Critique Page 2

  “Bonsoir” said the man in clipped tones, gazing up. “Do you have a reservation, monsieur?”

  Sandy opened his mouth to speak, but the maître d’ glanced up and whipped around the podium. He clasped his hand.

  “My sincerest apologies, Mr Devanche! Of course you have a reservation.” He leaned in close and whispered, “I’ve had a devil of an evening with riff-raff roaming in off the street. I’m sure a man of your experience understands.”

  “Yes,” said Sandy, shaking the man’s hand. “This is hardly a bar and grill now, is it?”

  The maître d’ grinned.

  “Precisely. Come, I’ll show you to your table. I’m sure you’re keen to start.”

  He led Sandy through a plain archway into the dining room. Several mahogany tables, sparingly decorated with modest candelabras and tiny silver racks of condiments, dotted the room. The floor was a clean and polished hardwood. A few diners sat in solitary silence, slowly eating.

  Quiet, thought Sandy. Cameron would’ve liked this place already.

  His step faltered, the sudden thought catching him off guard. It had been weeks since Cameron had entered his mind.

  “Just this way, Mr Devanche.”

  The maître d’ showed him to a table for one by the windows. The street lights cast a slight glow through the frosted glass. The sound of footsteps on the sidewalk, rather than irritate Sandy, made him feel a little cosy in the warm restaurant.

  “Something to drink, sir?” asked the maître d’ and pulled out the chair.

  Sandy sat and checked the contents of the small, square table: a burning candle in a squat, silver holder with salt and pepper shakers of the same design.

  “Just a glass of water, thank you. Where’s the menu?”

  The maître d’ smiled.

  “The House of Jacob is a revolutionary dining experience, Mr Devanche. Your meal is already in the process of being prepared.”

  Sandy frowned. “So what? I don’t get a choice?”

  The man poked a finger beneath the mask, as if to wipe a stray tear away.

  “We’ve all had a choice, monsieur, and I’m sure you’ll live with yours. I’ll get you the water.”

  Sandy watched him stride across the quiet dining room and back out through the arch.

  What a strange man, he thought. I didn’t make any choice.

  Perhaps someone at the paper had selected a menu when they made the reservation. It had happened before, some joker, some idiot temp having a bit of fun. Last time, he’d shown up at an address for a restaurant review and it had been a McDonalds. He had not been amused.

  A buzzing from his pocket pulled him from his thoughts. He tugged out his phone, cursing the damn thing. Apparently, they were a necessity in this day and age.

  Nicola.

  “Bitch,” he whispered and hit cancel. He turned off the phone and slid it back into his pocket.

  She’d called seven times since lunch. A new record, beating the time the maintenance money had failed to hit her account on time.

  Probably wants the extra cash for Suzie’s birthday, he thought.

  Sandy closed his eyes.

  Shit. Suzie’s birthday. Today.

  He flinched from the sound of a glass clinking on the table. The maître d’ stood beside the table, studying Sandy from within the mask.

  “Your drink. The finest mineral water on the market. Excellent for cleansing the palette. We wouldn’t want that slop from Giordana tainting our craft.”

  Sandy blinked.

  “How did you know I was at Giordana?”

  “We do our research just as much as you, Mr Devanche. Just as you judge these eateries, we judge our customers.” He cleared his throat. “The chef has requested that he serve you your starter personally. He’s very proud of his creation.”

  “You sound very confident,” said Sandy. “Have you ever read my column?”

  “Indeed, monsieur. We at The House of Jacob read it with gusto every week. It brightens an otherwise dull collection of tabloid journalism. We believe that we may break the mould.” The maître d’ bowed slightly and made his exit.

  Sandy sighed, thinking back to Nicola and Suzie. So he’d missed the party. Big deal. He could do without an afternoon of screaming kids, idiotic games and mothers clucking like hens. Nicola would be mad, but she’d get over it.

  That new man of hers, Sandy thought, spiteful at the image of the fresh-faced accountant she’d been seeing. He’s the source of this newfound confidence. She should know better than to get cocky with me.

