Vanilla Salt Read Online Free Page B

minute. Ten would be the maximum now, even on a good day. I’d like to take over the publicity side, since it’s in my interests more than anyone’s that they continue to like my cooking, but the fact is I’m hopeless when it comes to emails… Come on. That’s enough chitchat. We’ve got to get the tuna marinating and make the peach mousse.”
    The gourmet dinner is spectacular. They’ve made six dishes, all of them technically complex, with harmonious flavours and intense aromas. The crowning achievement is a kind of tartare made from tuna which has previously been marinated with lime juice, ginger and pink pepper. It’s a shame that only three people turned up forthe gathering and one of them, who wasn’t feeling well, asked for boiled rice.
    “No much gastronomique persons in dinner,” Annette observes, trying to suppress a yawn. She doesn’t want Àlex to see that she’s so tired she can hardly keep her eyes open, and that she’s not terribly interested in the state of health of the Gourmet Club.
    “No, not many. Well, three three-toed tree toads, to be precise.”
    “Toads? Where toads?”
    “Forget it. It’s a tongue twister. I mean only three people have come, but the thing is, the economic crisis in this country is doing a lot of damage and people aren’t really in a festive mood.”
    “Many toads this night they go Can Bret,” Annette replies.
    Ouch! She couldn’t be more hurtful. But it’s true. They’ve had a lot of custom at Can Bret tonight, so the crisis is a shabby excuse that no one’s going to buy. He doesn’t know how to deal with this situation. He’s cut back in every area of the restaurant’s costs and he cooks well, bloody hell, he cooks extremely well, and everyone, especially the food buffs, tell him so. He’s not very nice to people, that’s true, and never has been. It’s precisely one of the reasons why he became a chef, so he could work in intimate communion with the stove without needing to have much truck with people. It’s his food that should speak for him, something everyone can understand. Àlex has the soul of an artist, but believes it would be too pedantic even to think about what that means. As far as he’s concerned, it’s the audience that makes the artist, the people who know how to value and consume the work. Only idiots go round saying they’re “artists”. He’s foul-tempered, bitter, a man who’s lost his bearings – plus a few more defects – but nobody can say he’s an idiot.
    However, even if he’d like everyone to understand his work, he has to accept the evidence that he’s an artist for niche tastes, judging by the few people who come to eat at Antic Món. A restaurant can’t keep goingon niche tastes and it’s not just a question of economic sustainability. You have to work with fresh food and, if you can’t use it, everything, the cooking, the staff and the whole atmosphere, starts smelling stale. An empty restaurant stinks of decay.
    Frank always says, “A good restaurant is a full restaurant.”
    Frank Gabo is the fish supplier. Well, he’s the delivery man. He brings the freshest fish, the most succulent turbots, the finest prawns, the loveliest, most transparent squid… which Àlex is going to cook right now, even though it’s almost midnight. He’s been cooking all day long, without a break, and he’s hardly had time to sit down, either for lunch or dinner. He’s exhausted, but those squid are going to soothe away all his despair and dark thoughts. Actually, he doesn’t need calamari stew, so who’s going to eat it? Moreover, these squid are too delicate to be stewed. They’re ideal for grilling or tossing in the pan with a few vegetables. That’s what he had in mind when he chose the daintiest ones. But his spirit’s begging for a stew. He needs a couple of hours to think, get his thoughts in order, find a way out of this situation, work out whom he’s let into his space in the form of this woman, confront