Claire Gulliver #03 - Intrigue in Italics Page 5

  “Chef Martin,” Ruth was not shy, “why are our hats different than the people who work here?” She pointed to the tall, stovepipe hats on the heads of the people busy doing prep work.

  “Chef’s hats, like nurses’ caps traditionally follow the mentor. Since you are in my class, you will all wear my traditional hat.” He smiled. “And, it clearly identifies us in the kitchen. Believe me, things sometimes get very hectic in here, and I wouldn’t want one of you to be Shanghaied and end up preparing vegetables instead of your class assignment. Please make sure you all wear your aprons, hats and name tags while attending classes and working in the kitchen. Also, for the first few days we’d all appreciate it if you wore your name tags to all functions. That will help us all learn everyone’s names.”

  The students followed him from work station to work station as he described the equipment, the supplies and the workings of the kitchen. Everywhere he went, each way he turned they were all right behind him much as a gaggle of goslings follow their mother.

  Finally back in their part of the kitchen Chef Martin discussed the pre-work assignment. Millie and Ruth were very proud they had located and priced everything on the list. Not everyone was as lucky.

  Steven, who was from Chicago, complained that as he only arrived in Italy in time for lunch and still hadn’t even seen his room, he hadn’t been able to find a market. The markets in Chicago didn’t even know what some of the items on the list were.

  “Well, each of you will be going to the market with me during the week and if any items on your list were not identified we’ll try to find them for you then.” He looked at Wanda. “Oops, Wanda’s telling me we’re running out of time, so I think we all have a break until cocktail time.” He looked at Steven. “Get yourself settled, have fun all of you and I’ll see you at seven-thirty. It’s our first night and Geno has asked his staff to prepare a very special meal. See you soon.” He waved and left the kitchen.

  “Ooh, my feet are killing me,” Ruth complained as she limped out the door. “Tomorrow I’m wearing comfy shoes for sure.”

  Millie followed her, pulling off her hat and fluffing her hair. No one but Ruth had worn heels but as she had insisted they were the only shoes that went with that particular dress, Millie had just shrugged. She wasn’t her mother. She had worn slacks, a cotton, short-sleeved sweater and sturdy, rubber soled shoes. She was dressed appropriately for spending a day in the kitchen or roaming the streets of Florence. She had always been a sensible person, but here, amongst these other colleagues she was feeling younger than her years. She admitted that agreeing to take this course was a good decision; it made her break out of her cautious life. She smiled to herself as they headed back to their room, remembering Chef Martin’s blue eyes. Maybe she would wear the more casual of the two dresses she brought. It would make it more festive, she told herself, even while she admitted her decision might be influenced by the fact that Chef Martin was much more attractive in person than she expected.

  CHAPTER 4

  Claire wobbled down the street on the rented bicycle. She was very nervous about the traffic and the uneven streets, but mostly about being on a bike again. She thought once you knew how to ride a bike you always knew how to ride. However, this bicycle had a confusing number of gears and very touchy hand brakes, and somehow pedaling seemed harder than she remembered. When she arrived at the corner she was grateful to stop for a moment. With one foot on the curb holding the bike upright, she felt secure enough to look around. The street was clogged with the usual mid-day traffic all heading one way. She had arrived a full fifteen minutes earlier than yesterday, because she didn’t want to take a chance on missing Kristen. As it was, she sat watching the traffic move past, lulled into a trance and almost missed seeing the little old lady with her poodle. Today she was wearing a bright flowered dress and her dog had a big pink ribbon around its neck. Claire watched carefully as a thick cluster of people on bikes passed. Then she caught a glimpse of red hair through the riders and saw Kristen was passing on the far side of the street.

  Her heart started thumping with excitement. This was it! Today she would catch up with the red haired woman and solve the mystery. She was certain her mother was right about one thing; when she spoke to the woman it would certainly determine if she was or was not her friend, Kristen. She pushed herself off the curb and into the crush of vehicles.

