Читать книгу A Girl and Her Pig - April Bloomfield - Страница 24

When I was hired at the River Café, Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers were my bosses. By the time I left, they were my mentors and my friends. Rose was seventy-one when she passed away. Just ten months before that, she’d still been working four days a week in the kitchen.

Rose didn’t give compliments often, and I actually grew to love that about her. I think that she was just honest. If you were doing a good job, she’d say it. If not, she’d keep mom. I was always doing something embarrassing in front of her. One day, she and I planted courgettes in the restaurant’s garden. I’m a Taurus. I’m supposed to have a green thumb. But a few days later, Rose looked at the courgettes she had planted. The plant stood there looking vigorous. She took a look at my sad, droopy, little plant and said, in her upperclass accent, ‘Darling, I think you’ve killed it.’

My first month at the Spotted Pig, Rose came on a visit from England. The night she stopped by, I was on the line with just two other cooks. The Pig’s burger had got a bit of press, and we had twenty of them grilling at once. I was a mess – sweating, my hair going every which way, like weeds in a garden. That was when Rose chose to pop her head into the kitchen. Fuck, I thought, Rose Gray is here and all I’m doing is cooking burgers! Her only comment on the Pig was that she didn’t care for the raw onion I’d put in a salad.

Rose and Ruthie were inspiring people to work for. Rose almost always took a notebook with her when she went out for dinner, especially in Italy. She’d draw little pictures of dishes she liked and scribble down notes on how she thought they were made. The amazing bit is that when she and Ruthie re-created them in the restaurant’s kitchen, their versions were even better. They were both so passionate about food. Everything had to be just so, from the way food was plated to the balsamic vinegar they used. It was infectious. I began to believe what they believed. It consumed me, partly because it felt so great to be consumed by. It’s why I’m so hard on my cooks today.

The duo’s dynamic spirit made me feel lucky to be around them, even during tedious tasks. And I’ll never forget the day when there was a plumbing problem (and therefore, a bit of a smell) at the restaurant. I don’t know what most people would have done – light candles? spray air freshener? – but straight off, Rose had us put a massive wheel of ripe Gorgonzola out on the bar.

Perhaps my favourite times at the River Cafe were when Rose and I would meet in the morning to discuss the day’s menu. I’d come in, invigorated from my stroll to the restaurant along the Thames and through the restaurant’s little garden. It was quiet inside, and I’d have a rare moment to take in where I was. I would make breakfast: toast with olive oil and salted anchovies for Rose. For me, toast rubbed with raw garlic and slathered with leftover vinegary Salsa Verde (see recipe, here). Perhaps a little grated Parmesan and a drizzle of Tuscan olive oil. Each bite reminded me how far I’d come from carving roasts at the Holiday Inn.