Vanilla Salt (34 page)

“Where you go now? I no understand nothing,” she says as she grates the carrot for her cake.

“Trust me. I’m going to sort everything out and get what I need to build our future.”

Annette is uneasy about the immediate future, but also because of a question she’s put off asking for too long. Now’s the time to ask it. She needs him to explain how he knew the poison was in the watercress soup.

“Annette, I wanted to tell you later, when we have a bit of peace and quiet, when our relationship isn’t plagued by feelings of doubt and resentment. But you want to know now and you have a right to know.”

They sit at the kitchen table and have a cup of tea. Àlex takes almost an hour to confess all the details about his feelings when he agreed to Carol’s plot.

“There was one factor I didn’t foresee: I fell in love with you. I wanted to stop the conspiracy, but Carol wouldn’t have any of it. She saw that we were in love and anger got the better of reason. She acted out of spite, not because she’d gain anything from this – indeed, as we can see in the end, she has a great deal to lose. She exploited your innocence and her power. She knew that nobody would dare to contradict her and, again, that nobody would believe my version. How was she supposed to benefit from this, in fact? Of course, she couldn’t imagine that her skulduggery was going to be filmed, that the camera would expose her in all her treachery. Mysterious are the ways in which life looks after the weak,” he concludes.

“But I no understand still how you could to know that the poison dish was the watercress soup.”

“Well, since you want the whole story, I’ll tell you, although the detail is irrelevant. From the very beginning I didn’t trust Carol. I knew she’d stab me in the back me the moment I turned around. So I went and got someone to be my spy: Eric. I asked him not to let her out of his sight, to watch her every movement, but not to stop her or say anything. He only had to watch her and then inform me. And that’s where my plan failed. That was your fault. Eric did a good job but, since he didn’t know what it was all about, he couldn’t imagine that what Carol put in the soup was rat poison. You said the first course had to be served while I was being interviewed and, by the time I was through with the TV people, the journalists had already finished the soup. It was pure bad luck. I want you to know that I’m still in love with you,” he adds, as if remarking on the weather. “Goodbye. I’m off to San Sebastián. If they don’t lynch me I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Àlex drives to the Basque country without resting. He knows that this is the last trick up his sleeve. If things don’t go as planned he’ll lose everything: credibility, restaurant and Annette. If he doesn’t act, he’ll also lose everything.

All the crème de la crème of culinary journalism is gathered at the congress. The prospect of Adrián Ferrero’s keynote speech has attracted a large number of professionals and various other hangers-on. The hall is jam-packed: the five hundred seats are occupied and another hundred people are standing, but it’s not just about numbers. It’s the quality that counts. Among those six hundred people are all the bigwigs, all the top food critics in the world and all of Ferrero’s colleagues, the most prestigious gourmets in the country. The perfect audience for Àlex’s plan.

He phones Òscar.

“Get the news out this afternoon, at six on the dot.”

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to absorb whatever molecules of self-confidence might be floating round the hall. His own stock has run out. He gets up on stage. He needs to look serene, but his legs are wobbly. Everything has to be right: script, technology and, of course, resolve.

He begins his presentation by praising the return to traditional cooking, the cuisine which links people and territory, illustrating his words with dishes based on time-honoured Catalan tastes but using cutting-edge techniques and Asian aesthetics in their presentation. They are monochrome, austere dishes, using only a few ingredients.

Àlex realizes that his selection is hardly daring and that his approach differs little from that of many other chefs. However, he is all for a return to a traditional emphasis on flavour, arguing that this is the only way that many restaurants whose success is founded on good food – unlike those of celebrity chefs who sign contracts with the food industry – can combat the impact of the crisis without jeopardizing the quality of the raw material or any detail in the preparation of the dishes. This is a decent, sensible alternative to all the staff cuts restaurants have had to make in recent years.

“Now,” he tells his audience, “I’d like to show you a very short video. I’d be grateful if you’d give me your attention for just two minutes.”

