Vanilla Salt (33 page)

“You know the old saying, ‘Only madmen eat flowers’?”

Annette listens to the conversation and, while they’re talking, slips a bit of turkey onto Àlex’s plate. He’s so distracted he sticks his fork into the first thing that gets in its way and eats it. Annette giggles.

“The turkey, the
guajolote
, they call it the Mexicans, was the product more successful of the New World in Europe. The colonizers they were so determine to give the Spanish reference to these products, so they call it
gall dindi
in Catalan, because they think it rooster of Indies. In Spanish they call it
pavo
, like
pavo real
, because it look like peacock. Spanish people like very much this delicate meat, so they domesticate the turkey, which very quickly they eat everywhere of Europe, so it become luxury food that they serve as main course at Christmas. Most of the food of the New World they think is low category and no for eat by nobles and rich people in Europe. But the turkey it break this prejudice, because it big bird. The birds for table have prestige then, and especially chicken, but now they have this very big roast bird on the table and it good for image of the rich house. The Spaniards they make a party in Mexico, in the square of Tenochtitlán in 1538. They serve the best exquisite food from Peninsula then: ham, quail, partridge and stuffed chicken, plus the only local food the Spaniards think can share table with their food: the turkey. They have very high opinion of this food.”

“That’s all very interesting, Annette, but I’m not going to try it,” Àlex declares.

“Sorry, but you eat some already. You no realize it, you eat it and you no get the disgust look on your face.”

17

PINEAPPLE

Àlex feels very emotional when he walks into Roda el Món. He tries not to show it, but the expression in his eyes gives him away. The poisoning affair was a devastating blow. Now there is a huge amount of work to be done, but he has Annette’s support, which is what matters most.

The fifth chef to occupy Àlex’s job in one month is working in the kitchen, together with Eric. Seeing his
sanctum sanctorum
under the command of this brat so beautifully decked out as a chef, complete with manicured fingernails and peacock strut, saddens him immensely. In an attack of nostalgia and rebellion, he makes himself a great slab of toast, takes some anchovies from a dish and puts them on top and bolts down the lot, not minding greasy fingers and lips. He can’t work in the kitchen. There’s no place for him there. Now there’s a proper qualified chef, who’s learnt the trade at school and from textbooks, staring haughtily at Àlex.

They’re opening in a few minutes. Not that they expect many customers. There have been very few these last weeks. Feeling a need to remove himself from the scene, Àlex goes up to his room. Witnessing
the new chef ruining the dishes he makes so superbly is more than he can bear.

He phones the television journalist who interviewed him on the night of the party, praying that she still has the complete recording. Hearing her voice on the phone, happiness starts welling up inside him.

“Hi. How are things?”

“Busy as usual. Àlex, we haven’t spoken since the party, and I owe you an explanation. We didn’t show the interview because the bosses killed it after the journalists came down with food-poisoning.”

“Bloody hell. Well, it wasn’t our fault.”

“I know you’re not responsible but that’s what television’s like. All the newspapers are full of the story, so we can’t show a report of a wonderful restaurant that has poisoned all its guests. We had it edited and all ready to go.”

“Have you thrown away the whole recording? And the report?” Àlex starts feeling desperate.

“The whole recording, yes. We never keep the originals as they take up too much space on the computers. I don’t know about the report. I imagine it’s still in the files. But there’s no point in going on about it. There’s no way we’re going to show it.”

“I don’t want you to show it. I don’t give a damn about that. I just want to see it. Please, I beg you, let me see it. This isn’t an ego trip. It’s really important for me. I think the report can reveal the cause of the poisoning. You can help us to get out of this mess.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure if I can promise anything, but I’ll ask the programme director. Come over here and we’ll talk about it.”

“There’s no need for you to ask anyone. I don’t want any fuss and, for the moment, nobody needs to know about it. Get it, please, and let me see it. I promise I won’t bother you any more.”

The journalist agrees to help.

Àlex puts his foot down on the accelerator of his clapped-out car. He’s driving with his eyes fixed on the road, as if possessed by some demented spirit. He’s desperate to see the film. Right now.

