Today's Reading
SUNDAY
I'm looking at my watch for the tenth time, when in he strides.
"Ouch," I say, "you look terrible. What on earth happened?"
"Looks worse than it is," he replies, upbeat as ever. "Disagreement with an escalator."
We're in one of those high-pitched bar-restaurants on Sloane Square with too many mirrors, too many people checking their hair in them, and Taittinger by the glass. Christian's right arm is in a plaster cast with just the fingers sticking out, the left one bandaged at the wrist. Not ideal for a chef.
He orders a Vodka Negroni, asking for it to be served in a highball glass so it's easier for him to hold, and shoots a look at a pair of young women perched nearby, which despite the bruises on his face has its usual effect. Warm eyes, winning smile—he's never had to try very hard.
It being a Sunday, I go for a Bloody Mary.
"Been too long, mate," he says, and holds out his glass for me to chink. "I'm sorry about Marcus—how are you doing?"
"Sorry I didn't return your calls. It's been a difficult time. But I'm getting there, slowly."
"How long is it now?"
"Almost ten months." Three-hundred and one days, to be precise.
"Oh," he says, then in an attempt to brighten the mood: "Still living in the lap of luxury, though?" It comes out a bit tactlessly, and he knows it. "That little gem of a house round the corner you two used to share," he quickly adds.
"Jubilee Cottage," I reply. "One or two problems, but I'm hanging on in there." Maybe it's all the months of moping around, but I seem to have lost the art of small talk.
"I was thinking back to that gig we did in Cannes a few years back," he continues. "Wild times! Remember the langoustine that came to life in the fruits de mer and bit Kate Beckinsale? I'll never cook on a yacht again as long as I live."
I smile and stir my drink with its oversize stick of celery. A dish of grilled Padrón peppers arrives, and I sprinkle them with salt flakes. Spain is a land of bright colors—go bold with the seasoning.
"Anyway... Hoping you may be able to save the day, help out an old friend. Does Chester Square Cookery School mean anything to you?"
I must have walked past the place a thousand times on my way to Victoria—typical Belgravia mansion with decorative white stuccowork like icing on a wedding cake. Somewhat grander than your average cookery school, and news to me that Christian works there.
"It was after my business went into liquidation—the owner's an old friend of mine. She took pity on me, I guess. The job comes with a nice little flat at the back, and I don't mind having to charm the students while I cook. Which brings me to my point."
It seems Christian has a problem. During September, the school runs short residential courses for amateur cooks wishing to take their culinary skills "to the next level." There's one starting tomorrow, but he can hardly teach it one-handed.
"I thought—if I do the meet-and-greets, who better than my old friend Paul to cover me in the classroom? I meant to bring the schedule along, but it's basic stuff really—knife skills, roasting, chocolate. Mainly ladies who lunch, enjoying a break from their husbands. The sort of stuff an expert like you can teach with one arm tied behind your back." He wiggles his fingers and laughs.
Poor old Christian; he sure has come down in the world since the glory days of Pass the Gravy! and two Michelin stars. His latest failure—he seems to be the master of bad timing—was a chain of brasseries, which I gather cost a lot of people a lot of money.
I weigh up his offer. Chester Square is less than a ten-minute walk from home, so I can hardly complain about the commute. On the other hand, am I ready to throw myself into a classroom, in front of new faces, strangers? I'm out of practice—I'd rather stay at home.
"Embarrassing question," I say. "How much will they pay?"
He sits up a little straighter, tension visibly easing.
"We'll sort that out, no worries there. But great that you'll do it—weight off my mind."
...
