tipped his whisked egg whites above his head pretending that they might slip out all over him, and when she heard Marcel laugh she gave him a sneer. Then she went back to cutting through her beaten whites with a palette knife but all she seemed to be doing was making her mixture go from light and fluffy to flat and drab. It just seemed too heavy, but it was too late to start again. The smell of her cheese made her feel sick, as did Lacey’s bubbling prawn stock.
Tearing her eyes from her solid-looking mixture as it tried to rise in the oven and switching off the grill as her tomatoes bubbled under the heat, Rachel wipeddown her surface just praying that her mixture would puff up enough not to be an embarrassment. She only looked up when she saw Abby draw out a white-chocolate stunner. Smooth, fluffy and risen high like a chef’s hat, it was the most glorious-looking soufflé she’d ever seen. Dusted from up high with a snowy shower of icing sugar and sprinkled with slices of sugared lemon rind and circled with a vivid yellow curd sauce, it was a definite show-stopper.
As she glanced across at Lacey’s individual crab towers that were quite pale and George’s burnt crust it was clear that Abby would be the day’s winner.
Rachel hardly dared look at hers. Everyone else was putting the finishing touches to theirs. Ali was spooning his custard into a vintage blue and white Cornishware jug. George was looking dubiously at his very forlorn soufflé, blackened like a scorched Leaning Tower of Pisa. Sucking in a breath, she bent down and peeked through the glass of her oven.
There it was—tall and puffy and risen like a skyscraper, with a tear round the edge where the cheese had pulled like crocodile teeth. She did a little clap. Then yanked the door open and drew out her beauty, bronzed on top and glistening with a deep glazed shine.
‘Wow,’ said Lacey before she could stop herself.
Rachel could only nod, speechless that it had worked.
Abby came round to look at it. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘I know, I can’t believe it.’
They all stood round gazing at Rachel’s cheese tower.
A knock on the door broke the reverie and as Chef went to answer it Rachel pulled off her oven gloves and, turning her back on her prize creation, went in search of a plate.
Philippe walked in, wearing a black cashmere suit, and looked round the room till he spotted Rachel and smiled. She winked back and pointed triumphantly at her soufflé. He did a nod as if humouring her. She raised her eyebrows nodding more, to try and show him how much this risen soufflé meant to her. Even her mum had never been able to make them rise. There was a soufflé curse on her family that had now, finally, been lifted.
Beaming, she looked down to put it on her flowery plate and saw to her horror that it was completely flattened. Dissolved of air and height like a burst balloon. A sunken mush of stringy cheese. An echo of her now deflated heart.
‘How?’ she whispered.
Glancing around, she noticed that Lacey wouldn’t catch her eye. George was fussing with his disaster. Marcel was leaning back against the counter, one brow raised. She made a perplexed face at Abby but she looked down, away from her.
Was it Rachel’s imagination or were her cheeks flushed?
‘And now we taste.’ Chef clapped his hands together and he and Philippe strode forward.
Rachel stared in horror at her sunken mess.
Lacey’s, of course, tasted bloody marvellous. Her bisque, Philippe thought, divine. Ali’s left them silent; beneath the fluffy top was a cloying mass of sticky rice and raspberry jam that fell from their spoons like baby sick.
Chef snorted when he got to Rachel’s. ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear.’
Hands clasped behind her back, she looked down, refusing to see the look of sympathy on Philippe’s face. ‘I don’t know what happened. It had risen when I got it out.’
‘A likely story, Flower Girl.’ Chef grinned and stabbed one edge with his fork, beckoning
Tearing her eyes from her solid-looking mixture as it tried to rise in the oven and switching off the grill as her tomatoes bubbled under the heat, Rachel wipeddown her surface just praying that her mixture would puff up enough not to be an embarrassment. She only looked up when she saw Abby draw out a white-chocolate stunner. Smooth, fluffy and risen high like a chef’s hat, it was the most glorious-looking soufflé she’d ever seen. Dusted from up high with a snowy shower of icing sugar and sprinkled with slices of sugared lemon rind and circled with a vivid yellow curd sauce, it was a definite show-stopper.
As she glanced across at Lacey’s individual crab towers that were quite pale and George’s burnt crust it was clear that Abby would be the day’s winner.
Rachel hardly dared look at hers. Everyone else was putting the finishing touches to theirs. Ali was spooning his custard into a vintage blue and white Cornishware jug. George was looking dubiously at his very forlorn soufflé, blackened like a scorched Leaning Tower of Pisa. Sucking in a breath, she bent down and peeked through the glass of her oven.
There it was—tall and puffy and risen like a skyscraper, with a tear round the edge where the cheese had pulled like crocodile teeth. She did a little clap. Then yanked the door open and drew out her beauty, bronzed on top and glistening with a deep glazed shine.
‘Wow,’ said Lacey before she could stop herself.
Rachel could only nod, speechless that it had worked.
Abby came round to look at it. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘I know, I can’t believe it.’
They all stood round gazing at Rachel’s cheese tower.
A knock on the door broke the reverie and as Chef went to answer it Rachel pulled off her oven gloves and, turning her back on her prize creation, went in search of a plate.
Philippe walked in, wearing a black cashmere suit, and looked round the room till he spotted Rachel and smiled. She winked back and pointed triumphantly at her soufflé. He did a nod as if humouring her. She raised her eyebrows nodding more, to try and show him how much this risen soufflé meant to her. Even her mum had never been able to make them rise. There was a soufflé curse on her family that had now, finally, been lifted.
Beaming, she looked down to put it on her flowery plate and saw to her horror that it was completely flattened. Dissolved of air and height like a burst balloon. A sunken mush of stringy cheese. An echo of her now deflated heart.
‘How?’ she whispered.
Glancing around, she noticed that Lacey wouldn’t catch her eye. George was fussing with his disaster. Marcel was leaning back against the counter, one brow raised. She made a perplexed face at Abby but she looked down, away from her.
Was it Rachel’s imagination or were her cheeks flushed?
‘And now we taste.’ Chef clapped his hands together and he and Philippe strode forward.
Rachel stared in horror at her sunken mess.
Lacey’s, of course, tasted bloody marvellous. Her bisque, Philippe thought, divine. Ali’s left them silent; beneath the fluffy top was a cloying mass of sticky rice and raspberry jam that fell from their spoons like baby sick.
Chef snorted when he got to Rachel’s. ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear.’
Hands clasped behind her back, she looked down, refusing to see the look of sympathy on Philippe’s face. ‘I don’t know what happened. It had risen when I got it out.’
‘A likely story, Flower Girl.’ Chef grinned and stabbed one edge with his fork, beckoning
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