Eprisode Four: The Dinner Party
Cheryl, her hair exploding into a rainbow colored mass of curls, slipped on a blue and white checkered apron with Jezebels’s embroidered across the bib, and tied the strings in a lavish bow. She had used three different colors of hairspray, and Briony gave the result an anxious look.
“That won’t flake off into the food, will it?” she asked worriedly, rolling out puff pastry on a marble slab.
“What, this stuff? Sticks like poop to a blanket, as my Granny would say,” Cheryl said breezily.
Briony sighed, and patted her own well-wrapped head. She would rather have Cheryl accuse her of paranoia than have one of her diners find a bright purple hair in the soup.
“There,” Cheryl said, “I think I’m all ready to greet the guests.”
“As long as you don’t frighten the wits out of them.”
Cheryl applied lipstick with a liberal hand. “I don’t think I will,” she grinned.
Briony thought that Cheryl was taking even more pains than usual to look spectacular. Under the apron was a black tank top – its glittery slogan saying `Take a ticket and get in line’ thankfully hidden by the apron – and a skirt that was short even by her standards.
“Who’s coming to this do tonight?” Briony asked. “Prince William?”
“Oh, no one in particular,” Cheryl said with far too casual an air. She examined her teetering high-heeled shoes from front and back. “Do these make my feet look big?”
“Enormous,” Briony said distractedly. “Hand me that cloth.”
Cheryl threw a blue and white tea cloth at her, and Briony wiped the pastry from her hands.
“Guess who’s coming tonight,” Cheryl said.
“I can’t play guessing games while I’m making puff pastry. Takes concentration.”
“You’re no fun. Well, it’s Mike Lawless.”
“Mike who?”
“Oh come on, even a boring celebrity chef like you knows who that is. He’s a photographer – a very famous one. I wonder if he’s looking for models?” She checked her teeth for lipstick stains in a small hand mirror.
“Well, if he is, I’m sure you’ll be his first choice.” Briony’s hand shook a little and she laid the pastry carefully over the pie dish.
“He’s doing publicity for the town – must have cost the big wigs a bomb,” Cheryl said. “I don’t think he’s interested in glamour shots.”
“Not unless you can provide scale anyway,” Briony muttered.
“What?”
“I met him this morning. He was taking pictures of the bay. Had a smelly big four wheel drive parked all over the place.”
“You met him?” Cheryl squeaked. “Is he gorgeous?”
“Yes,” Briony said offhandedly. “And he knows it.”
Cheryl held up her mirror. “Which is my best side?” she said.
“Both of them,” Briony laughed. “Now go open up the doors.”
Cheryl bounced out of the kitchen, and Briony placed her pie in the oven. She paused to dry the sweat from her forehead and neck with a chilled wet wipe from the packet she kept in the fridge.
So Mike Lawless was in the special party tonight. She might have known. The mayor’s personal assistant had booked the restaurant, hinting the dinner was because of a special guest.
She straightened up, a steely spark in her eyes. Well, if he was eating at her restaurant he would soon learn not to take people at face value – model, indeed! Of course, she must have nothing better to do at dawn than stand around posing for him. Briony raked open the fridge and checked the fresh barramundi on its pristine white plate. The occasion called for something special. At the very least, he should have the courtesy to include Jezebel’s in his tourist brochure and articles.
Barramundi was the best of the local eating fish – superbly textured, succulent and flavorful. Lawless looked like a fit man with healthy eating habits – a simple dish, devoid of rich sauces, but bursting with flavor, would be what he was looking for. Perhaps a simple court boullion with fresh herbs, lemon juice and white wine, and a side salad with avocado. But how to make it special – perhaps ginger in the fruit salad for dessert – or the boullion?
Almost without realizing it, Briony slipped from the everyday business of the kitchen into the creative mode of the gifted chef.
She heard the party arrive and went out to greet them. The Mayor, Florence Harmond, was an old friend of Briony’s parents. She looked resplendent in a plum colored velvet dress.
“Briony,” she gushed, hurrying forward with Mike Lawless in tow, “I must introduce you to our special guest. Mike Lawless, this is our local chef, Briony Campbell.”
“We’ve met,” Lawless said, mischief dancing in his blue eyes. “I knew I’d heard the name Jezebel before.”
“You’re in for a treat,” Florence teased. “The food here is equal to anything you’d find in the city.”
“World standard,” agreed one of the councilors. Briony recognized him as George Forbridge, the owner of the new shopping complex.
“We do our best,” Briony said, allowing Lawless to shake her hand. But he just held it and winked at her.
She seriously considered pouring half a bottle of balsamic vinegar on his portion.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I have to work.” She slipped her hand out of his and went back into the kitchen. Maybe floor cleaner would make a good dressing for his salad.
“Isn’t he YUM?” Cheryl demanded as she burst into the kitchen. “And the way he’s dressed – casual, but elegant. I can smell the price tags.”
“Just let me know when they’re ready for the entrees,” Briony muttered.
“I can just see it – we’ll be famous. He’ll write us up in one of his articles, and before you know it, we WILL be serving Prince William.”
“God, I hope not,” Briony said fervently. “You’re bad enough with minor celebrities like Lawless.”
The entrees went down well, and Briony sent out the main course with her fingers crossed. The barramundi, with its fragrant hint of ginger, looked magnificent. She busied herself with a selection of desserts, which included her own homemade mango ice cream, and a simple salad of tropical fruits. Jezebel’s prided itself on the fresh local produce that was the mainstay of Briony’s recipes.
Cheryl came back in after serving the dessert, clearly delighted with the reaction to the food.
“Mike wants you to join them at the table,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” Briony said. “I’m hardly dressed for it – “
“Oh come on, Florence wants you out there too! You know how much this means to the town. Besides,” she added soberly, “George Forbridge is there, and you know there’s been rumors that he plans to open his own restaurant at the shopping complex. We need Florence and the councilors on our side, and all the good publicity we can get.”
Briony agreed, and washed her hands before tidying up the stray wisps of honey colored hair that had escaped their confines. She took off her chef’s apron and smoothed down the light linen skirt. The olive tank top she wore felt sticky from her labors, but a whisk round with a chilled tissue wipe made her feel more composed.
Then she swung open the kitchen door and tried not to notice Mike’s admiring glances.
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