The Kitchen Front Page 7

  After some thought, she’d decided on a béchamel sauce, augmented with a little black-market cream, which had completely vanished from the shops since the beginning of the war. The combination would support the scallop rather than crush it. Using the poaching milk, she quickly whisked it up.

  After the Dartington Hotel was bombed, she’d first asked and then begged Jim to find a job for her at Le Mirage. By this time, his visits to her flat were rare—he had slid through the cracks in their lives.

  Finally, it came to a head. She had to find a reserved job in London quickly, otherwise she would be forced to take conscripted war work. Realizing it was her last chance, she went to the kitchen of Le Mirage to find him. If he still loved her, he would help her.

  “There are no positions at Le Mirage at all, darling,” Jim replied a little too easily. “But even if there were, it would put such a strain on what we have between us.”

  A pretty sous-chef hovered in the background, eyeing Zelda with a smirk.

  “It wouldn’t be forever,” she pleaded. “And I thought you loved cooking with me—I thought you loved me!”

  “Well, I do, but you know how tense it can be at work.” He opened his hands apologetically. “I need my own kitchen, by myself.”

  She felt the ground beneath her become unsteady. “But the conscription office is trying to get me to move to some dreadful factory in the countryside.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps it would be better if we spent time apart.”

  “You said that you loved me, that we were kindred spirits.”

  He laughed pitifully. “Oh, come on, darling. Everyone says that.”

  The pretty sous-chef pranced up, whispered something in his ear, to which he chuckled. Then she kissed him on his neck, the stamp of ownership—if, indeed, anyone could own this man.

  He glanced at her and then back at Zelda, a gesture that conveyed all that needed to be said.

  And as flippantly as that, he brought their relationship to an end.

  After a few distraught weeks, it crossed her mind that she might be pregnant, and following a visit to a doctor, she was surprised to find that she was almost four months along. Thus it was that, before she left London for Fenley, she went one final time to Le Mirage to see Jim, to let him know about the coming baby—to beg him to help her stay in London.

  But when she arrived, he looked at her quizzically.

  “I thought you’d gone.” There was a sternness to his tone.

  The kitchen was busy, the sous-chef again eyeing her from the stove.

  “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  He took her elbow and guided her briskly toward the door. “There’s nothing left to say.”

  “But—I think you might want to know.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, making sure that they weren’t overheard, and then he came in close to her, a harsh sarcasm in his voice. “When are you going to get the message? You can’t come strolling into my kitchen anymore. I’m getting on with my life, now it’s time for you to be a big girl and get on with your life, too.”

  With a pat on the back, he virtually shoved her out the door.

  And she was left seething on the pavement. “I’ll show you, Jim Denton. I’ll deal with this problem, then I’ll be back—and a far better chef than you’ll ever be.”

  Once she was down in Middleton, the little changes in her body cemented the reality of her pregnancy. It was only now, at five months, with the kicking and thrusting inside her, that she realized the baby was ruthlessly and determinedly thriving. She was going to have to face the music, give birth to it, and then quickly hand it over for adoption so that she could get on with her life.

  “And that’s why I have to win this blasted contest,” she muttered through gritted teeth, frantically whisking.

  She dipped the back of a teaspoon into the sauce. It coated the spoon in velvety smoothness.

  Then, she tried a little.

  “Delectable,” she murmured, measuring the balance of textures: soft, subtle, silken.

  Now it was time for her special ingredient: a small bottle of vermouth stolen from the Dartington. Adding just a smidgen would complete the flavor, mark her dish as a winner once and for all.

  Next, she had to assemble her Coquilles St. Jacques.

  Gathering a scallop shell that she’d unearthed from her kitchen supplies, she set it on a plate. Into it, she spooned some of the duxelles, then topped it with a few layers of scrod. Over that, she poured the glistening white sauce, then she sprinkled finely grated cheese mixed with breadcrumbs, watching as it delicately browned in the oven, the smell of toasting cheese filling the room.

  The dish completed, she set it on a plate on the table.

  There was something almost cavalier about the presentation of Coquilles St. Jacques. The fanlike shell lifted it from cuisine to sculpture. The golden crust was almost unbearably tempting: Just tuck your fork in! it was pleading.

  Bringing over a knife and fork, she sat, gazing at the finished article.

  Was it going to be good enough?

  Her knife drove through the golden crust, through the white sauce and the soft fish, through the duxelles, and pulled away a mouthful. She piled it onto her fork and brought it to her lips, stopping to consider the scent of the fish, the undertone of the mushrooms and vermouth.

  Then she placed it in her mouth.

  The béchamel sauce was the first flavor, coating her mouth with a soft, creamy film, followed immediately by the taste of the fish itself as it melted in her mouth. The mushrooms created a counterbalance to the sauce, strikingly tart with their earthy meatiness. And the crust provided an unexpected crunch before a burst of cheese, expanding the taste into a full sensation.

  It was magnificent.

  A fleeting notion that she should use the scrod flitted through her mind—it was quite a feat to make the tasteless fish so sumptuous. But the thought of downgrading her dish was too much for her.

  It had to be the very best.

