Vanilla Salt Read Online Free Page A

own.”
    “Sorry, Senyor Àlex, clothes no important. Important is work. I want work. I no take out apron.” She is very dignified.
    Now she’s done it. This is intolerable! Àlex is incensed. “Listen, who do you think you bloody are? I’m the boss in this kitchen! You get it? You will dress, cook and eat as I tell you. Go back to your room and get changed immediately.”
    “No,” she replies firmly. “Cook, yes, je suis agree. Eat, aussi. Dress what like me.”
    Luckily the phone rings and saves the day. Àlex looks daggers at Annette and leaves the kitchen to put a stop to the infernal, nerve-jangling racket. This woman’s really pushing her luck. When he’s answered the phone he’ll give her a good earful, tell her a few home truths. There’s nothing to stop him kicking her out right now. But something does stophim. He won’t stand for Annette’s defiance, but then again he really likes the grit she’s shown with her answer. There’s no explanation for it, it’s not rational, but the woman’s got something that makes him feel small, like a little pea next to a watermelon. It’s not the tits or the bum, no, not that. It’s the sweet smile, the eyes, blue, sincere, but also slightly disturbing, as if they’re hiding something. A mystery.
    He hangs up and goes back to the kitchen. He hears a voice singing “So long, it was so long ago. But I’ve still got the blues for you.” A lovely voice, singing to the kid.
    Delighted and bemused, Àlex watches her from the doorway, knowing she can’t see him. He does that too. He also sings to the kid. Discovering that he’s not the only lunatic who sings to food is comforting, and so too is knowing that he’s got the other lunatic from the opposite side of the planet right here next to him.
    “Kid have soul of blues,” Annette explains when she realizes that Àlex is watching her.
    “More like Aragonese jota, I’d say.” His snigger punctures the little bubble of tenderness that has formed in the kitchen. “Come on, woman, that’s enough nonsense. We’ve got to open up right now and we’re really behind today. Do you know how to make cream-of-asparagus soup? Here’s a bunch. I don’t use cream. I make it with vegetable broth and cream cheese. It’s possible we won’t have many customers for lunch, but tonight we’ve got the Antic Món Gourmet Club. Some important people are coming. Have a look at the menu. It’s there, printed out on the table.”
    They’ve only had one customer for lunch, a travelling salesman who’s turned up at Antic Món because Can Bret is full up and he doesn’t have time to wait for a table. Without even looking at the menu, he’s asked for a good salad with tomato and red pepper, steak with potatoes and vanilla ice cream.
    Àlex has offered neither response nor explanation, but has simply thrown the menu at him saying he hasn’t got anything the man’s asked for: no tomato, no peppers, no potato and no vanilla ice cream. He must choose from the dishes that he, the chef, cooks for the Antic Món menu.
    The salesman, hungrier than when he came in, runs off as if pursued by a thousand demons after paying a hefty sum for eggs scrambled with black chanterelles, turbot with pickled radishes and honey-and-cardamom semifreddo . The poor chap hasn’t understood a word on the menu. He’ll never set foot in Antic Món again. A sandwich by the roadside is much better, the gentleman thinks.
    “We have to stay back to cook this afternoon. The Gourmet Club people are finicky and we’ve got to come up with something to surprise them. They’ve been coming once a month for the past five years.”
    “A lot persons?” Annette asks, feigning interest.
    “At first there were plenty of people, up to twenty at times. Not so many recently. Everyone gets tired of everything, and the woman in charge, the one who invented the club, Pilar, is always busy, so she doesn’t send out the information about their meetings until the last