The journalist is waiting for him in the reception area. They go up to the editing room, a small, dark space which, if all goes as Àlex hopes, will become the most luminous spot on the planet, the gateway to hope, freedom and life itself.

They watch the film. “Look, that’s it!” Àlex shouts. The film clearly shows Carol adding something to the saucepan of watercress soup. No problems now. The TV station can find time to broadcast this, and then the whole country will learn how the famous food critic poisoned her colleagues. It would be easy, yes, but the TV bosses aren’t willing.

Carol works on one of the channel’s programmes, one of the most successful, with the most viewers and lucrative ads. The bosses don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. She’s the linchpin of the programme, and they won’t gain anything from this. Indeed, they have a lot to lose. Àlex tries his best to convince the bosses that the truth will sell, since it’s a sensational story that unmasks a well-known personality, but they think it’s too risky and are terrified of losing their advertisers in these difficult times. They’re not keen to cover a story about the ruin of a small-town restaurant, a matter that has no importance for the country as a whole. They’re sorry, but things will have to stay as they are.

Driving back, he’s dying to tell Annette what’s happened. He’s disappointed, but is certainly not going to give in. He’s more determined than ever. They have to hurry and go for it right now, as Carol will be back from the congress soon and won’t be at all happy to see that Àlex has returned to Roda el Món. Halfway back, he has an idea, turns sharply and drives into the Montcada industrial estate. He vaguely remembers the way but, shit, he thinks, all these roads look the same, half lost in the sea of factories.

He drives round and round and, when he finds himself on the same road for the fourth time, is about to give up but, just as he is promising, swearing and assuring himself that the first thing he’s going to do when he finds a “civilized” place is buy himself a mobile phone so he can call Òscar and ask him where the hell the IT company he works for is located, he almost crashes into him.

“Hi, Àlex! What a surprise. What are you doing here? We were worried about you. I imagine that Annette’s put you up to speed.”

Àlex doesn’t answer any of his predictable questions and gets straight to the point. “We’ve got to hurry. I’ve already wasted too much time looking for your hideaway. Coming to see you is worse than running an obstacle race.”

Àlex tells Òscar the whole story: the film with the images of Carol putting something in the saucepan, the refusal of the TV station to show it and therefore discredit Carol. It’s clear that some people in the media have a high opinion of her, half fearing her and half admiring her, which makes her untouchable.

“We can’t count on the media, then,” he concludes, “so we have to find another way to get the story out. We’ll have to work alone, David versus Goliath, and it will be a hard-won fight. You know all about social networks and all this Internet stuff, and its immediacy gives us an advantage. We’ve got to get this around before she returns from the congress. We’ve got four days at the most.”

“Àlex, I’m working now. They’ll kill me if they find out I’m doing something else in company time.”

“Listen Òscar, you’re all I have, and it will only take a day. It will be good for you too if we can keep the restaurant going, because, as you’ll recall, we owe you a tidy sum. You’re the only one who can do this.”

“OK. I’ll get the bit of film showing Carol putting something in the pot. You two can write the item, as if you’re journalists reporting what happened. In particular you mustn’t show that you’re upset or suggest that this is some kind of revenge. Information must be objective. Once you’ve done that, I’ll get it out to the food blogs and put it on Twitter and around the other social networks. I’ll post it for the 5,000 friends on my Facebook wall, but it all has to come out at the same time, so that we make a splash in all the social media at once. The story needs a sensationalist title which can be picked up by all the newspapers that follow the social networks, something like ‘Identity of Roda el Món Poisoner Revealed: Carol Amigó’, or maybe: ‘Famous Gourmet Carol Amigó Poisons Colleagues in Attack of Jealousy’. I can’t do anything till you write the text. Send it to me by email this afternoon and I’ll get it out to everyone tonight. It has to be written in Catalan, Spanish and English. Annette will do a good job with the English. Keep it short and shocking. It’s very important to draw attention to Carol’s motives and how she did it.”

“I have no idea how to write this…” Àlex groans.

