Critique Page 4

  “…and a muffin,” said the man. “What kind of muffins you have? Blueberry?”

  Jeremy.

  His ex-wife’s partner studied the few baked goods with interest.

  Sandy hated the beak nose and the stubble that dotted his cheeks. He had time to stick that beak into other people’s business but not a moment to shave? His hair, a thick black mane that reached his collar, was also ridiculous for a man his age.

  Spending my child support money again.

  Sandy lowered the umbrella and held it to the side as he silently walked past, hiding him from the smarmy accountant’s view.

  “White chocolate? Hell yeah, I’ll take two. My daughter loves white chocolate.”

  My daughter?

  Sandy walked faster, his anger jumping between Jeremy’s self-proclaimed ownership of Suzie and the thought of her eating mass-made factory-produced shit. The coffee might be exceptional, but the muffins were fucking bought in bulk.

  “Sandy?”

  “Shit,” he spat, and holding the umbrella rigid, lengthened his stride.

  “I know it’s you,” Jeremy called. A pause. “She cried all night, Sandy, all night long!”

  Sandy kept his pace, reaching the last of the tables. People were certainly looking now. He started on the path leading out of the park.

  “It was her birthday!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Sandy whispered, his legs suddenly feeling empty. His heart stepped up, driven more from the conflict than the increased exercise.

  The accountant and the coffee vendor exchanged a few words.

  “Yeah,” said Jeremy, “I know him. It’s the fag my partner was married to.”

  “You’re dead,” said Sandy.

  Seething, he left the park and, crossing the busy road, found himself back in the crowded rat race. People walked down the street in their own worlds. With it being lunchtime, some ate as they walked.

  He strode along the sidewalk, forcing people to walk around him.

  His stomach grumbled.

  * * *

  The entrance to The House of Jacob was locked, the foyer shadowed.

  Sandy rattled the door a final time, as if it might suddenly swing open in his hand. He’d assumed the restaurant would be open for the lunch trade. Evidently not.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, earning a glance from a passing woman. He sneered at her.

  One of the more mainstream and busy restaurants would have to suffice, and Sandy hoped his reputation could get around any seating problems. No one was game enough to decline the harshest critic in the city over the lack of a reservation. He turned, heading for a restaurant five blocks away. Their fish had been above average, and they were dying for a second crack of the whip.

  The rattle of keys made him turn back around.

  Jacob Enfer filled the glass of the doorway, dressed in a casual polo shirt and khakis. He swung the door open.

  “Mr Devanche,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Sorry if I disturbed you,” said Sandy. “I thought you’d be open for lunch service, but I guess not. I can come back later-”

  “Nonsense!” said Enfer. “Come inside. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to serve but I think I can rustle up a coffee if you’re interested?”

  Sandy agreed to the offer and stepped inside. Enfer closed the door and swept his ponytail over his shoulder.

  The chef led Sandy through the dark foyer. The podium stood vacant, its reservation book open and ready for the evening’s diners. Enfer stayed away from the archway, which led into the silent dining room, and instead headed left, to a discreet door painted the same carmine shade as the plain walls. He opened it into a bright room.

  “Where the magic happens,” he said. “Come. Pull up a stool.”

  Sandy walked past him and into the kitchen.

  With such pioneering cookery practiced in this very room, Sandy felt a little disappointed. He’d expected something akin to a laboratory or maybe an artist’s studio. At the very least, surely Enfer operated in a state-of-the-art kitchen.

  He stared at the rustic, claustrophobic room, with its hanging pans and work-worn stove tops. A few boxes of vegetables lay in the corner, the carrot tops hanging over the side like hag’s hair.

  Enfer gestured to a couple of stools over by the side by a clear work surface.

  Sandy made his way over and sat down, while the chef opened a low cupboard and pulled out an ancient kettle. He filled it from a tap and lit a gas burner.

  “So,” he said, leaning against the stove, “what brings the mighty critic back to my humble restaurant? Just passing and desperate to get out of the rain?” He smiled, and Sandy knew he’d meant no barbs to his words.

