Cooking the Books (8 page)

No, I concluded, but it might have exacerbated her naturally acquired tendencies. Poor woman. However, she was not my concern and Trudi was talking about one of her favourite flowers, the
Rosa gallica
, and I listened and sipped and nearly snoozed for an hour, very comfortably.

Then Horatio rose to his paws and indicated politely that he would like to return to prepare for his afternoon nap, and I took myself back to the apartment. I was pooped. I joined Horatio on the couch for a little nap until something happened, a skill I have learnt from close observation of my companions. He kindly allowed me a share of the mohair blanket and we snoozed. There were plenty of things I could be doing—consulting tomorrow’s menu, preparing fillings and feeding the improver, cleaning the flat—but time spent recumbent on a couch with a charming feline is never wasted. Besides, my ankle hurt. Being self-employed has its worries and its pains, but it also has a lot of pleasures.

We woke about an hour later when Daniel came in. He was grimy and tired and in need of a shower and some lunch, so I got up to prepare it while he washed off the night’s labours. Horatio grumbled, turned around, and resumed his slumber. I zapped some frozen pea soup in the microwave. With a dash of cider vinegar and my fresh rye bread, a feast fit for a king. A rather greedy king, perhaps; Henry VIII, say. I could see Henry hogging his way into pea soup. Daniel ate more neatly but he was just as hungry.

‘Nothing?’ I asked sympathetically.

‘Perhaps something,’ he said. ‘I’ll know more tonight. Now if you don’t mind, beautiful lady, I might join Horatio on the couch.’

And he did so, leaving me with a frantic fit of industriousness. That nap must have refreshed me. I washed dishes. I changed and washed my sheets and a few other bits and pieces which needed cleaning. I had to go down to the bakery to the washer, so I read tomorrow’s menu, groaned a little at the extent of the requested sweet cakes, and chopped a lot of nuts for the various Middle Eastern breads. I resolved to go and buy the baklava from Kyria Pandamus. She made the best baklava I had ever tasted. Therefore I went out into the street, leaving the bakery in the charge of the Mouse Police and the sleeping Daniel in the charge of the Stripy Gentleman. Any burglar would be glared into submission before the Mouse Police hunted him down and pinned him under paw.

The shop was, as usual, crowded. Cafe Delicious caters for the workers of the world, bless it, and therefore does a full range of sandwiches and rolls, two made dishes, salads, and an array of cakes and dainties. Presiding over the Greek coffee was Del Pandamus, patriarch of the family and overruled by no one but his mother, the Kyria, who required deference. And got it. The power of little old Greek ladies who would weigh in at six stone in a drenched army overcoat is remarkable. But Del was a benevolent despot and everyone liked him. I, personally, doted on his Eleutherios Venizelos moustache. He whiffled it.

‘Corinna!’ he roared. ‘Coffee?’

‘Baklava,’ I said. ‘I need a whole tray. Can you manage?’

He looked at his mother, who was sitting in a corner crocheting lace. She nodded. Good, one less task, and my baklava had never been truly satisfactory. I think it’s like scones—you need to make the dish for twenty years until you get it right. Then you can make it wearing a blindfold and with both hands tied behind your back. More or less.

‘Ten minutes,’ Del told me. ‘
Cafe hellenico?
’

‘
Metriou
,’ I agreed, ordering my Greek coffee half-sweet. Fully sweet removed teeth.