  She lifted a glass of water, making a toast to the Coquilles St. Jacques.

  “Here’s to you, my precious Round One winner.”

  It was done. Her starter was ready. She would show them all.

  Zelda’s Coquilles St. Jacques

  (or Scrod St. Jacques)

  Serves 4

  For the duxelles

  1 tablespoon butter or margarine

  1 shallot, finely chopped (if not available, use half an onion or leek)

  1 cup finely chopped mushrooms

  1 garlic clove, crushed

  1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves, or ½ teaspoon dried thyme

  Salt and pepper

  For the fish

  4 scallops (if not available, use cod, scrod, or thin whitefish cut into disks)

  2 cups milk

  1 bay leaf

  2 tablespoons white wine

  For the béchamel sauce

  1 tablespoon butter

  ½ tablespoon flour

  1 tablespoon cream (optional)

  1 cup breadcrumbs

  2 tablespoons grated cheese (preferably Gruyère or similar)

  Make the duxelles of mushrooms. Heat the butter or margarine over a medium-high heat, then fry the shallot (or onion or leek) until cooked. Add the mushrooms, garlic, thyme, and salt and pepper, and fry together until browned and soft, around 10 minutes.

  Poach the scallops or fish in the milk, bay leaf, and wine for 2 minutes, then turn and poach for another 2 minutes, until just about cooked. If using fish, you will need less cooking time. Scoop out the fish and the bay leaf, keeping the liquid.

  Make the béchamel sauce. Melt the butter, stir in the flour, then slowly add the poaching liquid until the sauce i
s a good consistency. If you wish, you can add a little cream and stir in well.

  Combine the breadcrumbs and grated cheese.

  Lay out four scallop shells. First spoon the mushroom duxelles in the bottom, place a scallop on each, and then spoon the béchamel over each scallop to just cover. On top, add the combined breadcrumbs and grated cheese. Put under a hot grill or broiler for a few minutes, until browned and bubbly.

  Lady Gwendoline

  Breakfast in Fenley Hall was always served in the yellow salon. It was at the back of the great house, where oblongs of morning sunlight traversed the parquet floor entirely at their leisure. The buttery walls, interspersed with white trim, were coated with portraits of unknown and unrelated forebears surrounded by horses and hounds. When Sir Strickland had bought the great house in the thirties—coaxed by Lady Gwendoline on their engagement—it had been his dream to emulate the earl himself. Thus, he had appropriated ancestors that weren’t his, stag heads that he’d never shot, and a library full of well-thumbed books that he’d never once opened.

  “I heard the most extraordinary rumor when I was in my London club yesterday. Can you imagine what it was, Lady Gwendoline?” Ever since he was knighted, he referred to his wife as “Lady” Gwendoline. Only, it was said with a hint of irony, as if she were a disappointment to the title that he had bestowed upon her. Consequently, and in an attempt to override the barb of sarcasm, she insisted that everyone call her Lady Gwendoline, an everyday reminder of her status in the world.

  She looked up. This was a typical conversation opener for her husband, especially when he had something unpleasant to say. “What was it?” Her appetite vanished.

  He shoveled a forkful of kipper into his mouth, which hovered open to receive it, not unlike a fish itself. “Apparently, you’re entering some kind of cooking contest.”

  This was not the first time that her cooking had come up in conversation. Ever since she’d begun the short training that prepared her for cooking demonstrations, he had disapproved of her “meddling in the servants’ business.” Now it had become one of his favorite jeers.

  Quickly, she tried to stamp out the flame of his displeasure before it became a blaze. “All the ladies are doing their bit for the war effort, darling.” Seeing his face darken, she lifted her tone. “In any case, it’s just a bit of a lark. It was Ambrose himself who asked me to join the cooking contest.”

  A frown creased his brow. “We have the best cook in Kent here at Fenley Hall, and yet it’s you in the contest? And what about your duties to me?” His eyes bulged out a little more as he added venomously, “You’re the wife of an important businessman, Lady Gwendoline, not a middle-class spinster.”

  “Of course I’m not a spinster, darling,” she said in her pacifying voice, ignoring the slight—it would only make things worse to draw attention to the barb. “I’ll be on the radio—a BBC presenter. Won’t that be splendid for your business deals?”

  “I married you to be my wife.”

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I do plan to win, you know.” If there was one thing that could bring him around, it was an appeal to his competitiveness.

  “You’d better,” he replied, now bored. With his plate cleared, his eyes went to the unfinished dishes on the table: smoked haddock kedgeree, bacon, eggs that were scrambled, poached, and fried. “Have a word with Ambrose. Make sure he helps things along.”

  “But I’ll win anyway, with or without Ambrose’s help. My culinary skills are excellent, and—”

  He cut her off. “Bring Ambrose along just the same. We’re not the type of people who lose menial cooking contests, are we?”

  It was the one thing they’d had in common: a need for success. In the early days, their love flourished over plans of grandeur. Together they wanted the same triumphs, the same standing, the same material rewards. Together they would reach the heights of society.

  Together they would win.

  She tried to butter her toast nonchalantly, but her blasted fingers had begun to shake. “Of course, darling—you know what’s best.”