  “I just came to apologise,” he said. “True, things might have been a little different if I’d had warning about some of the ingredients you use…” The taste still remained, tattooed on his tongue. “…but there was no need to react like I did.”

  “People react differently to my dishes,” said Enfer. From another cupboard, he placed two mugs down and dropped a spoonful of coffee into each one. It surprised Sandy that a chef of his standing and skill would happily drink instant.

  “Yes, but…” He inspected his nails to avert his eyes. “I had a momentary loss of manners.”

  Enfer gave a hearty laugh.

  “I’ve had worse, believe me! At least you didn’t lose your starter.” He shook his head. “That’s happened before, with a leading politician for that matter.” He tapped his nose and smiled. “All over his shoes! C’etait magnifique!”

  Sandy’s mood lightened, his encounter with Jeremy forgotten.

  “Deception…I suppose I could have removed the insect bodies and kept the taste, but as I said, some like the added texture.”

  “I thought the presence of the roaches was the inspiration of the name,” said Sandy.

  “No. I see no literal deception in any ingredient. Anything can be eaten…metal, diamonds, cyanide…although some may have a very nasty result, everything can go through the process of being eaten. Therefore, everything I see is an ingredient. Deception has a simpler concept. The dish has an interesting shape, but that’s just my artistic whim, I suppose. No, I wanted the exterior to be dull, tasteless…ordinary. While inside, a turmoil of flavours that somehow work to create this rich character. Like how the plainest of men can harbour the darkest of secrets.”

  Sandy listened intently to every word. Not only could he use this analysis for his column, but it was good to talk about the art of food with someone who shared his passion.

  “You put a lot of thought into your creations,” he said. “More than most chefs, concerned about spices and texture and flavour. You take into account the symbolism of food. I believe you can tell a lot about one’s personality from the way he likes his steak. Should a diner be given a full menu in this restaurant, I’m sure his selection would interest any psychologist worth his salt.”

  Enfer waggled his finger.

  “We never have a full menu. Each dish is specifically chosen for each customer.”

  He picked up the not-quite-boiled kettle and poured hot water into each mug. After a stir, he handed over the unsweetened black coffee.

  “Thank you,” said Sandy. “Don’t you feel the approach is a little…forceful? You take away the diner’s free will.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” said Enfer. “They have the choice to visit my restaurant and they have the free will to respond to the dishes as their heart and soul see fit. To give a customer too much choice may instil a sense of regret. Everyone wants what everyone else is having. Some are never happy with their own decisions.”

  “I wish I picked what you chose,” said Sandy, and sipped his drink. It was hot, but not too hot, and surprisingly good for an instant.

  “Oui,” said Enfer, drinking from his mug. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow, and the chef winced. He lowered the mug. “Sorry about the coffee. You getting that bitterness?”
>
  Sandy nodded, although the coffee seemed quite smooth to his educated taste buds.

  “I’m a little pressed for time,” said Enfer and placed his mug on the work surface. He walked to the back of the small kitchen to a tall, wide refrigerator. “I have much to do before we open for dinner service. Benoit is late again and I’m in the process of creating a new dessert.”

  Sandy sat higher in his seat like a good schoolboy at full attention. The chef opened the refrigerator, and Sandy studied his broad back and shoulders. The polo shirt hugged his muscles, his biceps pushing the fabric up his arms. The khakis were noticeably tight about his rear as he bent slightly to retrieve something on a low shelf.

  Enfer turned. In the plate he held, sat an apple pie.

  “It’s an apple pie,” said Sandy flatly.

  “Precisely,” said Enfer, carrying it over, “and I call it Eden.”

  He laid the plate between the two cups.

  Sandy leaned sideways on his stool, lowering his eye line. Closer to the pie, he examined the upper crust and the spring-bud coloured filling. It glistened within a cut triangle. Someone had obviously taken a slice.

  “Eden,” said Sandy, tasting the title. “Is it forbidden?”

  “But the serpent said to the woman, You will not die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Enfer sniffed. “Might open a few eyes to the good and evil of food. That’s my mission anyway. For the moment, until it is perfected, it is forbidden.”

