A Light Twist of Lemon

  A Light Twist of Lemon

Austin Fairclough is a chef of international renown. That was the boast on his business card, which he held out to admire for a moment before pocketing it. And from there he picked up the menu.

‘Right, now, let me see,’ he said. His face scrunched up as he wiped his spectacles with the tablecloth. ‘I think I shall start with the Cornish Red Mullet, if you don’t mind?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said the maître d'. ‘Would you like it with the spring garnish?’

‘I should say not. Now, for my main course I will plump for the Asparagus Crespelle, if I may?’ 

‘A very good choice, sir. You won’t be disappointed.’

Austin lowered his eyewear and raised his fluffy auburn eyebrows. He retrieved the business card from his top-pocket and waved it at the maître d'.

‘I think I will be the judge of that, young man. Don’t you?’

The young man paused to absorb the information on the card that had just been flung in his direction.

‘Certainly, sir. My apologies.’

Austin smiled knowingly and pushed the fine-wired frames back up his nose. He had arrived at Lampton Hall hotel a night early. The official tasting event – the Lampton Hall Flavour Bazaar – was not to be held until the following evening. Austin was dining alone; he had intended to pick up a Sunday newspaper on the train journey down, but it had slipped his mind. With nothing to read he fell into a light trance as he waited for his first course. The dining room, he observed, was a relatively small room. And it was a quiet room. About twenty vacant tables. Austin imagined the room as it would look and sound the next evening: the conversational noise, the well-groomed staff flitting in and out of the kitchen, and the clatter of knives and forks against plates. A lady entered the room. He judged her to be of a similar age to himself, which is to say that she was not a spring chicken. A refined lady, he thought. Sombre, but tasteful. She offered him a faint smile.

‘Good evening,’ said Austin.

‘Good evening,’ she replied, cheerfully.

‘Have you arrived early, too?’ Austin enquired.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said, and at that moment the maître d' arrived with Austin’s starter.

‘About time,’ Austin sneered.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘No matter, son. Go along now. Would you care to join me for dinner, Ms...?’

‘Mrs. Mrs Morrison.’

‘Would you care to join me, Mrs Morrison?’

‘I would be delighted,'' she said, ‘but I will just take a small, hot drink.’ She waved a polite signal to the maître d'. ‘May I have an espresso please, Andrew?’

‘Oh, it’s Andrew, is it?’ said Austin. ‘I shall take a note of that name. ‘Please, Mrs Morrison,’ he gestured, ‘take a seat.’

Mrs Morrison sat herself opposite Austin and unfolded the swan-shaped napkin at her place. ‘What brings you to Lampton Hall, Mr...? I’m sorry I don’t think I caught your name.’ ‘Fairclough’s the name,’ Austin beamed. ‘Austin Fairclough.’

‘Are you here for the Flavour Bazaar, Mr Fairclough?’

‘I am. But I am beginning to wonder why I made the effort.’ 

‘I’m sorry?’

Austin sighed, took a timid sip of his Pineau de la Loire, and sucked air through his teeth to signal his disapproval.

‘This hotel is not to my taste, Mrs Morrison.’

‘Why is that, Mr Fairclough?’

‘Where do I start? The service is tardy, the decor is vulgar, and as for this Chenin blanc... I’ve tasted lemon juice with subtler notes. I do not wish to alarm you but – when your coffee does finally arrive – I would give it a good stir to mix the sediment before you attempt to drink it.’

‘Thank you for the advice, Mr Fairclough. I will do that. Are you in the catering trade?’

‘That’s right. Chef de cuisine for nearly thirty years now.’

‘Thirty years? My goodness!’

‘Yes, thirty years. I am semi-retired now. I have been approached to offer my services as a critic, but I am not sure if I have enough sting in me.’

‘From what I have already witnessed, I have no doubt that you could deliver a tight critique, Mr Fairclough. Is it fair to say that you are dedicated to the highest quality in food?’ 

‘Yes. The longevity of my career has depended on it.’