The baffled audience has been listening to this speech, which seems trite in its obviousness, without giving the least cause for optimism. They don’t understand why Pérez-Salvat has given such a prominent slot to Àlex Graupera. Many of them have been contemplating walking out to enjoy a beer and some ham at one of the advertisers’ stalls, but fear of not having a seat when Ferrero comes on makes them stay put.

It’s five to six. Àlex asks the technician to show the video. On the giant screen, some members of the audience recognize images from the
gala launch of Roda el Món and see themselves leaving the restaurant’s kitchen. However, they don’t understand what on earth this is about. Àlex addresses them in Spanish.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here we have the party we held to launch the new image of Roda el Món. Some of you came to enjoy the dinner and you praised the menu we prepared. However, the following day, suffering from food-poisoning, many of you bad-mouthed the restaurant. Although this lamentable event had no serious effects on the health of our guests, it did mean the end of all our hopes in the new Roda el Món. Our management team was held responsible by all the media. It is now time to reveal to you what really happened that night. I am sure you’ll enjoy the images you are about to see.”

Right on cue, Carol appears in the screen, walking into the kitchen. She goes over to the stove, rummages in her handbag and throws something into the large saucepan, the contents of which aren’t visible, but it’s easy enough to imagine that it’s full of soup. As if by magic, the pips, peeps, buzzes, beeps, tinkles, dings and dongs of many mobile phones resound around the hall. Their owners, embarrassed by not having silenced them, grab them as fast as they can. The uproar begins. They’ve just received the news: Carol Amigó poisoned the watercress soup.

“There is no doubt about this. We have the film that clearly demonstrates it, and you have just seen for yourselves how Carol Amigó added rat poison to the watercress soup with the sole aim of destroying our restaurant.”

“That’s a lie!” Carols shrieks from the third row. “That’s slander!”

“It isn’t slander. It’s the truth, and it’s time to reveal what you did and your sick reasons for doing it.”

Pérez-Salvat leaps onto the stage. He is loath to stop the show, because he feels like a kid enjoying the clowns at a circus, but he must stop the congress from degenerating into a bloodbath. Adrián Ferrero is waiting
backstage, but the congress director has his work cut out trying to calm down the audience. In fact, the pandemonium is more like a parliamentary debate than a circus.

“Ladies and gentlemen, what we have seen just now in the video that Àlex Graupera has shown us is truly shocking, and unfortunately it reveals how low a person can stoop for reasons that are totally indefensible. Ms Amigó will have her chance to defend herself, but it will not be at this congress. Àlex, I should be grateful if you’d leave the stage now, as we must now welcome the great Adrián Ferrero, who will give the closing address. Thank you very much for your contribution.”

Adrián Ferrero wastes no time in taking over the stage as Àlex leaves, waving his thanks to the audience. Backstage he stops in his tracks, panic-stricken. Carol is powerful and a lot of her colleagues will support her. However, he also knows that she has serious enemies among the chefs, as she has done a lot of harm by ruining promising careers.

The Internet and the social networks are abuzz with the news and the video that show Carol for what she is. Her own notoriety, rather than any benevolent angel smiling on Roda el Món, has ensured that the news is now spreading like wildfire.

The phone is ringing non-stop back at the restaurant. Journalists from all over the country want to speak to Àlex, but Annette is alone. She answers their questions inexpertly, not knowing exactly what has happened, except that everyone is now pointing the finger at Carol. They’ve won. Justice has been done. She opens a bottle of cava and drinks as if she’s at a party surrounded by a host of friends. She talks to herself. Shouts. Dances, Sings. Weeps.

Escorted by several chef friends, Àlex gets to his car unscathed. He did well not to underestimate Carol’s fury. Surrounded by her acolytes she has insulted, vilified, cursed and threatened him. He breaks all speed
limits on his way back. He turns on the radio and listens to the news, where tonight’s exclusive is the story of the food journalist who, out of sheer malice, has poisoned a hundred of her colleagues. The whole country knows now.

It’s been a very long trip. Annette is asleep when he enters her room. He undresses, gets into bed with her and holds her tight. “Everything’s fine now, my love,” he whispers. She moves, but doesn’t wake up. Àlex is exhausted and goes to sleep with Annette in his arms.

