Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,80
a bottle of wine. I prepared a beef stroganoff while Caroline played the first movement of Bach’s Violin Concerto in E major, her favourite piece. She was right. It sounded great on the viola.
‘Is that the piece you’re playing at the Cadogan Hall?’ I asked.
‘No, sadly not,’ she said. ‘I would have to play the violin to ever play this at a concert.’
‘But surely you could play a violin too?’ I said.
‘Oh yes, I could,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to. I’m a violist not a violinist, and it’s out of choice. Violins are so tinny compared to the mellow tones of a viola. Most of the orchestra think that we violists are failed violinists but it’s not true. That’s like saying trombonists are failed trumpeters, or flautists are failed oboists. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Like saying waiters are failed chefs,’ I said, although I knew quite a few waiters who were just that.
‘Exactly,’ she said. It was clear to me that this wasn’t the first time she had built up a head of steam over the issue.
‘Caroline,’ I said seriously, ‘you don’t have to prove your worth, certainly not to me. Be confident in your role as a violist. You don’t have to apologize for not being something else.’
She stood next to me and leaned back against the worktop.
‘You are so right,’ she said in a determined tone. ‘I’m a violist and pleased to be so.’
We laughed and drank a toast to Miss Caroline Aston, violist and proud of it.
‘So what are you playing at the Cadogan Hall?’ I asked
‘Concerto for violin and viola by Benjamin Britten,’ she said.
‘Can you play it for me?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It would sound silly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it needs to be played by two people, one with a violin and one with a viola. It would be like listening to only one person while they were having a conversation with someone else that you couldn’t hear, as if they were on the telephone. You wouldn’t get the full meaning.’
‘Does music always have a meaning?’ I asked.
‘Definitely,’ she said. ‘Playing a musical score is like telling a story using notes and harmonies, instead of letters and words. Music can invoke huge passion and symphonies should carry the listener through the full range of emotion from anticipation and sadness and melancholy in the early movements, to delight and joy at the climax.’
I couldn’t claim that my dinner would tell a story but I hoped that it might provide a share of delight and joy, albeit briefly, on the taste buds.
I trimmed the beef and cut it into strips before seasoning and then searing it in a hot frying pan. Then I fried a sliced onion and some mushrooms until they were tender and added them to the beef with some plain flour. I poured a generous measure of cognac over the mixture and, much to Caroline’s horror, flamed off the alcohol.
‘You’ll set the whole bloody building on fire,’ Caroline shouted as the flames leapt towards her ceiling, and I laughed.
Next I carefully poured in some sour cream and a small amount of lemon juice, and sprinkled some paprika over the top. I had previously taken a large potato and, as Caroline didn’t have a kitchen mandolin, I had grated it on the large-hole side of her box cheese grater to produce long thin strips of potato which I now fried briefly in a deep-fryer to produce crisp brown potato straws, while my beef mixture warmed on a low heat.
‘I thought beef stroganoff was served with rice,’ she said, watching me. ‘And I didn’t expect a chef to use my deep-fat fryer.’
‘I use one all the time,’ I said. ‘I know that fried food is not considered very healthy but it tastes so good and it’s fine if you use the right oil for the frying and eat it only in moderation. I certainly wouldn’t use lard like they used to.’ I lifted the basket of potato straws out of the oil. ‘It’s traditional in Russia to serve beef stroganoff with potato straws, although lots of people like serving it with rice.’
We sat together on the sofa in her sitting room and ate off trays on our laps.
‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Why is it called stroganoff?’
‘After the Russian who invented it, I think.’
‘Another Russian,’ she said. ‘Is that why you chose it for tonight?’
‘Not consciously,’ I said.
‘It’s nice.’ She took another forkful. ‘What gives it such a distinctive flavour?’ she asked with her mouth full.