The Chef Read Online Free PDF Page B

tips, the work was not badly paid. She had good references and experience, and had made it to the rank of
demi
chef de rang
.
    She had also tried out other jobs. One of these had been as a tour rep abroad. The job had mainly consisted of holding up a sign at Kos Airport bearing the name of her tour operator, allocating
the arriving guests to the various hotel buses and receiving their complaints. Andrea soon found that she would rather deal with underdone or overdone steaks than missing luggage or rooms that had
a view of the street instead of the sea.
    Once she had even entered a beauty contest. She got past the first rounds and was thought to have a good chance of winning. Until she – the silly cow – had a moment of madness during
a bathing costume photoshoot: when the photographer asked her whether she had ever modelled professionally before, she replied, ‘Not with so many clothes on.’
    Chez Huwyler was a well-respected establishment and would make a good impression on her CV. But only if she stuck it out longer than the usual few months. Half a year; a whole one would be even
better.
    On the other side of the tram, opposite her, sat a man between thirty and forty. She could see him staring at her in the reflection of the window. Each time she turned her head he smiled at her.
She took a well-thumbed free newspaper from the seat next to her and barricaded herself behind it.
    Maybe she should try to start from scratch again. She was only twenty-eight; she could still start a course. She had her secondary school certificate, which meant she could go to art school. Or
at least sit the entrance exam. Photography, or even better, film. With a bit of luck you could get a grant. Or some other government assistance.
    Her stop was announced. Andrea stood up and went to the farther door to avoid having to pass the staring man.
    Okra was cooking in a pan with green chillies, onions, fenugreek seeds, red chilli powder, salt and curry leaves. The thick coconut milk was still in a bowl by the stove.
Maravan had decided on okra as a vegetable because of its English name: ladies’ fingers.
    The
pathiya kari
was a female dish, too: it was prepared specially for breastfeeding mothers. He had simmered some poussin meat in a little water with onions, fenugreek, turmeric,
garlic and salt, added to this broth one of the spice mixes from the previous night – coriander, cumin, pepper, chilli, tamarind paste – brought the whole thing to the boil, then taken
it off the heat, and covered it. He would heat it up again shortly before serving.
    The male element of his menu was a dish of shark meat:
churaa varai
. He had mashed a cooked shark steak with grated coconut, turmeric, caraway and salt, and put this to one side. In an
iron pan he had fried some onions in coconut oil until they were translucent, added dried chillies, onion seeds and curry leaves, stirring until the seeds started jumping, and taken the pan off the
heat. Shortly before serving he would reheat it, add the shark-and-spice mixture, combining everything thoroughly.
    These three traditional dishes were Maravan’s proof that he knew how to cook curry, and an excuse for the other things he was creating on the side. He would make small, manageable portions
and, as his one homage to experimental cooking, serve them with three different airs – coriander, mint and garlic foams – and curry leaf twigs glazed in nitrogen.
    Maravan owned an isolation tank in which he could store liquid nitrogen for a short period. It had cost him a fifth of his monthly wage, but it was an indispensable aid for his culinary
experiments and his efforts to outshine the chefs at the Huwyler.
    What this dinner was really about, however, was the courses in between. Each one contained Ayurvedic aphrodisiacs, but in new, bold preparations. Instead of dividing all the purée of urad
lentils marinated in sweetened milk into portions and drying these in the oven, he mixed half of it with