Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,12
any meat was to not cook away the taste and texture. ‘What makes roast beef roast beef is not only its smell and its taste, but its appearance and the feel of it on your tongue,’ she had said. ‘Food involves all the senses,’ she had maintained, and she had revelled in the chance to make food noisy to prove her point: sizzling steaks and even whistling toads in the hole. ‘If you want to add flavour,’ she would say, ‘get it into the meat before you cook it so that the natural taste of the meat still comes through.’
And so I had. The pie filling had been well marinaded in my special concoction of spices and herbs with a little citrus fruit to add zest. Add a good dose or two of Scotch whisky and allow to soak for forty-eight hours or so to absorb the liquid and the flavours. Then cook slowly at first in a moderate oven, then briefly at a higher heat to golden the pastry, and the results are delicious. Piece of cake – or pie.
Carl and I sat on stools in the kitchen and dozed. The summer puddings had been served with whipped cream and the strawberry garnish and, thankfully, the coffee was the regular caterer’s responsibility. I leaned on the counter top, rested my weary head on my arms, and went to sleep.
‘Chef! Chef! Mr Moreton,’ said a female voice. Someone shook my shoulder.
‘Mr Moreton,’ said the voice again. ‘Wake up, chef.’
I raised my head and opened an eye. It was Louisa.
‘They want you in the dining room,’ she said.
‘OK,’ I said with a sigh, ‘I’m coming.’
I dragged myself up, pulled my fingers through my hair to straighten it, and went across the corridor.
They applauded. I smiled. Being a chef was being a showman, an entertainer. Taking one’s bow was what made it worthwhile. The heat of the kitchen is forgotten in the glow of appreciation from others.
Even Rolf Schumann smiled broadly. Elizabeth Jennings sat on his right and positively beamed. Reflected glory, I thought rather disingenuously. She stroked his arm and whispered in his ear in a manner which made me think that it was she who was the tease, not he.
Having milked the applause for all I could, I retreated to the kitchen to find Carl had stirred and was starting to clear up and load the wire cages for returning to Stress-Free. I really didn’t feel like I had the energy to help him so I went back across the corridor to find myself some strong coffee.
The lunch party was breaking up with some of the guests going to place their wagers on the first race, which was due off any minute. Many decided to sit out the race at the tables, drinking their coffee and watching the action on the television sets placed high in each corner of the room. Others drifted out on to the balcony to watch it live.
Louisa poured me a coffee and I stood drinking the hot black liquid and hoped that it would wake me up a bit.
MaryLou came over. ‘That food sure was terrific,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Glad you enjoyed it.’
‘Certainly did,’ she said. ‘Mr Schumann really liked it too.’
I could tell that his approval was the most important thing. Mr Schumann clearly intimidated her too. A successful lunch might mean her job was safe for a while longer.
The first race was over and the guests drifted back from the balcony and many sat down again at the tables. I realized it would be some time before we could clear everything away and have a decent rest. Louisa and Robert, my other waiter, were busy refilling coffee cups and passing out chocolate mints. Everyone was in good humour and enjoying themselves.
The 2000 Guineas was the third race on the card, due off at 3.15. The excitement of the afternoon built towards the big event with jazz bands and street entertainers helping to raise the pulse of the crowd. I could have done with a jazz band in the kitchen just to keep me awake.
As the time of the big race arrived I went back to the boxes where Louisa and Robert were clearing the tables. Finally, all the guests had left their chairs and were crowding on to the balcony or standing inside against the windows, trying to get a good view of the horses as they approached along Newmarket’s famous Rowley straight mile.