The phone wakes them up at eight. It’s a television station, chief competitor to the one for which Carol works. They want to do a special in which Àlex can tell the whole story. It’s a very tiring morning. The phone doesn’t stop ringing. The media, clients and other chefs are all calling. They’re deeply happy but, for all that, they must be careful, sensible and not miss any more opportunities. And the most sensible response is to keep working hard and forget about any feelings of triumphalism. They have to start from square one – with a certain advantage, it’s true, but it’s still square one.

Annette prepares breakfast. She dices a pineapple and makes turkey-sausage and tomato sandwiches. Àlex eats this reluctantly, looking up from his sandwich at a radiant Annette, thinking, “I’ll never be apart from you again, wherever you go.” He realizes that his priorities have changed. The restaurant is no longer the most important thing, although he’s struggled for it body and soul for so long, the best years of his life, but things are different now and it no longer matters. All this time he’s spent coping with one problem after another hasn’t been in vain because he has his reward, his Annette, who is the most important part of his life.

“This pineapple it very sweet,” she says, savouring a bite.

“It’s really surprising. In fact it’s delicious.”

“I no can believe you never taste it before. You exaggerate this fanatism.”

“No, I’ve never tasted it before and now I have. It’s OK. Don’t look at me like that: it’s no big deal and I’m not a delinquent because I never tasted it before today.” He’s a little defensive.

“You know what
ananas
mean? In language of Indians who live in country today we call Brazil it mean perfume. The Spaniards give it new name
piña
because they want put names of Spanish food for all the food they eat in New World. The form of American pineapple remind them maybe of the pine cone, but with this logic then you say the egg it look like chestnut. Except the form they no have nothing in common, not taste, size, texture or way of to eat. The pineapple it is the most popular of all foods they bring from America to Spain, and more and more rich people they eat it like luxury food. It no good for to cultivate here, so they only have it sometimes and keep it for big festivals. The chronicles of New World they say it most famous fruit in Indies for Indians and Spanish, so they also make it success. One of them say it have such intense aroma that where there is ripe pineapple, all the room it smell like peach. I like always pineapple and when I discover the Catalan expression
fer pinya
when they ‘make a pineapple’, the tight group for to work together, I like it more. It very beautiful metaphor and we… we… all us – Òscar, Graça and even Eric – we make a good pineapple for to save the restaurant.”

“Listen, Annette, I don’t know what I like more, the pineapple or your explanation. You should work at this. We have no idea here about the history of the food from the New World, and you can earn more out of this than you would from the product itself.”

“I have job. I have lot of work! OK, we work now.” She suddenly stands up and rolls up her sleeves ready to cook.

“I’m serious. You should write a book about the origins and meanings of the foods we eat every day. It would be really interesting.”

“You very innocent, Àlex. First, you no can write book in few afternoons. Second, I no know publisher have interest in this. Third, there are many books on this subject in market. Fourth, we have lot of work here. You no agree?”

“First,” Àlex replies, “you don’t have to write it in a couple of days. Second, we can find a publisher or publish it ourselves. Third, the book could combine the history with my – I mean Roda el Món’s – recipes. Fourth, we always have a lot of work, with or without a book.”

“I no know how you do this, but you convince me always. You euphoric and I also. You know what? I no think of a book but little booklet and, well, I see a way for we to publish this.”

Annette goes up to her room and comes back with a box full of small glass jars, about a hundred, each one containing white powder speckled with different colours. These are the first samples of flavoured salt for the company Vanilla Salt.

The catalogue is divided into four kinds of salt representing four cultures: Mediterranean salt with oregano, rosemary and cinnamon; Asian salt with turmeric, ginger and cardamom; American salt with red pepper, vanilla and nutmeg, plus Mexican salt with hot chilli, powdered garlic and coriander; and, finally, the queen of them all, vanilla salt, made from Annette’s precious American vanilla. Each kind of salt has its own label and is packed in a box designed by Annette. It even shows the price and a catchphrase: “The aromas of Roda el Món in your own home”. Àlex is astounded. This is really impressive, but when has she done this? The product is ready to go on the market!