  She was pedaling hard to catch up. Suddenly a bike cut right in front of her, racing to pass the two people ahead of her. She had to apply her brakes to avoid hitting it.

  Too hard! The brakes squealed and the back end of her bike lurched to the left hitting another bike as her front wheel stopped dead. Then things happened fast. Claire and her bike flipped over, taking the bike next to her with them. Several bikes close behind were unable to avoid the growing disaster. Claire and her bike ended up near the bottom of a major pile-up.

  She lay there a minute gasping, trying to regain the breath knocked from her. Then as people and bikes righted themselves she was able to cautiously test her limbs. Everything seemed to be working. She struggled to her feet, reached out to help another girl up before trying to right her bike. It and she seemed to be functioning except for a torn pant leg and a skinned knee, both hers. She tried to apologize to the other riders, but the language was a problem. They waved her off with looks of disgust. Most were already heading down the street by the time she was back on her bike. She was embarrassed. She had wanted to tell them it wasn’t her fault. She pedaled down the street for several blocks but never caught another glimpse of Kristen, the brown-suited man who had swerved in front of her, or even the old lady with the dog. Finally, she gave up and headed for her hotel. She needed to put something on her knee and change out of her torn pants.

  * * *

  Everyone was clad in their aprons and hats, their name badges pinned in clear view. They eagerly crowded in front of the work station presided over by Chef Martin.

  “...so you see this dish is made from only the freshest ricotta. It must be only one day old, two at the most. If it is not fresh, then use it in some other way.

  He looked at them. “Find a source for the cheese. Then you will always have the perfect ingredients. That’s essential to creating this delightful dish. And, of course, you will want to make this frequently. It is simple, tasty and oh, so...” He brought his fingertips to his lips and then flung the kiss into the air.

  “Here are my raisins. See how plump they are? They have been soaking in a lovely desert wine for several hours. How long, Sal?”

  “Since five a.m.,” Sal answered, then glancing at the wall clock, “about six hours.”

  “See what it means to be a chef. Sal was down here at five to soak the raisins while you were all tucked cozy in bed.”

  They smiled, nodding at Sal, grateful they had been sleeping while he had been doing the prep work. Already they were all in sync with the pace of the class. They moved around to get different views of the demonstrations, making sure everyone could see what was going on and they paused quietly when Sal repeated Chef Martin’s comments in Italian for those few who didn’t speak English.

  “I used Vin Santo but you can use your favorite. Now I will drain the raisins, and while they drain I will prepare my ricotta,” Chef Martin explained. And then while Sal translated his words, he placed a sieve over a bowl and using a flat wooden tool he pressed the cheese through the sieve.

  “Make sure there are no lumps. Now add the sugar.” He dumped the little bowl of granulated white sugar into the cheese and briskly stirred it in. “And gently add the raisins.” He stirred the dish carefully. “That’s all there is to it.” He grabbed a pedestal dish and heaped the cheese and raisins in a mound on it. Then he sprinkled the cinnamon pre-measured in the little dish over the top.

  Aahs and oohs rippled from the onlookers. It looked elegant.

  “Here it is, ready to be chilled. I usually have this dish or a variation of it on my menu each night. A helping of this with a couple
of biscotti is a wonderful way to end a meal.

  “Taste, taste,” he invited graciously.

  They didn’t waste any time crowding forward with their spoons and scooping up a taste of the dessert.

  As soon as the ricotta hit her tongue Millie tried to discreetly push it back on the spoon. She glanced at Ruth, who hadn’t yet put it in her mouth and shook her head slightly. Ruth got the message. Others weren’t so lucky. Steven loudly spit it into the hanky he yanked from his back pocket and the Swiss lady, Helga, ran for the sink to spit in. One or two actually swallowed the vile concoction, but couldn’t disguise their looks of disgust.

