Claire Gulliver #03 - Intrigue in Italics (7 page)

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.”

Group A

1. Helga Lowenthal
   
2. Sam Ng
   
3. Zoe Yuricev
   
4. Steven Greenery
   
5. Antonio Inglaises
   

Group B

1. Ruth Clarkson
   
2. Michael Caruthers
   
3. Marybeth Lewis
   
4. Jacques Ouimette
   
5. Frederick Lowenthal
   

Group C

1. Millie Gulliver
   
2. George Binns
   
3. LiAnn Ng
   
4. Renee DeBois
   
5. 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, dealer’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.

She turned her attention back to her book; the sounds from the table and the occasional laughter blended with the sounds of the Villa and the birds. She woke with a start when Ruth trotted in after her swim. “Millie, you should have come, the water was wonderful. It was so refreshing.” Then seeing the game in progress she veered across the piazza. “What are you playing?”