Austin’s face was stern, but it mellowed. He began to chortle. ‘Do you know, Mrs Morrson, I am never off-duty! I attended my granddaughter’s tenth birthday party last weekend and I could not help but assess the platter.’

‘That’s very amusing, Mr Fairclough. How did it fare?’

‘Dreadfully, I’m afraid. Savoury bites are all very well, but not when they are only five minutes out of the refrigerator.’

Mrs Morrison looked blank, where Austin rocked in his chair with a guffaw. ‘Oh, Mrs Morrison,’ he laughed, ‘you really are a card! Just my little joke!’ Mrs Morrison smiled weakly as the maître d' placed her espresso down.

‘Thank you, Andrew,’ she said.

‘While you’re here Andrew,’ said Austin, ‘do you think we could have words about this Red Mullet?’

‘Is there something wrong, sir?’

‘I did not have a problem with the fish per se, but I did have a problem with what it had been served with. The menu suggested a courgette tagliatelle, but I’m afraid that descriptor was far off the mark. Please tell your chef that Austin Fairclough was not happy with the dressing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t forget to tell him the name: Austin Fairclough.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Austin turned back to Mrs Morrison. ‘That will get the gaffer working,’ he said, and threw her an exaggerated wink. ‘My name is known in the industry, so the chef here is bound to have heard of me.’ The room fell quiet, save for the flapping of the kitchen door in the distance. Mrs Morrison took a sip from her dinky espresso cup.

‘How is your coffee, Mrs Morrison?’ Austin asked.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said.

‘Tell you what,’ said Austin, ‘I will order one for myself when I have finished with my dessert. I can give you my professional opinion on it!’

‘That will not be necessary Mr Fairclough, really. This is perfectly palatable.’

‘That’s as maybe, Mrs Morrison. But there’s no harm in making these people graft, is there?’ He flapped his finger at her.

‘I suppose not,’ she sighed, revealing a light frustration at Austin’s attitude. ‘Tell me, Mr Fairclough; how did you come about a vocation in the culinary trade?’

‘It all started at Conbrooke House; a grand manor building about a hundred miles north of here. It has a worldwide reputation for its cuisine, so I presume you will have heard of it?’

Mrs Morrison gave a broad smile and nodded with recognition.

‘I certainly have heard of it, yes! It had a feature on television a few years ago, did it not?’ ‘That is absolutely correct, Mrs Morrison! The building was subject to a televised documentary about two years back. Conbrooke House is the building where my career began. I entered as an apprentice in 1960, and within the year I had progressed to sous chef. It is almost unheard of within the industry, but such was the extent of my attainment that I accepted an offer as head chef shortly afterwards, and later opened my own establishment – Fairclough’s. The rest, as they say, is history. Running my own chain of restaurants is rewarding but, truthfully, I remember my time at Conbrooke House with the most fondness. Whenever I am asked to recount an anecdote at an after-dinner speech, I will invariably draw from that period of my life.’

Andrew arrived with Austin’s main course and, upon examining the plate sitting in front of him, Austin’s face soured.

‘Return this to the kitchen immediately and tell your chef that Austin Fairclough is not happy.’ ‘I’m sorry, sir? Is there something wrong?’

‘Take a look at that vegetable cream sauce. It ought to be poured across the dish with a sense of grace; not drowned with the stuff. I would expect to see something like this at a seaside bed-and- breakfast, not at an establishment that purports to be a quality purveyor of food. I might also point out that, when preparing a dish, it is prudent to ensure that it is cooked for the correct length of time. What do we think happened to these asparagus stalks?’

‘Have they been overcooked?’

‘Overcooked? I suspect they’ve been through the waste furnace.’

‘I hardly think so, sir. With all respect.’

‘May I remind you of whom you are talking to? I am a paying guest at this hotel, and I don’t think I care for your insolence.’

Andrew blushed and made a polite attempt to explain that he had not intended to be rude. Austin, however, was keen to labour his point. There was a spark of exaggeration to his performance, and Mrs Morrison wondered just how much of it was hot-aired bravado.