  The chair scraped behind him as he stood up, and he dropped his napkin onto the table, where it half missed and tumbled onto the floor. “There’s a good girl. Remind Ambrose that I know the Chairman of the BBC, his employer.” And with that he left.

  An invitation to Ambrose was duly sent with the maid. The event was cleverly termed an “Afternoon Tea Reception”—she knew that he’d hesitate if it was just the two of them, but he wouldn’t be able to resist a party. She then sat pondering her options for the first round of the contest.

  Her mind sped through the starters that she’d created during her demonstrations. The Ministry of Food was very exacting. Each meal needed to be quick to make, healthy to eat, cheap, and well within the weekly rations of a family of four.

  Parsnip fritters were a favorite of hers. The root vegetable sweetened the mashed potato wonderfully. Yet, was it complex enough for a competition? She didn’t want to come across as being less creative than the other cooks, sticking to simple dishes.

  What about the Nest Medley? She could use a piping bag to create the mashed potato nests, and once they were baked, she could use strips of steamed carrot and Brussels sprouts to make them look like real nests.

  Something using sardines would also work well. Sardine rolls went down frightfully well with her audiences. Tinned sardines contained a quantity of precious oil, which could be poured off to make the pastry. They always came out looking professional: little parcels of golden pastry with a scrumptious, moist filling. They were also very ration-conscious, with the use of tinned fish and its oil. Plus, of course, garden vegetables were frightfully popular with the Ministry of Food. There was a fishiness to the pastry because of the oil, but it was a rations contest, after all. She had to impress using only the ingredients an average housewife could get.

  It was certain to win.

  Delighted with her first-rate plan, she drew up a list of ingredients to give to Mrs. Quince to get for her. She would have to use the downstairs kitchen, which would be uncomfortable to say the least. Fraternizing with the servants was not something she relished. Sir Strickland would be incensed if he knew.

  “I’ll just have to ensure that the maid cleans it from top to bottom before I set foot in the place,” she muttered, shutting her notebook with a satisfactory thwack.

  Now for the next part of her day: preparing for tea with Ambrose.

  * * *

  —

  By four o’clock that afternoon, Lady Gwendoline was looking every part a lady in a tailored lilac dress and waiting at a small, round table for two on the terrace. The steps down to the fountain were surrounded by trimmed lawns and rose beds ready to splay their red and pink splendors to the world. A hawk circled above, while a cool breeze flickered the hanging corners of the starched white tablecloth, giving Lady Gwendoline a tiny shiver.

  With her back very upright, she perched rather than sat, as if she were an ornamental bird. The table was laid for afternoon tea: little pastries filled with strawberry jam and fresh cream, freshly made fruit scones with a pot of Mrs. Quince’s sour-yet-sweet rose-hip jelly, and tiny triangular sandwiches filled with cucumber and smoked trout, which they had shipped from Fortnum & Mason along with Sir Strickland’s caviar.

  Yet as the minutes ticked by, the chair opposite remained empty.

  Lateness was something that Lady Gwendoline held in very poor spirit. She glanced at her silver wristwatch, thinking that if she had a favorite piece of jewelry, this would be it. Beautiful, with its thick chain and clasp, yet functional, with black hands on the white oval face, it was always punctual. Always impeccable.

  “Typical of Ambrose to expect everyone to wait for him,” she muttered.

  At that moment, the man himself appeared through the French doors, beaming with his usual façade of bonhomie.
>
  “Isn’t anybody else here yet?” he drawled by way of greeting.

  “Who were you expecting, Ambrose darling?” she said casually, as if it were his own mistake, getting up to give him her hand.

  They weren’t precisely friends, nor were they enemies. Both were clever enough to navigate social politics by staying on civil terms with as many people as possible. To make friends was to court disaster: Who could predict when one of them might take it into their heads to spread your secrets? But to make enemies would open the door for hostilities.

  No, the only safe position was to be neither.

  And they both were old experts at it, treading around each other almost comfortably.

  Each of them was in possession of an advantage in this negotiation. Lady Gwendoline was well aware that Ambrose was at pains to keep Sir Strickland on his side, which was why he’d both asked her to join the contest and accepted her invitation to tea. Not only was Sir Strickland demonstrably influential in many government matters, but he was friends with the Chairman of the BBC.

  Ambrose’s advantage was that he knew, without a doubt, that Lady Gwendoline both wanted to win and had to win. Ambrose knew how competitive she was and how much her reputation depended on her emerging triumphant. An acute man like him would realize exactly why she’d turn her attention to him with the focus of a cobra.

  She gave Ambrose her most welcoming smile.

  “Now, come and sit down. Tell me all about The Kitchen Front. You know what a big fan I am!” Lady Gwendoline took his arm in hers and walked him around to the vacant seat, where he sat down, feasting his eyes on the treats on the table.

  “I must say,” Ambrose said as she took her seat opposite him, “it’s frightfully good of you to invite me for tea, but I know that you’re doing it to influence me. And you know that I couldn’t possibly be swayed.” He said it gently, like it was a little conspiratorial joke between them.