“Shame about the flame-out in London,” says Rufus, wrinkling his nose in sympathy. “Bad luck, that. Well, some of it was bad luck, eh?”
“It’s rough on luxury brands when the economy takes a turn,” Susan agrees.
“Luxury? But it wasn’t really a luxury brand anymore, was it? More Kardashian than Cartier. You think opening the door to hen parties is going to help that?”
Susan glances away, trying to stay calm, keep the rage from building. It’s not rage toward Rufus, as unpleasant as he is. It’s only fair that he should ask these sorts of questions. She expected it and told herself she was ready for them. She was wrong.
“There were regrettable decisions made,” she allows. “We experimented. Took some risks. They didn’t pay off. Sometimes that happens. All you can do is learn from it.”
He nods. “So no risk taking here, then?”
“We’re committed to getting back to our roots. Elliot’s was always about excellent food and a great experience—”
“Kind of lost its way, though,” Rufus clucks, shaking his head. “The stuff that was being served here … I don’t know anyone who’s been to Elliot’s. They all want to hit Aizle or The Kitchn or Baker’s new place. Speaking of that”—Rufus leans forward and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial murmur—“you and Chris Baker have a history, I hear.”
“Who told you that?” Susan asks, pulling away from him.
“Oh, come on now—I have sources. No need to be coy.”
“I’m not going to discuss my personal life or Mr. Baker’s,” Susan responds primly.
Rufus sighs, and for the first time, his expression changes from one of overeager wickedness to something more genuine. Almost like sympathy.
“Listen,” he tells her, “I’m trying to help you, believe it or not. No one is going to read an article that’s all ‘the food here is good.’ They want more. Trust me, I know. I’m the perfect person to write this whole thing up. You want to build some excitement and bring feet through that door? You’ll need clicks on this article, okay? Give me a juicy angle to work with. Now, you and Chris Baker—I’m guessing it didn’t end well, considering that interview and the fact he’s backing your former chef’s new venture.”
“He’s what?” Susan hisses, feeling like she’s just had ice water thrown at her.
That previous expression, the one that almost made Susan like Rufus, is, for a second, replaced by a smile that slithers. “Oh,” he says, “you didn’t know?”
“Who’s hungry?” Gloria and a waiter appear at the side of the table, arms piled with dishes.
Rufus straightens and rubs his hands. “Oh, me! I’ve brought my appetite.”
Dishes are set before him: grilled pheasant and pomegranate salad; the haggis, neeps, and tatties soup; a savory doughnut stuffed with fresh crabmeat; lemon, zucchini, and Anster cheese soufflé; a slab of moist sourdough bread with a pot of freshly made crowdie and preserved lemons to spread on top; and, of course, the pudding.
This one was born from Susan’s childhood memories: after-school treats of bananas split in half and spread with peanut butter, and her mother’s chocolate chip–studded banana bread, lavished with butter or dripping with honey. This pudding starts with a cake: the bottom layer is a rich, dark, fudgy chocolate as luscious as velvet. On top of that a layer of banana honey cake laced with cinnamon—just sweet enough to balance out the bittersweet bottom layer. And finally, a peanut butter mousse that dissolves as soon as it reaches your tongue, melding creamily with the other layers like a slightly salty, addictive sauce. Shards of honey and peanut praline decorate the cake, and it’s accompanied by a little peanut-flavored candy-floss “lollipop” on the side.
Rufus snaps photos with his phone, murmuring, “Oh yes, that’ll do nicely. Looks delish!” At last, he takes a bite of the salad, followed by some of the soup. “Yes, this is much better than what you served here before. Edible, even!”
“Thaaaaaanks,” says Gloria, joining them at the table.
Around a mouthful of bread, Rufus tells her, “I was just telling Susan here that your former boss is opening a place just around the corner. Dan—that’s his name, right? Well, he and the sous chef and the former pastry chef here took a place in Waverly Arches, with support from Chris Baker. What do you think about that?”
Gloria gapes at him for a moment, then looks at Susan, who is similarly shocked. The Arches! That is literally around the corner from Elliot’s—a set of cave-like hollows from the Victorian period that were revamped into retail and dining space. And now their disgruntled former employees are opening a place there!
“We wish them luck, of course”—Susan manages to cover—“as we would wish anyone luck. This is a tricky business.”
“Yes, indeed, as you yourself have found,” says Rufus, reaching for the doughnut. “Seems you,” he says to Gloria, “have ruffled more than a few feathers.”
“Women who speak their mind and take a tough line tend to,” Gloria flings back. “People hate an uppity girl.”
“Not me!” Rufus chuckles. “I like ’em feisty!”
Something about the way he says that makes Susan shudder. Out of the corner of her eye, she could swear she saw Gloria do the same.
“Kind of a gamble on your part, putting an untried chef in charge of a restaurant you’re trying to pull back from the brink,” Rufus comments to Susan.
“She’s not an untried chef. She’s highly qualified and has been working here for years. And I think the food speaks for itself,” Susan replies.
Rufus nods. “Oh, I agree!” He starts in on the soufflé.
“We’re interested in fostering talent here,” Susan presses on, hoping to regain control of the interview and maybe find that angle Rufus says he needs. “We’ve always been interested in identifying and nurturing promising up-and-comers, even when others would consider it a risk.”
“Like Chris Baker,” Rufus supplies.
Susan inwardly curses herself for walking into that. “Yes.” Tightly, through her teeth.
“And that’s the kind of comeback to bite you in the arse, isn’t it?” Rufus shrugs and begins sucking up the Bloody Mary through his straw.
“We’ll just have to see,” Susan says.
“Oh, come on. He’s funding a restaurant run by your angry former chefs, just around the corner from here.” Rufus clucks, shaking his head. “I mean, really! What else does he have to do, actually walk up and punch you both in the face?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Susan coolly replies.
Rufus sighs. “He really has it in for this place. Just the other day, I was talking to my friend, Babs, who runs the Foodies Festival, and she said Chris floated the idea of doing a wee head-to-head competition at the Festival this year—you know, to give the crowd a little thrill and raise some money for charity? And she suggested he go up against a team from Elliot’s, but he just laughed and said you’d never compete against him because you’d be afraid of being humiliated. And you would be humiliated because he’d wipe the floor with you. His words, not mine. He said this place was all washed up, and your chef was just some woman no one’s heard of. He told Babs not to waste her time.” Rufus leans forward again, peering into Susan’s face. “Jesus, what did you do to him?” he asks.