  “A perfectionist.” Sandy inhaled, trying to catch a hint of the secrets the dessert held. Enfer would not design a perfectly ordinary apple pie. “Indulge me. What’s the hook?”

  The sound of a door rattling open came from the foyer, accompanied by the noise of the rain hitting the sidewalk.

  Both men looked to the kitchen door.

  “Benoit. Finally,” said Enfer. “Thought I’d have to prepare the restaurant myself.”

  “Please,” said Sandy, desperate to get his answer before they were interrupted. “I need to know. What’s in the pie?”

  Enfer glanced at the door again and approached Sandy’s stool. He bent and pressed his lips against the critic’s ear.

  Sandy closed his eyes, sparks cascading down the side of his neck, raising the hairs in shivering waves.

  “Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made,” Enfer whispered. “And that also goes for the flavour of its venom. A perfect accompaniment to any fruit.”

  He straightened, smiling down.

  Sandy stared at him, still feeling the tickle of his stubble against his ear. Was Enfer telling the truth? Had he really baked snake venom into a pie?

  I wonder what it tastes like…

  “Ete-vous ici? Jacob?” called a sharp voice from the next room. “Je deteste la pluie!”

  Enfer rolled his eyes. “Benoit. He never quits complaining about the rain. Excuse me.”

  He walked out and into the foyer, and an exchange of quickly spoken French followed.

  Alone in the kitchen, Sandy drummed his fingers on the table top and finished the rest of his coffee. He placed it next to the pie.

  “Snake venom in a dessert,” he said. “He can’t be serious.”

  Yet Enfer had been serious enough to cook cockroaches into a main course, and that had tasted so…intriguing. If Enfer returned to the kitchen with another pyramid of pastry on offer, Sandy decided he’d partake, despite the macabre contents. So why shouldn’t an apple pie laced with snake venom be any less delicious?

  The connoisseur in him had to know.

  “No,” he said. “I shouldn’t.”

  Thoughts of poisoning mixed in with the temptation, and he studied the triangle of exposed filling. Someone had sampled a piece, probably Enfer himself. Every good chef tastes his own food before any diner.

  “He said until it is perfected,” Sandy whispered. “So he has sampled it…”

  The rapid French conversation seemed to move away, Enfer and Benoit perhaps entering the dining room…

  After a quick check of the empty doorway, Sandy ran his fingertip lightly over an edge of stewed apple as not to leave a mark, and stuck it in his mouth.

  He closed his eyes.

  Apples. The taste sent him hurtling through time to his uncle’s farm. As a kid, he’d played in the orchard with his older cousin, a strapping lad of thirteen. They’d eaten apples all day long. Enjoying his memories, Sandy sucked on his finger, picking up the sweet, herbal hint of cinnamon. The venom, if Enfer had indeed included it, tasted saccharine, like the great Chef had melted down cheap candy and used it to glaze the fruit. It seduced his senses with syrupy sweetness.

  Jeremy could go to hell and take the bitch Nicola with him. Screw Jack and his paper. And Cameron…well, Cameron was dead, but that didn’t matter.

  Sandy rocked back on his stool, elated. The mere taste of the pie uplifted him beyond the downpours that pattered on the roof. The lonely apartment didn’t matter. This mattered.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sandy stopped and opened his eyes.

  Enfer and Benoit, the maître d’ still wearing his mask, stood just inside the kitchen staring at him. The chef looked at the pie and back to Sandy.

  “You tasted?”

  Finger still in his mouth, Sandy shook his head. He lowered his hand.

  “Toothache,” he said, his rush dissipated. “It’s been plaguing me all day.”

  Enfer smiled, once again kind and warm.

  “Not from my Ile Flottante I hope?”

  Benoit squeezed past his employer and to a narrow cupboard. He opened it, and began to remove candles from a box inside.

  “I see the apology was accepted,” he said in perfect English.

  “Indeed it was,” said Enfer. He rested his hand on Sandy’s shoulder. “And now I think Mr Devanche is more than a food critic. He’s now a friend of The House of Jacob.” He removed his hand and pulled his ponytail tighter. “And I think you’re ready for the next step.”

