It was extraordinary. Wizardry.
It was a simple steak and chips—but what steak and chips. The steak was soft and bloody, with a dark caramel crispy outside and a melting inside. There were crispy fried onions (courtesy of Konstantin) on the side, perfectly salted, like the best seaside treats; the chips were triple fried in goose fat and satisfyingly crunchy; the salad was tart and green; and next to it all was the most wobbly, mustardy, perfectly set hollandaise sauce Flora had ever tasted.
It was an absolute rave, completely and utterly delicious.
Without saying another word, Pam simply sat back down. Flora half smiled. Obviously there was wanting to walk out—and then there was how insanely hungry you got as a feeding mother.
Gala poured the wine, a particularly beautiful private bottle of Colton’s, and brought cola for Agot, which she wasn’t actually allowed, but nobody could stop eating for long enough to explain this. The room fell into a reverent silence, punctuated occasionally by people saying, “Oh my God,” and “Bloody hell,” and Iona trying to photograph plates before they got emptied. Even as she was eating it, Flora felt sure and slightly sad that every single steak and chip she ate in her life after this would be a completely pale imitation of it, a true disappointment. She felt like Edmund in Narnia looking at the empty box of Turkish delight when she’d finished, staring regretfully at the empty plate.
There was a little scraping of knives and forks and then everyone sat back, Innes letting out a contented sigh.
“Well,” said Pam eventually. “Well. I suppose that might just . . . I mean, it’s a little plain.”
“It was magnificent,” said Fintan crossly. “Gala, could you get the chef out?”
Gaspard came out, looking mutinous. “And what?” he said.
“That was amazing,” said Flora, meaning it, and everyone else added in to a round of applause.
Gaspard tried to look like he was still cross with them but couldn’t quite manage it. A tiny twitch appeared on his thin lips. “I have no time! No food! And my team are tellement cretins.”
“But it was still magnificent,” said Flora.
Gaspard sniffed. “Bah oui.”
Konstantin, exhausted from all the new experiences, was absolutely ready to retire to bed. Working past nine o’clock was, he mused, hardly a practice for gentlemen. He wondered too: he had never once given a thought, in his life, to all the serving staff, the waiters, the barkeeps, the servants at the palace, who stayed up as long as he wanted them to stay up. His feet hurt and his back was sore from bending over to chop, and his hand was throbbing from the cut, even though the bleeding had stopped. How did people do this every day? And how long was he going to have to do it before he either collapsed or got to go home? His father could not be serious about six months.
He heaved a sigh and turned toward the door. A small cough met him as he left, and then a slightly louder one. He turned back. The little scullery maid Isla was standing there, blushing as usual and looking apologetic. Tiresome. He wanted to go to bed.
“What is it?”
She gestured to the kitchen, which was covered in grease and spattered remains of chip fat and onions.
“What?” he said again, but with a steady sinking feeling in his stomach. They couldn’t be serious.
“Uhm, we kind of need to clean up,” she said, so quietly he could barely hear her, and that accent was totally ridiculous.
He held up his bandaged finger. “Uh, I know, but I’m in terrible agony.”
“Lazy boy!” came a voice from the other side of the kitchen. “Work!! I make deener for you.”
Konstantin noticed that Gaspard had fired up the grill again and appeared to be about to make them all the rest of the steaks. He also noticed that he himself was completely and utterly starving; he had been too worked up to realize just how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten all day and the steaks smelled absolutely unbelievable. Gaspard was smearing them with garlic butter, and the pan was sizzling with lightly popping fat.
“But do eet properly!”
“I do it properly!”
There was massed laughter from everyone in the kitchen. “No, you don’t!”
Konstantin was annoyed. He’d been slogging his guts out, for God’s sake.
“Okay,” he said crossly to Isla. “Show me. How to do precious washing up your proper way.”
She looked at him. “It’s like you’ve never done the washing up before?” she said in incredulous disbelief. He didn’t like that one bit; she sounded like she was looking down on him. And also it was true.
Isla took the spray faucet and the scourer in disbelief and showed him how to wash out the pots before you put them in the dishwasher, which ran fast and hot, and left him to it.
It took him ages, particularly with Gaspard jeering that he had no idea what it was going to be like when they got a real kitchen going and how he was going to have to get ten times faster than that, and his finger really was hurting now and he was having, in fact, a very, very bad night indeed, which got even worse when they handed him a mop and bucket.
He could only imagine the laughter of his friends if they could see him now. They certainly wouldn’t believe it. Well done, Daddy, he thought sullenly. You wanted to bring me down a peg or two and you’ve certainly done it now.
At last, having done a frankly terrible job of mopping, he sat down at the staff table and Gaspard finally handed him a plateful of food. The combination of tiredness, his finger, his predicament, and the amazing scent and taste of the food was so overwhelming that for the tiniest split second, Konstantin thought he might cry.
Isla, sitting opposite him, noticed this with some surprise. It made absolutely no sense to take a job and then hate it so much. He was such an odd person.
“Go to bed,” she said, when they’d finished and there was just the staff meal to clean up. “I’ve got this.”
Konstantin was instantly taken aback by the kindness and, annoyingly, the very obvious fact that he was absolutely shattered. But he couldn’t think about that now; he had half a steak wrapped in a napkin that he needed to get upstairs, so he simply nodded and scuttled upstairs without a backward glance, fed Bjårk, took him out on the roof again, and fell into bed, absolutely out for the count.