  Chef Martin was alarmed at the faces. “What’s wrong?” He grabbed a spoon and tried a bite only to spit it into the towel he carried slung over his shoulder. His faced flushed a deep red. “My god, what is this? My ricotta is ruined. Sal, Wanda, taste it. Someone has ruined my masterpiece with salt.”

  Sal and Wanda tasted a very tiny bit, then with screwed up faces shook their heads in denial.

  “Chef Martin, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how this could happen. I put the ingredients together myself. Let me check them.” Wanda hurried off.

  Chef Martin threw down his towel in disgust. “This is disgraceful. Never have I had this happen. I apologize. Please, all of you take a short break while we get this sorted out. Meet back here in twenty minutes.” Face still red, he turned and left the kitchen.

  Several of the students gathered on one of the piazzas enjoying the coffee from urns kept available for their benefit.

  “Wow, he was mad. I wouldn’t like to be in Wanda’s shoes now.”

  “I don’t blame him; it’s his signature dish. How embarrassing...”

  “I tried not to make a face, but it was so awful...” Renee had to laugh.

  “Wasn’t it? Well, even the best chef can make a mistake,” Antonio started.

  “It wasn’t Chef Martin’s mistake.” Michael Caruthers cut him off. He was a New Yorker who apparently had plenty of time and money. He never said what he did and maybe he didn’t do anything. He looked to be in his fifties and was handsome, if you thought his faded blond, slightly dissipated look was attractive. He was very social; he enjoyed participating in the group discussions and he professed to be Chef Martin’s biggest fan. He boasted he had dinner at Chef Martin’s exclusive restaurant, Jean Claude’s, several times a week. That was a clear indication of his standing in New York society, which didn’t come cheap. When he heard Chef Martin had agreed to lead this Retreat he told them at breakfast, he just decided he had to come. He didn’t really cook, like Ruth, he was mostly a fan of good food.

  “He’s the best, and this dish is one of his best. I’ve had it many times at his restaurant.

  “And he certainly doesn’t make stupid mistakes. He’s a pro, the best! Do you know where he’s going after he finishes the week here?”

  He looked around and seeing only questioning faces he continued. “He’s going to lead a team in the Culinary Olympics being held in London. They won last time, four years ago, in Tokyo and I’m betting they do it again. This is not the kind of man who would make a simple mistake and ruin his dish.” Michael was hot, prepared to defend his hero from all slander.

  Steven Greenery was impressed. Millie had learned he wrote restaurant reviews for several Chicago area newspapers and two airline magazines. Additionally, he did freelance work for other newspapers on food related subjects. Strangely enough he didn’t look at all like what you would expect a food critic to look like. He was in his forties, his brown hair receding on top and graying on the sides. He was tall, over six feet, and angular. Boney would be a better word to describe him. And he had already demonstrated he could consume large quantities of food and drink with no apparent affect. He was full of nervous energy and had a wry sense of humor which was apparent from the first meeting. And he obviously knew about the Culinary Olympics.

  Millie tried to appease Michael. “Relax, Michael. I’m sure he didn’t make a mistake. I’m just sorry he was upset. And even if it was his error, it’s really no big deal. We’ve all had disasters.” But then unable to contain her giggles any longer, said through them, “But it was horrible.”

  “And the look on your faces as you tried to be polite,” Ruth chimed in, her laugh hearty, not even trying to suppress it now.

  “Well, not the Swiss lady,” Steven said.

  They roared. Everyone but Michael enjoyed the joke, but even he grudging accepted it had been a funny situation.

  Their time was up and they moved toward the kitchen once again. Steven said to Michael, “Do you suppose Chef Martin would talk to me about his plans for the upcoming Olympics? I’d sure like to do an article about it.” Then his eyes snapped with excitement. “I’d like to go to it. Are you going?”

  They moved out of range so Millie didn’t hear the rest of that conversation but she realized it was apparently a big event in the culinary world.

  “Antonio, have you heard of this Olympics?”