“You’ll find out. I’m not a journalist either. Remember that many pieces by journalists aren’t exactly gems, or maybe they’re some kind of gem when you consider how brilliant they are at messing up the story of two and two make four. I’ll polish it when you send it this afternoon. The most important thing is that people can understand it. If I can understand it, everyone else will. The style is secondary.”

“When do you want to post it?”

“As soon as I get it. Tonight at the very latest, so when everyone gets up tomorrow morning it will already be in the online editions of newspapers. The scandal will be splattered everywhere. And, moreover, I can email it directly to all the journalists,” Òscar offers.

“How can you do that?”

“It’s my job and I have a few little tricks. Leave that to me and my keyboard.”

“Hang on, hang on, I’ve just thought of something. Wait two days. I’ll phone you. I’ll tell you exactly when to get it out. Give me a copy of the video, please. Now I’m going to look for a church.”

“You! What are you going to do in a church?”

“You’re an IT man and totally trust your technology. You only believe in computers, because they’re your truth. I’m just a poor cook who still wonders at the transformation of an egg into meringue, so imagine me when faced with a computer. It all looks like the most obscure kind of magic. I’m going to light a candle to the Virgin of the Impossible, since it’s the only way I can think of to get help and win this battle. Then I’m going test my faith in our institutions for the very first time, because I’m going to the police to report Carol for poisoning the soup. I’m going to knock at every door in my efforts to defend the honour of Roda el Món.”

Although they haven’t seen each other for ages, Àlex and Pérez-Salvat, the chief organizer of the San Sebastián Gourmet Congress, one of the most important on the whole Iberian Peninsula, are good friends. The congress is a jamboree for people in the restaurant business: chefs, food journalists and suppliers. A large number of people from the sector attend it and the lectures given by chefs are a highlight of the show. Àlex hasn’t done one for ages, although in the early years of the event he spoke on several occasions about his unusual way of working. In recent years, however, he hasn’t been invited to attend – not that he has been interested in going. It’s time to put in an appearance.

Pérez-Salvat is happy to hear his voice. “Hi, man, how are you? I thought you’d kicked the bucket.”

“Can’t you speak Catalan yet, you blockhead? You spend all the time sucking us Catalan chefs dry and you can’t even say hello in our language,” Àlex berates him.

“
Hola
? I think it’s the same, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, man, yeah. It’s the same. I was joking. Listen, I want to give a lecture at your congress. I have a few things to say and I’m sure you’ll enjoy listening. Will you give me half an hour on the last day, please?”

“You’re mad! Tomorrow is the last and most important day. Adrián Ferrero is speaking and the hall will be chock-a-block. You know he’s announced his retirement as a chef and he’s going to give us the scoop on his future plans.”

“Trust me. Just an itsy-bitsy half an hour or twenty minutes. Put me on before Ferrero… and then tell me how I can return the favour.”

“Bloody hell, do you have to be so crude? I don’t want anything in return, and you couldn’t give it to me anyway. I’ll see what I can do. I can’t guarantee you a slot before Ferrero, but maybe I can find a few minutes for you. Well I guess you’ll liven up the show. The last few congresses have all been the same, a syndrome we critics call Ferreritis. Everyone wants to be like him.”

“Is Carol around?” Àlex asks.

“Carol? That witch! Your friend. Yes, she’s here, bullshitting as usual. If only she’d piss off to a nice little place in the country as she’s been threatening to do for years, and disappear off the gastronomic map. We need new voices. The stuff this harridan produces is completely old hat.”

“I see you still worship her.”

“I can’t stand her and she’s getting worse. She’s dreadful. One of these days I’m going to tell her so.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll get what’s coming to her. I’m sure I’m going to make you very happy.”

*  *  *

He shuts down the computer. He’s sent the news item to Òscar and it looks good. He throws a few things in an overnight bag and rushes downstairs. He’d love Annette to come with him to San Sebastián, but someone has to keep an eye on the restaurant. In any case, he’s encouraged by the fact that, if everything turns out well, their future will be bright. It’s also coming closer and closer. He kisses her on the cheek.