Another copy of a women’s magazine lay on the table. I sat myself down in a cane-bottomed chair to wait and idly leafed through it. More faces I knew. Here was Ms Atkins again, in a silver and black ballgown, flanked by poor Emily in a black dress which did her youthful slimness no favours. It was fussy and fluffy and had far too many frills. The story informed me that Emily was considered a ‘rising young star’, which was nice, and that Ms Atkins had been quoted as saying ‘she loved Emily like a daughter’. How sweet. And here—well, well—was Ethan the cameraman, in a superb suit and white tie. He was very handsome and knew it; he had a self-satisfied half-smile which said ‘I just know you admire me—and you are so right’. He was captioned as extremely successful, the hottest property around, staying in Australia to make this new hush-hush project instead of going to America where his talents had been appreciated and bulk money had been flung at his head. There was a hint that he was difficult to work with; the story said he had gone through ten assistants in a year, and that said assistants were suing him for all manner of abuses. Pity. I liked Ethan. On the other hand, I reflected as I sipped my coffee, gossip mags are not be relied upon.

My attention was attracted to two young women sitting near the door. One was poor Lena, still looking sodden. With her was a thin blonde creature in a very sharp suit. Both ordered undressed salads (this always annoyed Del, who made a ferocious brown vinegar dressing and loved to pour it lavishly over the leaves). This must be Claire, who sympathised with her co-worker. Claire was picking at her plate as Lena poured out her troubles. I could not hear what they were saying but I saw Claire put out a delicate hand and pat Lena’s plump paw. Nice girl. My baklava arrived, my coffee cup contained only grains. I paid up and left.

I folded sheets, ironed a shirt, swept a floor, and still Daniel slept. Finally I sat down on the other couch with my novel and devoted a few hours to reading about Jade Forrester’s complicated romances. That would keep me gainfully employed until dinner.

The whole flat was so quiet that a passing mouse would have made a sound like a trampling elephant. It was lovely. I was a very lucky woman.

I had received an email from Jason and I was puzzling over it as I rose the next morning to wash, drink coffee and eat leftover muffins and a boiled egg with soldiers. Admittedly Jason has only a passing acquaintance with spelling and knows no grammar, which is why he can read Middle English cookery books without training. Chaucer was, so to speak, phonetic. Once you voice ‘gyngylyng’ aloud and realise that it is ‘jingling’ you’re away. Even so, the email was a mystery.

He had written:
Yu miss me? I mss yu. Fud herer gud. Got jb sht ordr cook. Fun
.
Jason
. I assumed it meant that he was working as a cook of some sort—
sht ordr
, was that order? Short order?—and being amused. It’s texting that really ruins the vocabulary. Of course you have to have one in the beginning to ruin it. I replied that of course I missed him but all was well at Insula and left it at that. If I told him I was working he might cut short his holiday and rush back to help, and Jason had never had a holiday before. I wanted him to enjoy it.

Meanwhile Bernie was waiting below with the Mouse Police, each one of them anxious to show me something and be rewarded. In the case of the Mouse Police it was deceased rodentia and in the case of Bernie it was an ancient cookbook. I poured out the ration of cat munchies for Heckle and Jekyll and, to the sound of crunching, I examined the book. It was, I realised, a later compilation including
The Goodman of Paris
and was stuffed with recipes requiring things like elderberries or primroses, both hard to get in Australia. Some of those combinations were strange. Apple and fish? Fish? I suppose you would eat anything in the midst of a very cold winter, with snow on your chilblains and a diet of very old salt pork and strong ale your only prospect until the crocus bloomed.

‘Nice,’ I said, returning the book. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Some of the cakes would be interesting. We’d have to lay in some marzipan. They lean very heavily on almonds. Fantasies, they are called.’

‘Yes, and they are really not very suitable for the lunch tables at present,’ I said, hating to disappoint her. ‘Let’s put it to one side just for the moment and get on with the blueberry muffins, shall we? Have you shown that book to Tommy?’

‘No,’ said Bernie. ‘I just found it.’

Of course. She did not want Tommy to steal her idea for medieval cakes. Silly of me. Bernie had her name to make as a pastry cook.

We began making muffins, bread, the usual tasks. I tried to cheer Bernie by telling her about my English tea for Mrs Dawson but she remained crestfallen. I did not even think she was listening until she said abruptly, ‘Can I have them?’