  In his mind, Nicola screamed, her head striking the edge of the door.

  Sandy smiled and sipped the ice-cold water.

  Through the arch, a tall man, powerfully built to strain his chef’s whites, emerged holding a covered plate in both hands. A traditional silver cloche with an ornate handle hid the food.

  Again, The House of Jacob impressed Sandy. Chefs should be stocky and a little heavy. Muscles and physique spoke volumes about the benefits on the plate. Never trust a skinny chef. If he doesn’t eat too much of his own food, what does that say about quality? This chef had a body made for lifting weights, not running laps, and calm, soft eyes, his gaze set on Sandy’s table. His chin and cheeks were dotted with stubble, and his long black hair had been tied in a tight ponytail.

  Sandy hoped none of the hairs had found their way into his meal. Nothing said one star more than a stray hair poking from an avocado mousse or Three Cheese Tortellini.

  The chef delicately placed the plate in front of Sandy.

  “Mr Devanche. My name is Jacob Enfer. Welcome to our humble restaurant.”

  Sandy stood and shook the man’s hand. Enfer towered over him.

  “I don’t normally serve the dish myself,” the chef continued, “but in this case, I thought it best to make a special effort. We know all about you, Mr Devanche.”

  “Sandy, please.” Already he’d warmed to this respectful man, and hoped the food was instantly agreeable.

  “We’re anxious to show you what we do here,” said Enfer with a trace of a French accent. He beamed like a Cheshire Cat. “So let’s cut to the chase, oui?” He gestured Sandy to sit and pulled off the cloche, revealing the meal.

  Four small dishes sat on the plate.

  “A first course quartet. Langoustine on pear and pumpkin compote, cream of pumpkin on coconut mousse, pumpkin ice cream and mini pumpkin quiche.” The chef chuckled. “I should have asked. I hope you like pumpkin!”

  “I like anything,” said Sandy, “if it’s cooked right.”

  He studied the meal, tasting it with his eyes. The vibrant oranges and yellows stood out from the plain white plate. The cream of pumpkin and coconut mousse caught his attention the most. It had been arranged in a tiny glass, and looked like a miniature pint of beer with a good, foamy head. The langoustine appeared cooked to perfection, and the ice cream had been formed into a tiny pumpkin with a leaf of mint poking from the top. It held its shape, even in the pleasantly warm room.

  “It would be rude of me to ask for the first impression,” said Enfer. “We know how you operate. We will have to read the column in the coming week.”

  Sandy nodded, half listening. Already he reached for the immaculate silver cutlery that accompanied the starter.

  “I will leave you to enjoy your first course,” said Jacob.

  Sandy barely heard him.

  He attacked the langoustine first. The subtle fishy and sweet taste was heavenly complemented by the compote. Enfer was obviously a master of his craft as the dish couldn’t be faulted.

  Sandy removed his notepad and pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled down a brief description. His readers were in for a big shock this week.

  The texture against his tongue was flawless, and the taste, sweet with the faintest trace of the sea, sublime. The pumpkin and pear compote, rather than overpower with their sweetness, supplemented the langoustine with a sharper, citric tone.

  Sandy swallowed and licked his
lips.

  “Divine,” he muttered, and scratched down another quick note between diving back into the tiny dish.

  The rest of the first course quartet followed with the grace of an angel. No flavours stuck out or hid from enjoyment. Jacob Enfer had created a masterpiece on a plate, every taste his note or brushstroke in a magnum opus.

  All four dishes eaten, Sandy sat back in the comfortable chair and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. His taste buds were stimulated by the fresh flavours, yet his stomach felt barely filled. The starter had performed its job with an assassin’s precision.

  However, thought Sandy, not quite perfect.

  He sipped at the water and tapped a fingernail on the table top, thinking and glancing at his notes.

  The first course quartet was faultless…in another restaurant at least. The House of Jacob promised innovation. So far, Sandy had sampled an exquisite starter, yet found it light on the innovative front, and wasn’t that the attraction of The House of Jacob?

