“Oh,” Gloria gestures to the plates arrayed in front of her, “just working on some things.” She shakes the canister and very carefully pipes a creamy, snow-white mousse onto a thin charcoal-colored biscuit.
Susan eases over to the table to watch her work. “What sorts of things?”
“Just a few ideas,” Gloria answers without looking up. She places some salmon roe on top of the mousse with the delicate precision of a jeweler setting diamonds.
Susan waits until she’s done before saying, “I guess you heard about Dan, then?”
“Oh, we all heard.” Gloria smirks. “He came blasting in here yesterday to get his knives and whatever else from the office. He took Paul back there and the two of ’em yelled about how ridiculous the whole thing was. They closed the door, but we could still hear it. I learned at least eight new variations on ‘fanny,’ which is impressive, because I thought I already knew ’em all.” She shakes her head, grinning. “Dan left after that, banging every door he could find on the way out. He didn’t tell us he’d been sacked, but he didn’t have to, did he? Paul spent the rest of the night strutting around in that smug way of his, and after service he took a bottle of whisky back to the office while the rest of us cleaned up.”
“And now you’re here, at the crack of dawn, experimenting,” Susan murmurs, facing Gloria over the chef’s new concoction.
Gloria’s face is set. “Are y’askin’ if I’m goin’ to make a bid for the executive chef post? Hell yeah, I am. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve trained up and down the country and spent three years here working every station, handling inventory and purveyors, training apprentices, and being ordered to fetch drinks and coffee. I’m hungry and qualified. And you don’t seem like the type to hand a job to a sous chef just because he’s next in line. So yeah, I’m making a play here.”
The two women stare at each other, taking the other’s measure. After a few moments, Gloria asks, “You hungry? I’ve got some eggy bread keeping warm in th’ oven.”
“Honestly? I’d rather try this.” Susan gestures to the plate on the table.
Gloria grins. “Have at it, then.”
Susan picks up the fragile biscuit. “What is it?”
“Try it and find out.”
Susan places the whole thing on her tongue and swirls it around her mouth. What it is is amazing: a fresh burst of sweet, briny crab flavor, beautifully complimented by just a hint of lemon, followed by a soft crunch from the biscuit, which dissolves more slowly than the mousse and has a slightly salty, vegetal flavor. Susan’s sorry when it’s done; she could happily eat a dozen of these, or just a bowl filled with that mousse.
But she doesn’t want to show her hand, so she keeps her face as still as she can manage and just makes a little “hmm” noise as she wipes a little mousse off her fingers with a kitchen towel (hard to resist licking them clean). “Is that seaweed?” she asks, indicating a tray of the biscuits, lined up nearby. Without the mousse topping, she can see that they weren’t really biscuits at all, but many layers of paper-thin seaweed, pressed together to form a semi-firm base.
“It is,” Gloria confirms. “Foraged from Scottish coasts, with Orkney crab mousse and Scottish salmon roe. Scotland’s waters, on a plate.”
Susan nods, thinking. “Gloria,” she says at last, “I’m going to go do some work. But I’d like you to make me lunch today.”
Gloria grins, lighting up like Bonfire Night, and nods. “Thanks! I will. Any time in particular?”
“Let’s say eleven,” Susan answers. “Before the rest of the brigade gets in.”
“Right you are!” Gloria turns away, begins pulling out tools and hurrying toward the walk-in, ready to work.
* * *
While Gloria preps, Susan reacquaints herself with the chef’s CV. Gloria has indeed trained in some of the country’s best kitchens, and her references are more than glowing. Quite effusive, actually, for chefs who tend to be fairly to the point. “Driven,” “innovative,” “soulful.” Susan guesses the torporific state of things at Elliot’s has been killing Gloria. No wonder she pounced on the chance to do something different.
In the kitchen, Gloria has turned a radio to an oldies station and is singing along.
“I love you baaaaybe, and if it’s quite all right, I need you baaaaybe, to warm a lonely night,” Gloria belts.
Susan smiles, unable to help herself. How nice to have someone there who actually seems to enjoy what she’s doing.
Susan spends the rest of the morning going over budgets and figures, reviewing suppliers’ invoices, and writing up the advertisement for the chef’s position, just in case. The mousse that morning was outstanding, certainly, but what if Gloria chokes when asked to present a full meal? Unlikely, yes, but it’s best to be prepared. And it makes Susan feel like she isn’t just taking the easy road, although promoting from within would simplify things.
Promptly at eleven, Gloria raps on the door and announces, “Lunch is served.”
Susan follows her into the space across from the office, which serves as a sort of staff room. There are lockers on one side for personal items, cardboard boxes filled with clean aprons and chefs’ uniforms, and a rectangular table where staff gather for the preservice “family dinner.”
It’s Susan, now, who seats herself at the table.
Gloria places a bowl in front of her. “First course—haggis, neeps, and tatties. And a ‘tattie scone’ on the side.” She disappears to prepare the next course.
Susan takes a moment to note the presentation. “Eat with your eyes first,” Elliot used to say, placing everything just so. Gloria’s soup is the same creamy white as her mousse, and dotted with crispy haggis croutons arranged in a half-moon shape. The “tattie scone” isn’t the classic tattie scone, which is a flat potato-and-flour pancake fried crisp in a pan, but more like the risen scone you have with afternoon tea. Susan picks up the spoon and dips into the soup.
Ohhhhhhh. The soup is perfect, smooth and luscious, with a slight tang from the turnips (the “neeps” of the title) that keeps it from being too heavy. The finishing flavor is smoky, peaty. A little whisky, perhaps? The haggis croutons crunch as she bites into them, and the burst of spice further tames and complements the velvety richness of the soup. She devours every bit, sopping up the last of it with the scone, which is surprisingly fluffy for something made with potato. Like that morning’s amuse-bouche, she’s sorry when the dish is finished.
But then Gloria appears, whisks the bowl away, and replaces it with a plate of seared trout with a lime-green sauce. On the side is rainbow chard and a small potato, split open, insides fluffed, topped with tuna tartare—a cheeky nod to a favorite Scottish meal of tuna salad–topped baked potato.
“Trout with a lemony samphire sauce,” Gloria explains, turning to leave.
“No, stay,” Susan invites, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Doesn’t every chef want to know how a diner’s reacting to their food?”
“Oh, the hidden cameras will tell me that,” Gloria says. “Kidding!” she adds, when Susan looks up at her in alarm. She plops down on the chair, smiling, folds her hands, and watches as Susan takes her first bite.