‘Have what?’ I looked up from caressing an onion loaf into its proper shape.

‘Those recipes.’

‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘They’re very old and don’t belong to anyone. Take them, and it’s our secret, right?’

‘Right!’ Suddenly there was the enthusiastic Bernie again. I sighed inwardly. The young. So easily crushed, so lightly elevated.

This day the driver was whistling ‘In the Mood’. I supposed that was an improvement.

Harbour Studios was much as expected, at least in the kitchen. Noisy today. Someone’s mayonnaise had curdled. There was much screaming about who put the eggs in the fridge overnight instead of leaving them out to be room temperature to combine with the room temperature vinegar and the room temperature oil. I threw in some advice (put a cube of ice and a new egg yolk in it and keep beating) and withdrew to the pastry corner, where there was a list of stuff to be made and not a lot of time. Mayonnaise was not my problem, thank God.

Today was to be Greek in theme. This meant that I had already made most of the sweet treats (Greek shortbread is heavenly) and I had purchased a tray of Kyria Pandamus’s incomparable baklava. Cheating has its rewards. There was, however, the filo challenge.

Bernie had not worked much with this very crispy pastry so I instructed as I went.

‘It’s as thin as paper and shares some of its properties,’ I explained, laying out the pastry and covering it with a wet tea towel. ‘If it dries out it rips and the filling falls out. Now, remember all you learnt in primary school about origami and it goes . . . so.’

I brushed with melted butter, cut the pastry into strips, put on a dollop of mushroom filling, and folded it up into a triangle. Bernie was impressed.

‘Neat!’ she commented. ‘Can I try now?’

‘They’re all yours,’ I said, ceding her the filling and going on to make the cheese-and-spinach triangles of spanakopita.

The salad makers were slicing silverbeet and leeks. Vegetables were being roasted. Cauliflower was being steamed. This was going to be a feast and I almost wanted to stay for lunch.

I made a couple of chicken pies and a few chickeny triangles with the last of the filling. I loathe waste. Bernie was shoving trays into the oven, ranked with perfect triangles like a geometry example. The mayonnaise panic appeared to have died down. The kitchen smelt wonderful: chicken in red wine with figs, roasted beetroot. Poultry and fish with that divine Greek sauce made of lemon juice and honey. And underneath the stable familiar breakfast scents: frying bacon, grilling mushrooms. Mmm. You almost didn’t have to eat, just breathe deeply.

Unoccupied until something cooked, I took out some of the trays of toast to the table and met the full force of actors, head on. Ethan the cameraman was there, looking sardonic over his heavily doctored scrambled eggs. He stretched out a long arm and snared a piece of toast. I brought him the tray and he selected and crunched another.

Close to his side was his assistant. She introduced herself as Samantha as she took some toast. She was a robust young woman with a healthy appetite. I am always delighted to see people eat happily. Her mound of scrambled eggs was almost as high as Ethan’s and unadulterated with that fiery oil. Ethan clearly had not been introduced to the idea that chilli oil was a condiment, not a food group. I wrinkled my nose at the smell. He grinned.

With both hands holding the tray I could not scratch and I did not want to sneeze on the toast so I set it down and turned to go back for more. I caught Ethan squeezing something in his pocket. I checked. Not anything indelicate. A box-shaped thing. He cocked his handsome head as though listening. I couldn’t hear anything but the usual babble. Ms Atkins, I assumed, was in her cubicle. With, I also assumed, Emily. The rising young star. Poor child. I could not see her rising any time soon. As soon as she stuck her head up she would be firmly suppressed by her mentor. Toast. I went back for more.

Bernie was surveying her crispy filo rolls with great pleasure. I enlisted her to carry more provender and we were busy for half an hour. Tommy was mediating the mayonnaise row. It seemed that a humble server had seen the eggs left out on the bench and had ignorantly put them away. He had thought he was being helpful. He was now being firmly disabused of this notion and was almost in tears.