‘I think you may be a little unfair, Mr Fairclough?’ she whispered. ‘I may not be an expert, but it does not look so bad.’

‘I’m sorry Mrs Morrison but I am a perfectionist. One cannot expect a man of my experience to entertain such rubbish.’

Keen to obey, Andrew scurried back to the kitchen.

‘It is funny that we should be talking about my time at Conbrooke House, Mrs Morrison. The debacle this evening has jogged my memory about a rather hairy indiscretion at Conbrooke House in the late sixties. It had been a particularly nasty winter, and I found myself in a situation where I was duty- bound to dismiss my own maître d'. As I have already stated, I take my work seriously. The trouble is, one will occasionally make the error of employing a dodger who does not go about their work with the same sense of pride. They need to be informed about it. I had one almighty squabble with this chap at Conbrooke House, I can tell you. Those were the days when it was common for temperatures to soar in the kitchen – and I am talking about personal temperatures.’

‘Is it true what they say about aggression in the kitchen, Mr Fairclough?’

‘Ho, ho! I could tell you a few tales, Mrs Morrison. As a chef I was known as a disciplinarian. I launched a few pots and pans in my time. And the language – it wasn’t just the Stilton that was blue! Times have changed, but I feel nostalgic for the time when I could freely vent my frustration at my subordinates. That was half the fun.’ He took another sip of his wine and shook his head in disagreement. ‘If the chef shows his face with the after-dinner mints I may need to give him a piece of my mind. I am giving you prior notice because you may wish to vacate the room as we lock horns, Mrs Morrison. You see, that is the way one must address people if one is to get the most from them. They need to be squeezed. Firm but fair. I say to you, Mrs Morrison: stand firm. I can sense that you are a kind, gentle soul. People are liable to take advantage of that. You are too polite, Mrs Morrison. That is your trouble!’

‘You are probably right, Mr Fairclough.’

‘No probably about it, Mrs Morrison!’.

‘Do you know, Mr Fairclough,’ said Mrs Morrison, ‘this upheaval reminds me of the time at Conbrooke House when we were asked to prepare a royal banquet. Do you remember it?’ Austin’s cheeks drooped as Mrs Morrison continued.

‘It was forty years ago but I still picture it like last week. It is funny how extremes in the weather can act to cement a memory, because I remember it was a bitter-cold evening. And, of course, entertaining royalty is an occasion that seldom comes to town.’

Austin squinted his eyes to alleviate his myopia.

‘Lauren Smyth?’

‘The very same!’ Mrs Morrison exclaimed. ‘I would not have expected you to recognise me, Austin. We all have a habit of growing older, don’t we? And my name became Lauren Morrison after my marriage. I was married to Matthew Morrison, two years following our departure from Conbrooke House. Do you remember Matthew? He is working in the kitchen as we speak, and I know he would love to catch up with you! The story you have just told me... it bears remarkable parallels to the career of another chef I happen to know. Matthew and I are often to be found chuckling about the characters we met at Conbrooke House. By extraordinary coincidence, one of them was your exact namesake – a fellow by the name of Austin Fairclough, no less. Surely the most belligerent pot-scrubber to grace the kitchens of Conbrooke House in its three-hundred-year history. The current owners – the Dinsdale’s – are friends of ours, and they tell us that he is still working there in the same capacity. Still the same, acerbic piece of work. But they do not have the heart to replace him. I suppose there is a hard emotion in letting go of an old piece of furniture. They will tell you all about him when they arrive at the Flavour Bazaar, tomorrow evening. We are a much smaller outfit here at Lampton Hall, so we tend to load our dirty dishes into the machine. Thank goodness dishwashers are electrified nowadays, eh Mr Fairclough?!’ She laughed heartily and mirrored the exaggerated wink that Austin had thrown in her direction a few minutes earlier.

‘Andrew?’ she called.

‘Yes, chef?’

‘Mr Fairclough was correct; his main course was slightly overcooked, although he is clearly unfamiliar with purple asparagus. And if you could advise my husband to be a little less liberal with the sauce – Mr Fairclough has plenty of that already.’