The Chef's Secret

It’s 5am. I roll out from my steel bunkbed and straight into the kitchen. I pour the grey oats into a bucket-like saucepan, followed by pints of sickly milk, watching as it sank into the stew like an english marsh. I closed my eyes. I felt the resistance of the gruel as I pushed the wooden spoon through it in slow circles, my mind’s eye picturing it as being some sort of sweet potato and butternut squash soup with just hints of coriander and wafts of tabasco. Every morning, I take these few minutes of peace to just stand here and dream of my life before, outside these prison walls. The money, the fame, the food… Was it better to have it all, however briefly, than to have never had it at all?

‘Oi,’ a voice pierces my ears and bursts my reverie. ‘Give us some.’

The prisoner nods towards the mush.

‘Yep.’ I nod, dishing it out and slapping it onto her outstretched plate.

How did I get here? You might ask. How did I go from having it all to having nothing? How could someone like me end up in a place like this? If I tell you my story, you must promise me one thing. You must promise that you will believe me.

It all started at 11am on a warm, Sunday morning.

‘Think we can do this one in under an hour? My kid’s got a half day at school so I gotta go pick him up in a bit.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ I respond, hopping out of the truck and pulling the keys out of my pocket, ready to enter the dilapidated house. I worked as an aftermath technician; which basically meant that I cleaned and emptied the houses of people that had passed away. I didn’t hate my job, which was the most I felt I could ask for from life. Sam, my colleague, hops out of the truck and sidles up next to me, handing over a mask and gloves.

‘So what’s this one’s story?’ I asked.

‘Mrs Robinson. Went mad after her husband died a few years ago. Poor guy got food poisoning.’

‘Oh god. What a nasty way to go.’

‘You’re telling me. Let’s hope that last meal was worth it.’ He chuckled.

We enter the creaky building, dust and musk tickling our eyelids and settling on our hair.

‘I’ll take the upstairs, you take the downstairs.’ He hurried up the steps and left me in the brown and dingy living room. I took a large box and moved to the bookshelf, pulling books out, dusting them off and placing them in boxes. I thought about what I was going to do when I got home. What would I make for lunch? Had the hummus gone off in the fridge? I reached a sunlit section of the bookshelf, and that’s when I saw it. Sandwiched between the Bible and Tolstoy, was a quaint, black book. I gently pulled it out. Perhaps it was a diary or a planner or love letters or… I opened to a random page.

Nana’s baked avocado recipe

Ingredients; Avocado, tomatoes, onion, cayenne, salt…

I flicked to the next page.

Russian Spelt Pasta

Ingredients; spelt flour, coconut cream, Himalayan pink salt…

My stomach began to rumble. This food looked so good and so… unusual. The hummus sandwich I was dreaming about earlier suddenly sounded unbearably dull. I thought about taking the notebook home. Was that a moral thing to do? I mean, the family had given us specific requests on what they wanted from the house but not once did they mention a recipe book. Plus, I deserved to be a little selfish once in a while. Right? I slid the book into my coat pocket, which just about fit, deciding that I could always return it to the family later.

‘You done?’ Sam asked, thumping down the stairs.

‘What?’ I said, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

‘You done?’ He asked again. ‘I really need to leave in like ten minutes. Here, I’ll help.’

We both started carelessly shoving books into boxes and loading them back into the truck. Soon enough the room was empty of its trinkets and paperbacks and things that made a room a home. Sam drove us to the warehouse and we unloaded the boxes into one of the units, leaving them to be picked up by the family later. Once that was done, he dropped me off at my flat and sped away. I unlocked the door and made my way up the grey stone staircase, my footsteps echoing between the damp stained walls. I entered my apartment, a tiny studio complex where the bed was in the kitchen and the kitchen was also the living room. At least the bathroom was separate. I slid my hand into my coat pocket and felt the notebook between my fingers. A rush of excitement surged through me at the thought of making myself something new and delicious, a treat amongst my mundane lifestyle. I started at page one, deciding I would do this chronologically.

Creamy spinach pancakes.

I smiled. It sounded like heaven. I turned on the TV and rolled up my sleeves, listening to Friends play out as I followed the recipe to a T, ensuring I had all the correct measurements and ingredients. After an hour of cooking, I served the pancakes onto one of my fancy plates, watching as the steam rose from the cooked batter and creamy spinach slid from the opening. I gently cut into the pancake, watching the insides ooze onto the porcelain as I took my first bite. I closed my eyes. The flavours burst in my mouth like an array of colours, as though I could taste the deepest and earthiest of greens, the creamiest and softest of whites. I could hardly get over the taste, let alone the texture. The gentle spongey spring as the pancake broke between my teeth, the slight hints of sweetness that swum amongst the savoury… if one could have a taste of heaven, this would be it.

