A Bitter Feast(48)

“Two duck, two freaking wasted steaks,” Ibby muttered. “Medium well, this beef, might as well throw it in the bin.” The steaks were rib eyes, heritage beef, with mushrooms and red wine sauce, and they were the most expensive thing on the menu.

Viv agreed with him, but his grousing was the last thing she needed right now. She took a second of her attention from the plates at the pass to glare at him. “Make that, ‘Yes, Chef,’ and keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.” From the sauté station, Ibby gave her an exaggerated bow.

“Shut the hell up, Ibby. Tonight, of all nights.” She could strangle him. But that would be after she strangled Fergus, who had walked out in the middle of service and left her to expedite, tonight of all nights.

“Back in a tic,” Fergus had said, and that had been half an hour ago. It meant they were one down on the hot line. They were beginning to lose it, and the tension had seeped into front of house. Not that front of house wasn’t tense enough as it was.

The buzz had started at lunch. A last-minute booking for one at half seven, under an innocuous name, but one that the ma?tre d’ thought he had seen before. The man had come alone a month ago, wearing a suit. He’d sampled several of the house specialties, had one glass of wine, and asked some knowledgeable questions about the menu—all the hallmarks of a Michelin inspector.

It was now a quarter to eight, so if the man had been on time, his starter order should be coming off the printer at any moment. And if they were right about him, they absolutely could not afford to screw up. Which brought her back to it—where the hell was Fergus? There had been too many nights recently when he’d slipped out and come back a little more wired than he should be, but he’d never done it when so much was at stake.

Viv tried to concentrate on the plate in front of her. A calf’s sweetbread with an old-school sauce soubise, it tasted fabulous but took an artist’s hand with the garnish to make it look like something anyone would want to eat. That was Fergus’s strength, not hers. Give him a squeeze bottle and a pair of tweezers and he was bloody Picasso.

She’d just arranged the last bits of thyme and sorrel when Danny, the ma?tre d’, came clattering down the kitchen stairs with the ticket in hand. “I think it’s him,” he said. “He’s ordered the breast of quail.”

It was a recipe she’d tweaked, adding a hint of truffle, and it had since become one of the house specialties. That was one of the signs restaurants looked for—a Michelin inspector ordered the signature dishes, not run-of-the-mill roasted chicken.

“And, wait for it,” Danny went on, his eyes wide.

“One glass of wine,” they chorused, and Viv couldn’t stop her grin. That was the third hint—Michelin inspectors, who visited two restaurants a day, had to watch their alcohol intake.

“Let’s do this,” she said. “And if it turns out it’s Joe Blow from Brighton, we’ll give him the best meal of his life.”

Danny looked round the kitchen. “Where’s—”

“Don’t even start.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Ibby, fire one quail.”

“One quail, Chef,” he answered, without a hint of truculence. Ibby wanted this as much as she did.

Viv wiped the sweat from her brow with her towel and bent again over the plates at the pass. She had to focus.

The concentration paid off. It wasn’t long before they’d found their rhythm and had begun to catch up. “Nailing it, Chef,” Ibby called out as he passed her a sea bass with black garlic.

She didn’t even notice Fergus come in. Looking back to take a plate, she saw him working the line with Ibby, quiet and efficient. He must have sensed what was happening.

“Chef.” Straightening, she set down the tweezers and wiped her hands.

Fergus shook his head. “No. You keep on.”

“But—” She stopped herself. He was right. A switchover at this point would disrupt the kitchen.

Danny came down the stairs himself again, his color high. “Table six. The veal.”

“Shit.” It was a new recipe she and Fergus had worked on together, a slow-roasted rump of veal with a white bean ragu. What if they hadn’t got it right? Too late now. “Fire one veal,” she called out, swallowing her nerves. “Any trips to the loo?” she asked Danny.

“Once, so far.” Michelin inspectors never took notes at the table. They were rumored to take their notebooks into the toilet for quick between-course recording—although some supposedly had photographic memories. “He asked what I recommended,” Danny added.

“Good job.” She managed a smile. “Fingers crossed he goes with the tart for dessert.” She and John had dreamed up a lemon-rhubarb custard tart that was a showstopper. The other option was a warm chocolate pot with pistachio toffee that Viv had thrown together that morning.

He chose the tart.

The kitchen did a quick round of high fives when the plate came back clean.

It wasn’t until service was over that they all had a chance to dissect the evening.

“Was it the same bloke who came before?” Viv asked Danny.

“Yeah, I think so, wearing jeans this time instead of a suit. He’s so ordinary. Forties, medium height, medium build, shortish hair. Very polite. Asked a couple of questions about the food, but not too fussy.”