  Antonio Inglaises was an Italian from Sorrento who now worked in a restaurant in London. He spoke with a heavy accent and with many hand gestures that were vital to his communication in either language. He was young, probably in his thirties, olive skinned, slender and with those famous Italian good looks. His smile was charming and Millie felt herself melting under it.

  “But of course. We have a team going from London. It is, how do you say, prestigious? Some day I will compete. It is my dream!”

  Millie nodded, thinking she needed to spend more time watching the food channel. Obviously there was a lot going on in the culinary arena she didn’t know about. She followed the rest into the kitchen anxious to resume the interrupted class.

  Chef Martin seemed in control once more. “This was a painful lesson for me and one you all should heed. The chef needs to taste his dishes. Just because something is produced time after time doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be tasted before it is presented to the patron.” He smiled at the class. “I wish I had heeded my own rule before inviting you all to taste.”

  He indicated the items set out on the table for the next demonstration. “Wanda found the little dish of sugar actually contained salt. Things like that sometimes happen in a busy kitchen. She and Sal have now checked the contents of all the other prepped items, and they all appear to be correct. So we will proceed. And this time I will taste first.”

  The rest of the morning session passed quickly. Just as they were dispersing for lunch, Wanda called out, “Wait, everyone gets a copy of the Group Assignments. You’ll need to know which group you’re in before you meet this afternoon. The locations will be posted on the board after lunch.”

  * * *

  Culinary Retreat 2002

  Group Assignments

  Group A

  Helga Lowenthal

  Sam Ng

  Zoe Yuricev

  Steven Greenery

  Antonio Inglaises

  Group B

  Ruth Clarkson

  Michael Caruthers

  Marybeth Lewis

  Jacques Ouimette

  Frederick Lowenthal

  Group C

  Millie Gulliver

  George Binns

  LiAnn Ng

  Renee DeBois

  Randy Jackson

  * * *

  It was peaceful on the piazza. Millie had moved the lounge chair into the shade where she sat reading the book she had brought. Every little while she put it down to observe a bird in the trees hanging over the wall, or to watch the tendrils of the brilliant crimson bougainvillea, trailing over the arbor, sway in the breeze.

  George, Sam Ng and the teenager, Jacques, headed across the piazza not even noticing her until they were seated at the table on the other side.

  “Oh, Millie, we didn’t see you there. We’re going to play some cards. Would you like to join us?” George invited, Sam and Jacques smiling with agreement.

  “What kind of cards?”

  “Poker, deale
r’s choice.” Jacques was excited, obviously planning to win.

  She laughed. “I don’t think so. I don’t know how to play and, even if I did, I’m smart enough to hang on to my money. Thanks anyway.”

  They had only started to play when Steven and Zoe appeared. In the few days since the Retreat had started Steven, Zoe and Michael had become inseparable.

  Zoe didn’t say much. At least Millie and Ruth hadn’t learned much about her. She was Croatian. She spent a great deal of time in Italy and was fluent in Croatian, Italian and English. Sometimes when Sal had trouble translating Chef Martin’s meaning, Zoe helped him find the right words. She was a large woman, shapely in the way Sophia Loren was, her clothes only enhanced her femininity. She had creamy skin and dark luscious hair, neither of which looked as if it had been tampered with. She was probably in her thirties and anyone could see why the men sought out her company.

  Millie watched the table for a while, worrying if Jacques was going to be relieved of his money. He seemed very young to be playing with that group, even though he seemed confident. Ruth had taken to him that first lunch and had reported he was the precocious only child of a wealthy Parisian family by the name of Ouimette. He had asked for and received this trip for his Christmas present. He loved to work in his family’s kitchen and had done some apprentice work in a prestigious Parisian restaurant. He knew he would never be a chef but thought he would build his own restaurant chain some day. He was still growing; still wearing braces to straighten his teeth and, while very mature for his age, there was no doubting he was only sixteen. The rest of the group treated him as if he was the favored little brother and he graciously accepted their good-natured kidding. Remembering all this, Millie decided the others would see he won a few hands.