  Sandy eyed the pie, hoping that Enfer meant offering him a slice. Or something else. Anything he’d prepared…

  The chef dug into the pocket of his khakis and pulled out a small envelope, the size of a credit card. He passed it to Sandy.

  “Call this another apology. You come to my restaurant a second time, yet you go away hungry. Hopefully this will make up for it. Eleven. After we close. I hope we can see you there.”

  Sandy held the envelope. The taste of intense apple on his tongue, he smiled.

  * * *

  The skyscrapers, a wide row of irregular squared teeth, bit into the starless night sky. Sandy swept the curtains closed, hiding the balcony. Out of sight, out of mind.

  He returned to his pacing of the apartment.

  His column filled half of the computer screen, having been abandoned some hours previous. Jack could go fuck himself. He’d have the column in good time.

  When it’s ready, thought Sandy. He checked the clock in the lower corner of the monitor. It showed twenty past nine. The restaurant would still be open. Plenty of time before eleven.

  House of Jacob Food Appreciation Society, the card had read, with an address written underneath in loopy handwriting.

  Sandy ran his tongue over his teeth. Dying memories lingered on the enamel: a hint of Eden, the earthy trace of Deception. His stomach growled from the lack of food that day. Why sully the whisper of Enfer’s genius, which echoed around his tongue and lips?

  On the way to the kitchen, Sandy checked himself in the dress mirror in the short adjoining hallway.

  His dark violet shirt had been immaculately ironed, with creases a general would be proud to sport. With the shirt already a tight fit, the pinstripes complemented his lean figure further down to his narrow waist. His best trousers had also been rigorously ironed, inspected, and ironed again. In his career as a food critic, he’d never been invited to a food society
meeting before. For Enfer to include him seemed an honour. Should these people be regular clients to The House of Jacob, Sandy wanted in. You only get one first impression.

  Into the kitchen, he headed straight for the refrigerator, ignoring the creamy mess that streaked the work surfaces and the used saucepan lying in the sink. Next to his coffee machine lay a pristine, decorated saucer. A few vanilla pods and a meringue sat beside on a sheet of kitchen towel, like instruments ready for surgery. A cookery book, its pages spread, sat in a pool of milk.

  Sandy, heart racing with anticipation, opened the refrigerator. The light blinked on, revealing the sparse contents. On the middle shelf, standing proud, was the martini glass Benoit had delivered. Cleaned and filled with Sandy’s own attempt at Crème Anglaise, it had been chilling for a few hours.

  Sandy reached up and delicately removed it, placing it on the saucer. The consistency at least matched Enfer’s dessert.

  “So far, so good,” he told himself.

  He picked up the meringue float and carefully lowered it into the cold, set crème, giving it a little push to half submerge it. The meringue may not appear necessary, nor the vanilla pods he angled across the float, but he wanted to emulate Enfer to the letter. These extras must surely contribute to the flavour on a miniscule level, but he craved it.

  Enfer’s special ingredient in the Ile Flottante, Sandy had produced himself. Unsure of the quantity, he’d managed a paltry squirt into the vanilla essence and stirred this mixture into the milk. He saw no quandary with consuming his own seed for the sake of culinary paradise.

  He wondered who’d supplied it for last night’s treat. Enfer himself? Or had Benoit been ordered to provide the missing ingredient?

  Sandy picked up the final tool on the kitchen towel: a solid silver dessert spoon. He scooped out a small amount of Crème Anglaise, raised it to his lips and sampled it with his tongue.

  His taste buds seemed to recoil from the overbearing vanilla. It drowned out everything with its sickly-sweet haze.

  “No,” he said. “This isn’t the same!”

  He pitched the Ile Flottante across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, adding to the mess of the kitchen.

  * * *

  The taxi driver was thankfully silent as a mannequin, leaving Sandy to slouch in the shadows of the backseat and watch the rain meander down the windows. The steady whoop-whoop-whoop of the wiper blades whipping back and forth lulled him close to sleep.