The Food of Love by Anthony Capella Page B

layers did not crush those underneath.
    And finally, the very top layer had to accept a spoonful of coulis without breaking or sagging.
    There was always a certain amount of wastage, and Bruno
    habitually cooked more than had been ordered, just in case one
    didn’t turn out right. Dishes like this couldn’t be made in advance.
    Each souffle spent just seven minutes in the oven, and had to be served within three or four minutes of being cooked, before the
    mixture started to sag. Coordinating this with the orders of a
    whole table of diners, some of whom might have ordered lengthy
    oven-baked dishes such as tartesfines auxpommes, was a logistical nightmare.
    Bruno had taken an order for two millefeuille and as usual had
    cooked three, just in case. He had not been thinking about pastry, though. In some part of his mind he was thinking about offal about dark, sticky sauces of braised calves’ liver; about combinations of mushrooms and kidneys, sweetbreads and artichokes;
    turning over and over in his mind the various possibilities of his next meal for Laura. Back in the real world, his timing faltered.
    Two of the souffles collapsed and he was obliged to halt the delivery of the dishes to the table while he started again from scratch.
    To save time, he didn’t make a spare. His arm went numb as he
    frantically folded the sieved fruit into the egg white, which meant that he couldn’t tell from feel alone whether it was just stiff
    enough to produce the light, airy consistency Alain required.
    There was no time to wait and check. He eased the second batch
    of souffles into the oven and turned immediately to make the coulis.
    A few moments later there was a faint popping sound from the
    oven as an air bubble in one of his imperfectly folded souffles
    exploded, sending shreds of half-cooked egg mixture in all directions.
    ‘ Un ce pozzo credere,’ Bruno cursed. On the other side of the
    kitchen, Alain raised his head. Knowing he was now being
    watched made it even harder for Bruno. He also knew that there
    was no way Alain would allow the one souffle that hadn’t
    exploded to go out - it would be past its best by the time the
    other one was ready. He started again from the beginning on two
    more souffles. Sweat was trickling down the small of his back as he whipped and folded and sieved. Eventually the replacements were
    ready, and this time he was lucky. They weren’t the best millefeuille he had ever made, but they were acceptable - or so he thought. When he finally carried them, with shaking hands, over
    to the pass, he had to suffer the humiliation of having the sous-chef inspect them, wordlessly, for several long moments, as if Bruno were a commis on his first job. To make matters worse, Alain himself came over to take a look. For another agonising moment both
    the chef de cuisine and the sous peered at his dessert like doctors examining an open wound. Then Alain glanced at the clock, and
    Bruno’s cheeks flushed with shame. Alain was communicating to
    the whole kitchen, as clearly as if he had said it aloud, that he would have liked to redo the dishes completely but Bruno had
    taken up so much time that it was not possible. At last he nodded reluctantly, and the waiter quickly placed the substandard dishes on to a tray.
     
    A subtle shift had taken place in the pecking order of the
    kitchen. Bruno could sense it. He hadn’t thought he cared about
    being Alain’s favourite, but he realised now that was only because he was so accustomed to it. He saw that, in fact, Alain’s approval could come and go as quickly as the heat on a hob, and that most of the young chefs had to compete desperately for their share.
    There was only one person whose work Alain seemed consistently
    pleased with: Hugo Kass, the newly appointed saucier. A handsome young Frenchman with a sleek mane of floppy black hair,
    Hugo had worked under Ducasse in France and Beck in Italy
    before coming to Templi. He was only twenty’-two years old