  The maître d’ peered through the archway. He nodded to Sandy and headed across the dining room.

  “I trust everything was in order,” he said, eying the empty platter. He shook his head. “Again, Mr Devanche, my sincerest apologies. We must wait for the review, oui?” He winked.

  Sandy subtly placed his hand over his notes.

  “Empty plates speak the loudest,” said the critic and licked his lips again. The flavour: deep, sweet pumpkin, and the coconut mousse…the chill of the ice cream on his tongue… Sandy cleared his throat. “I presume Mr Enfer has also chosen the main?”

  “Indeed, monsieur. Here he comes.”

  The maître d’ cleared the table in time for Enfer’s arrival. Once again, the chef carried a cloche-covered plate he reverently placed before Sandy.

  “Good evening again, Mr Devanche.”

  “Sandy, please,” he said, staring at the next course, wondering… “and what do we have here?”

  Enfer placed a hand on Sandy’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. Firm, meaty fingers with patches of dark hair. Clean nails. Strong. Hands that could hold you down so hard, yet so tender.

  Sandy closed his eyes for a moment to clear his thoughts. The ghosts of langoustine and pumpkin lingered at the back of his throat.

  “This dish,” said the chef, “is simply called Deception.” He pulled off the silver lid. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  Crafted of pastry, a short pyramid stood on the plate. Four-sided with each wall golden-brown, nothing accompanied it, not even a medley of vegetables. The pyramid stood alone: plain, lean and in total dominance of the course.

  Sandy looked up to see if this was a joke, but Enfer had vanished, making a silent exit as the critic surveyed the main. He still felt the chef’s powerful grip on his shoulder.

  “You must have read my mind,” he whispered and selected a fork with long prongs. “Innovative, yes, but…” He poked the top of the pyramid. The pastry offered plenty of resistance against the fork. “How the hell am I supposed to eat this thing?”

  And what exactly is it?

  None of the other diners appeared to be eating such a strange construct. They shoved normal-looking food around their plates, pausing occasionally to raise a slice of this or a forkful of that into their silent mouths. Sandy took more comfort with the footsteps on the street. Rain had started to patter against the glass. He hadn’t noticed.

  He returned his attention back to Deception.

  It reminded him of Suzie’s first birthday. Nicola had spent the whole day baking a ridiculously elaborate cake. Suzie was a year old, for God’s sake. What did she care if she had a cake or not? At the time of cutting, Nicola held the knife over the icing and paused.

  “Come on,” he’d said. “Cut the damn thing.”

  “It took so long,” she’d said with a sigh. “It feels like such a shame to ruin it.”

  “Well it won’t last forever,” he said before snatching the knife and plunging it into the cake. The decoration had been sickly sweet and the sponge too dry.

  Sandy poked the top of the pyramid with the fork and, picking up a knife, sliced off a small triangle with the precision of a surgeon.

  The dish held onto its secret a little longer with Sandy revealing nothing but darkness. The scents drifting from within suggested a rich tomato sauce, herbs, perhaps a hint of chilli. Cheeses mellowed the sharp tang.

  Sandy knew all of this by smell alone, his nose as educated as his tongue. He breathed in deep.

  Something else loitered in the mix, hanging back and refusing to step forwards. It suggested more than a simple, oddly-shaped pizza roll.

  Popping the segment of pastry into his mouth, he sampled the surprisingly vague flavour. He expected Enfer to have done so much more, but it was just so plain and bland on the tongue. Disappointed, Sandy cut away more of the top and heaped the excavated pastry against the base of the pyramid.

  He crumbled more of the walls, allowing more light to enter the opening, and peeked inside.

  True to his sense of smell, the guts of the pyramid contained a variant pizza topping: stringy cheese, streaks of tomato, slivers of vegetable. Still, the smell remained, the something that Sandy struggled to place.

  Disenchanted with the dish after such a promising first course, Sandy lowered his fork into the filling and with a twist and a flourish, hooked some of the cheese and sampled it.

