A Taste of Passion. Ashley Lister
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As I might have mentioned before, that goes against restaurant policy.’
‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’
The maître d’ sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she headed towards the kitchen. A moment later a smirking waitress appeared and placed another muffin in front of Trudy. She had fuchsia hair and the name badge over her right breast was written in italicised script: Nikki.
‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Nikki grinned.
Trudy nodded. ‘I’ve never had better.’
‘My friend Kali makes them,’ Nikki explained. ‘She’s pâtissier here at Boui-Boui and she was the one who showed this recipe to Mr Hart.’
‘Really? Has she ever told you what goes into them?’
‘What goes into a citrus and blueberry muffin?’ Nikki repeated doubtfully.
Before Trudy could say that wasn’t what she meant, the maître d’ had appeared and the conversation was cut maddeningly short. She escorted the fuchsia-haired waitress out of the room and back to the kitchens.
Trudy was left alone in the restaurant with her single, enigmatic muffin.
Each citrus and blueberry muffin had been baked in a pastel pink paper case. Trudy slowly peeled the paper away before sampling the sponge in small, savoured morsels. Over the past two hours she had grown so acquainted with unpeeling the muffins from their paper cases that the action felt like a well-practised ritual. Primed by some Pavlovian response, she began to salivate in anticipation of the tantalising taste as soon as she was teasing paper away from the sponge.
Something about the flavour was maddeningly familiar.
Emotionally she was detecting excitement and hope – not things she often associated with flavours. Her tongue continued to identify suggestions of vanilla but that was a common ingredient in so many pastries that acknowledging its presence did little to help. Trudy was still trying to work out the identity of that missing detail when the maître d’ reappeared in the main doorway.
The solitary couple had crept quietly from the room. Their table had been surreptitiously cleared without Trudy noticing.
She was now the only customer in the restaurant.
The maître d’ wore an overcoat over her uniform. She had one hand on a light switch. There was something about her posture that suggested absolute determination. And, whilst Trudy could see the woman was resolute, she did not think the determination of the maître d’ could be as strong or resilient as her own will.
‘I’ll be locking the doors now,’ the maître d’ explained. ‘This is your final chance before you get locked in here for the evening. Are you going to leave?’
Trudy drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave after I’ve spoken with the pâtissier.’
The lights went out. Before Trudy had a proper chance to realise she had been plunged into darkness, a stranger took the seat next to hers.
‘What do you want?’
Her heartbeat quickened. She had no idea who he was. Had she been left alone with the restaurant’s security detail? Her grand idea of remaining at the table, until the restaurant’s staff were forced to deal with her, no longer seemed like such a clever strategy. A slick sheen of sweat moistened her palms. Her mouth was almost too dry to talk. She started twice before finally finding the words.
‘These muffins,’ she began. It took every ounce of effort she possessed not to stammer. She willed herself to appear in control. Even though it was dark and even though she didn’t know who she was talking to, Trudy felt the need to exude an air of contained professional calm. ‘These muffins are delicious.’
‘I know. Everything I serve here at the Boui-Boui is delicious. Now, tell me, what do you want?’
It was too dark to see who he was. He was simply a suggestion of shadow against the blackness of the unlit restaurant. His voice had a northern twang to it that reminded her of the blustering heroes from hardy TV shows and gritty films. It was an accent that suggested the words were spoken by someone with no time to tolerate whimsy, artifice or fools. They were plain-spoken words from a plain-speaking man.
His accent trilled softly against her ear like the rasp of a favourite blanket. Maddeningly, she knew his voice was one she had heard before and that she knew well. She racked her brains, desperately trying to think where she had heard it and how she knew this stranger.
‘What do I want?’ Trudy repeated. It was difficult to believe that the full details of her request had not been passed on to the senior kitchen staff. She brushed past that detail refusing to let her ire show. ‘Perhaps you might be able to tell me?’ she began excitedly. ‘Are you the pâtissier?’
Even as she asked the question she knew that wasn’t correct. The waitress had told her that the pâtissier was a woman called Kali.
‘No. I’m not the pâtissier. I’m head chef. This is my restaurant.’
Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Whatever she had hoped to say suddenly seemed unimportant as she realised she was in the presence of a legend. She was briefly thankful for the darkness because it meant she wouldn’t be embarrassed by the fact that she was flustered with this discovery. She was in the presence of her idol.
‘William Hart?’
‘Yes.’
‘The William Hart?’
‘Unless he owes you money, yes.’
Her heart had been racing before. Now it thundered so loud she was sure he would be able to hear it in the darkened silence between them. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Mr Hart. You came to the university and delivered a seminar. It was most inspirational.’
He grunted as though the matter was of no importance.
‘What do you want?’ In his broad accent the question came out as: Waz tha one? ‘It’s late, I’m jiggered and, whilst I’ve got no problems locking you in here for the night, I’d be better suited if you simply chuffed off back to where you’ve come from. Let those of us who work for a living get some shuteye.’
She tried squinting at him in the darkness. His dialect and unfamiliar word choices made it difficult for her to work out if he was angry or amused or possessed by some other emotion. If there had been better lighting between them she would have been able to read his eyes and establish if he was sincere in his threat to lock her inside the restaurant.
‘I wanted to learn something about the ingredients in your citrus and blueberry muffin.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Are you lakin’ with me?’
She shook her head and then realised he wouldn’t be able to see the movement in the darkness. ‘I don’t think I’m laking with you. I’m not fully sure I understand what that means.’
‘Lakin’?’ He sighed. ‘Are you joking? Are you playing with me? Are you having a laugh? Are you messing me about? Did you really spend your entire evening sat at this table because you wanted to know what’s in one of my blueberry muffins?’ He chuckled dourly and added, ‘I’ll tell you now, lass, the answer to that one was buried somewhere in the question.’
Trudy frowned. She could tell he was mocking her and she supposed her unorthodox behaviour did merit some level of derision. Nevertheless, she was determined not to be dismissed as a foolish blonde who hadn’t worked out that a blueberry muffin contained blueberries.
‘I recognise so many flavours