A Twist in the Tale

On the sixth day, after a curt nod from the chef, Mark realized he must be doing something half-right. By the following Saturday he felt he had mastered the simple skills of vegetable preparation and found himself becoming fascinated by what the chef himself was up to. Although Jacques rarely addressed anyone as he marched round the acre of kitchen except to grunt his approval or disapproval—the latter more commonly—Mark quickly learned to anticipate his needs. Within a short space of time he began to feel that he was part of a team—even though he was only too aware of being the novice recruit.

On the deputy chef’s day off the following week Mark was allowed to arrange the cooked vegetables in their bowls and spent some time making each dish look attractive as well as edible. The chef not only noticed but actually muttered his greatest accolade—“Bon.”

During his last three weeks at the Savoy, Mark did not even look at the calendar above his bed.

One Thursday morning a message came down from the undermanager that Mark was to report to his office as soon as was convenient. Mark had quite forgotten that it was August 31—his last day. He cut ten lemons into quarters, then finished preparing the forty plates of thinly sliced smoked salmon that would complete the first course for a wedding lunch. He looked with pride at his efforts before folding up his apron and leaving to collect his papers and final wage packet.

“Where you think you’re going?” asked the chef, looking up.

“I’m off,” said Mark. “Back to Coventry.”

“See you Monday then. You deserve day off.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m going home for good,” said Mark.

The chef stopped checking the cuts of rare beef that would make up the second course of the wedding feast.

“Going?” he repeated as if he didn’t comprehend the word.

“Yes. I’ve finished my year and now I’m off home to work.”

“I hope you found first-class hotel,” said the chef with genuine interest.

“I’m not going to work in a hotel.”

“A restaurant, perhaps?”

“No, I’m going to get a job at Triumph.”

The chef looked puzzled for a moment, unsure if it was his English or whether the boy was mocking him.

“What is—Triumph?”

“A place where they manufacture cars.”

“You will manufacture cars?”

“Not a whole car, but I will put the wheels on.”

“You put cars on wheels?” the chef said in disbelief.

“No,” laughed Mark. “Wheels on cars.”

The chef still looked uncertain.

“So you will be cooking for the car workers?”

“No. As I explained, I’m going to put the wheels on the cars,” said Mark slowly, enunciating each word.

“That not possible.”

“Oh yes it is,” responded Mark. “And I’ve waited a whole year to prove it.”

“If I offered you job as commis chef, you change mind?” asked Jacques quietly.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you ‘ave talent in those fingers. In time I think you become chef, perhaps even good chef.”