  On first impression, the dish had failed miserably. Cheese and a tomato puree? Any idiot could make that. Hell, even his ex-wife had a chance of making it and not fucking up. Although it seemed Enfer had combined several cheeses, balancing them perfectly. Sandy laid down his fork and rolled the morsel of food around his palette.

  Wait, he thought, there’s something else here.

  Just as the mystery smell eluded him, so did the accompanying taste. Only on rare occasions did a taste beat him. Even a concoction of flavours could be dissected and identified to a seasoned veteran of the culinary world.

  But this…

  Sandy swallowed, and the bewildering tone grew more prominent in the aftertaste. Almonds? No, not almonds…

  Retrieving the fork, he plunged it deeper, scooping out a larger helping. He shoved it in his mouth, ignoring the splattering of sauce that dribbled off his chin.

  Nutty, yes. Earthy and aged. Almost…ancient?

  It completed the dish, elevating it, the way a missing piece can elevate a mere puzzle to a completed scene of beauty.

  Sandy swallowed.

  “Innovation,” he said, not caring who heard him. “Did you plan it this way, Jacob Enfer?”

  He planned to ask the master chef his secret ingredient. Its identity had burrowed into his head like an earwig.

  What the hell is this? A herb? Perhaps a kind of mushroom…

  A crack had appeared down the join of two pastry walls, and Sandy encouraged it with knife and fork, eager for the contents to spill across the plate. He wanted to search through for a clue to the deceptive flavour.

  The pyramid gave birth. First a rounded glob of melted cheese emerged, forcing the sides of pastry further apart. The head pushed through, the insides slopped out in a steaming, thick wave. Sandy breathed in the luscious scents.

  Beneath the initial layer, more flecks of vegetables were disclosed, floating in the tomato sauce. Sandy saw chilli and yellow pepper and onion.

  Nothing remarkable here.

  Following another taste of the cheese topping with a dip of the vegetable-rich sauce below, he delved in deeper, scraping the contents aside with the fork.

  Dozens of carapaces sat in the vibrant scarlet sauce. Cockroaches. Fat and dead and curled.

  Sandy dropped his fork and spat out the mouthful of cheese. It landed with a splat in the spilled innards of the pyramid.

  “You tasted it, oui?” said Enfer. He’d somehow snuck back into the dining room and hung behind Sandy’s chair.

  The critic reached for the water, focusing on a point on the ceiling, concentr
ating away from vomiting. He quickly drank, frantically swilling the chilled liquid around his mouth.

  “It’s a pheromone called blattellaquinone,” the chef continued. “The female releases it to attract males. They tend to positively gush with it when in pain. I tend to bake them straight in. The pheromone combines with the cheese better, such a delicate oaky tone.” He pinched his forefinger and thumb together, as if weighing up a delicate quantity. “It also adds to the texture having my little friends in there.”

  Sandy wiped his mouth with the napkin and threw it down, covering the horrific dish. Without a glance to Enfer, he stormed out of the dining room.

  The maître d’ smiled from his podium.

  “Finished so soon, Mr Devanche?”

  Sandy ignored him and marched to the door. He swung it open and stepped out into the rain of the city.

  * * *

  He preferred a fine wine over scotch, but with the lack of mouthwash, he opted for a glass of the amber liquid over ice. No matter how many times he scrubbed his teeth and tongue, the distant taste of Deception remained.

  Cockroach pheromone. Thank God he hadn’t eaten any of the actual insects.

  Sitting at his computer, Sandy sipped the scotch, swished it around his mouth and drank, wincing from the chemical burn down his throat. He’d developed a slight buzz from the alcohol, and told himself to take it easy. He had plenty to say in his review of The House of Jacob, but a drunken rant would lose him the respect of his readership.

  Behind him, the relentless rain battered the patio window and drummed on the metal table and chair on the balcony. Sandy kept the thin curtains closed. Since Cameron, balconies left him uneasy. Through the fabric, the lights of the opposing high-rise office building twinkled like a galaxy.