‘…with a cash prize of twenty thousand dollars…’

My ears suddenly perked up and my eyes flew open. I turned to watch the TV.

‘…contestants have to create a dish for our world renowned chefs to judge…’

Now this is the part of the story I know you won’t believe. There was a competition for people to send in their recipes to win twenty thousand dollars. It was the perfect coincidence, right? Or so I thought.

I submitted the pancake recipe immediately. It was a no brainer and it was worth a shot.

It was a Wednesday night and I flicked on the TV to watch the results. I think you can guess what happens next.

‘Live on national television, we’re going to call the winner of our competition. Are you ready? Contestants, please ensure your phone is switched on.’

They begin to dial the number. The phone is attached the speakers and the ringing is loud and clear throughout the live audience.

My phone starts to ring. Unknown number.

‘Hello?’ I ask, my voice shaking.

‘Hi, is this Sophia Cornall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Congratulations, you’ve just won twenty thousand dollars!’

My vision blurred. My heart felt like it was bursting in my chest. I started to cry.

‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ I clutched the little black notebook tight against my chest.

From that second onwards, my life changed. I was called on national television to accept the check. Little old fat me, standing there like a sore thumb amongst willowy, glamorous TV presenters.

‘What are you going to do with the money?’ They asked. I was stumped. I hadn’t thought about it before.

‘I’m… I’m going to quit my job.’ I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth. ‘And I’m going to open up a restaurant.’

The audience cheered and applauded me and my heart swelled even more and I was so happy I could die. I quit my job the very next day. I found a quaint ground floor of a building, available for rent. I hired builders to create a large kitchen and the separate seating area, adorned with velvet chairs and tables with scarlet silk cloths and dimly lit chandeliers that dripped from the ceiling. Bonsai trees littered the floor and vines creeped about the walls. I was, finally, in heaven. The television people were there again for the grand opening.

‘So, what’s on the menu?’ They shoved the microphone in my face.

‘Um,’ I was stumped once again. ‘Well, I think, every night I’m going to make one dish and then it changes the next night. So, I guess tonight, we’ll start with the Creamy Spinach Pancakes and tomorrow night it will be something different.’

‘That’s very unusual! But we love stories that are out of the ordinary here on Foodies TV. Come down to Sophie Cornall’s restaurant called, ‘The Chef’s Secret.’ And what is that secret, Sophie?’

‘Well, if I told you then I’d have to kill you.’ I laughed nervously. They all boomed with laughter.

And I stuck to my word. There was only ever one choice on the menu each night. It kept people coming back for more and more.

Now this is where my story gets dark. Things were perfect and perhaps, like Icarus, I was flying too close to the sun. It was a month in and me and my team of chefs had gotten through twenty nine recipes. I had reached page thirty. The final recipe.

Velvety mushroom risotto - it takes you to heaven.

It sounded perfect. I sourced all the ingredients myself, one of the mushroom’s on the list being ‘Lepiota brunneoincarnata’. You see, what I had learnt from these recipes was, the more complex an ingredient, the better it will taste. The ingredient was rare and I found someone on the internet who was selling them. Perhaps I deserved what I had coming for trusting strangers online. The ingredients arrived and me and the other chef’s set to work making them. It smelled incredible and mouth was already watering but I held back. I made a rule for myself that I could only eat the meal once I had finished my shift. The night was going well, people raved about how incredible the food was, telling me I had to reveal the Chef’s secret… I was even brought out of the kitchen so everyone could give me a standing ovation.

Then someone collapsed. A mother with her husband and three children, the whole restaurant watching in horror as she convulsed on the floor. Blood dribbled from her mouth.

‘Call an ambulance!’ Someone shouted.

My eyes were wide with horror as I saw a second person at the back of the restaurant fall to the floor in the same manner, convulsing and choking and screaming. One by one my guests were being picked off like flies, clutching at their stomachs, blood seeping from their mouths onto the crimson coloured table cloths. I began to cry. I didn’t know what was happening.

‘You’ve poisoned us.’ Someone choked.

‘What do you mean?’ I sobbed.

One of the chef’s ran to my side. He was clutching my little black notebook.

‘I read your recipe.’ He said, tears streaming down his face. ‘How could you be so stupid? That mushroom you sourced for the final meal, it’s poisonous. Deadly.’

I shook my head in denial.

‘I’m calling the police.’ He dropped the book and ran to the phone and I fell to my knees. My world went blurry. I clutched the book. Sirens were heard outside. Dead bodies lay beside me. I was carried away.

And so, here I am. Serving gruel to prisoners in some sick twist of fate. I suppose now we both know the chef’s secret. And the notebook? Waiting to be cleared away by the next technician who decides to steal a quaint, little recipe book.