caviar blinis – to present them to our guests. There’s always something about the first time someone eats a meal I’ve made that sends a jolt of adrenaline buzzing through my veins.
I know I’ve got things to be finishing off, but I can’t help myself. I slip over towards the doors that lead to the diningarea and peek out. The music from the live band and the laughter from the guests intermingle as the sound spills into the kitchen and my heart skips a beat as I catch a glimpse of our guests for the evening.
I don’t recognise any of the laughing men and women sitting around the table, but there’s an unmistakable energy to them. It’s almost like there’s an electric kind of magnetism radiating from the room. The men are wearing sleek, expensive-looking suits as they laugh boisterously and down glass after glass of champagne, and the women are decked out in elegant gowns and glistening jewellery that looks like it costs more than what I earn in a year.
It’s clear that this isn’t just any event; it’s a gathering of the elite, and the pressure of perfection suddenly weighs heavier than ever.
A waitress scurries past me, and I catch snippets of conversation as she whisks away the appetisers.
‘That was exquisite,’ one of the guests, a woman in a midnight blue gown, remarks. There’s an unmistakable hint of awe in her voice. ‘If that was just the beginning, I can’t wait to see what else they’ve got in store for us.’
Pride blooms in my chest.
Another voice – a man – chimes in. ‘We’ve been assured that it’s all locally sourced ingredients, you know? Isn’t that incredible?’
‘Simply amazing.’ The woman nods before taking a sipfrom her champagne. ‘Do you know if we’re expecting Hoxton tonight, by the way?’
The man frowns. ‘I don’t believe we received an RSVP, but you know how—’
‘We need those scallops ready in about five minutes,’ Jamie hollers suddenly.
‘On it!’ I call back, pulling myself back into the rhythm of the kitchen. I move quickly, plating the pan-seared scallops with almost surgical precision, and sprinkle the finishing touches – a drizzle of champagne butter sauce and a healthy green garnish – before sending them out with a flourish.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of hurriedly plating dishes, barked orders, slight tweaks to the menu – ‘Could I have the pheasant with the potatoes?’ – and stolen snatches of conversation from our guests. Every time the wait staff file in and out of the kitchen, I strain to hear as much as I can from the dining room.
Praise floods in every time the doors swing open, and the pride blooming in my chest has spread out to encompass every inch of my body. By the time dessert swings around, I’m fairly certain I have a constant glow from the endless stream of compliments being thrown my way.
‘Noelle!’ Gareth barks my name as he comes striding through the doors. As the doors swing open, I hear a flurry of gasps and cheers from the guests, followed by a loud:
‘Alexander! What a surpr—’
The door swings shut and all I can hear are the noises from the kitchen again.
‘They’re asking for you,’ Gareth says.
I freeze on the spot, suddenly aware of every speck of flour, every dollop of gravy, every splotch of mashed potato, splattered across my chef whites. ‘Excuse me?’
Will and Jamie both sidle up beside me with identical looks of confusion. ‘Why her?’
‘They’re asking for the chef behind tonight’s menu.’
‘It was a team effort,’ Will starts, but Gareth rolls his eyes.
‘I don’t have time for this. Noelle, tidy yourself up as much as you can, and then we’ll introduce you as we present the dessert. You’ve got five minutes.’
As he disappears back into the dining room, I get another snippet of conversation from our guests before the doors swing shut:
‘… shame you missed most of the meal but try some of the lamb. Here. It’s to die for, and I’m not exaggerating.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Oh come on, Hoxton. Where’s your Christmas spirit?’
Once Gareth is gone, both Will and Jamie turn to glare at me, but for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t feel the need to argue with them. Instead, I fix a smug smile onto my face, lift both middle fingers high in the air and turn towards the bathroom.
