from a man who won’t go to a restaurant that doesn’t serve a well-done steak and wedges.
‘What’s the life like on this one?’ he says, sliding his finger along the top of a chocolate trifle I was planning on taking round to Laura and Dave’s at the weekend.
‘Seven. This is life minus three,’ I say – we’re three days off the ‘eat by’ date, so four days into the pudding’s life.
‘And how does the consistency of that hold up on minus one?’ He points to a raspberry trifle. Devron will always ask one question that makes him sound knowledgeable, but blindfold him and he doesn’t know the difference between a blackberry and a blackcurrant.
‘Flavour’s good, texture and mouthfeel maintained till end of life.’
He nods. ‘Custard’s good on that lot,’ he says. ‘Approved.’
I feel like the proud mother of twenty kids, all of whom have just won the egg-and-spoon race.
‘Appletree are great with custard,’ I say. ‘Brûlées, tarts, crème anglaise …’
‘Brûlées … can you look at a microwaveable brûlée for autumn?’
‘The custard part?’
‘Whole lot.’
‘You won’t get crispy, browned sugar from a microwave, you need direct overhead heat for caramelisation.’
‘Orangy custards? Mands loves tangerines.’
‘Not ideal – citric acid interferes with the protein network, the fat globules separate at heat.’
‘Huh … what’s our margin on those trifles?’
‘38%’
‘And the cost of custard as percentage of total?’
‘Low. Bulk of cost is fruit and labour.’
‘Right, work up a dozen or so new custard-based puddings for launch next summer, margin of 40% plus. Yeah?’
I do like a challenge when there’s custard involved.
James has gone to Paris. When I left his house on Monday morning, he’d said, ‘I’ll call you on Friday.’
And he does. He always calls when he says he will, andvery rarely at any other time. Although I’ve been busy all week with Devron’s new brief and out every night with friends, I’ve been distracted, hoping he’ll call just for the hell of it, just to say hi, but that doesn’t seem to be his style.
‘I’m on the Eurostar, so it might cut out. What are you doing tomorrow?’ he says.
I have kept my Saturday free in the hope that I’ll see him, but I’m bothered by his presumption that I’ll have done this.
‘Why?’
‘Meet me at the Tate Modern at 5pm.’
‘I’m not sure if I’m free.’
‘I’ve got something for you, it won’t keep.’
‘What sort of something?’
‘Trust me, you’ll like it. The man in the shop said it’ll be okay till 6pm Paris time, so don’t be late.’
‘We could meet earlier?’ I’d like to spend a bit of the day together.
‘I’ve got some errands. Meet me at the top of the slope?’
I wear a white cotton sundress that I bought in a New York flea market for five dollars. When I bought it two summers ago it was too tight, but I fell in love with the idea of one day fitting into it, and the fact that it cost less than the Thomas Keller chicken sandwich I’d just eaten. My wardrobe has a smattering of random, very cheap clothes like this, most of which will never fit, but when I try thedress on today it’s perfect. I put on a pair of beautiful pale pink silk French knickers. And at the last minute, I grab the large brimmed floppy straw hat that I’ve never dared wear outside of my flat. I feel French. I feel pretty and delicate and like someone in a Vanessa Bruno advert, rather than someone who spends most of her life with perpetual underarm stubble.
Today is the first proper day of spring. As I walk along the embankment from Waterloo I feel like the person I always wanted to be: happy, confident, cool. God, I wish I could make myself feel like this every day. Men stare. Fashiony girls surreptitiously look with a mix of envy and admiration. I should wear this hat more often.
There’s so much I want to do around here with James. Late night cocktails at the
‘What’s the life like on this one?’ he says, sliding his finger along the top of a chocolate trifle I was planning on taking round to Laura and Dave’s at the weekend.
‘Seven. This is life minus three,’ I say – we’re three days off the ‘eat by’ date, so four days into the pudding’s life.
‘And how does the consistency of that hold up on minus one?’ He points to a raspberry trifle. Devron will always ask one question that makes him sound knowledgeable, but blindfold him and he doesn’t know the difference between a blackberry and a blackcurrant.
‘Flavour’s good, texture and mouthfeel maintained till end of life.’
He nods. ‘Custard’s good on that lot,’ he says. ‘Approved.’
I feel like the proud mother of twenty kids, all of whom have just won the egg-and-spoon race.
‘Appletree are great with custard,’ I say. ‘Brûlées, tarts, crème anglaise …’
‘Brûlées … can you look at a microwaveable brûlée for autumn?’
‘The custard part?’
‘Whole lot.’
‘You won’t get crispy, browned sugar from a microwave, you need direct overhead heat for caramelisation.’
‘Orangy custards? Mands loves tangerines.’
‘Not ideal – citric acid interferes with the protein network, the fat globules separate at heat.’
‘Huh … what’s our margin on those trifles?’
‘38%’
‘And the cost of custard as percentage of total?’
‘Low. Bulk of cost is fruit and labour.’
‘Right, work up a dozen or so new custard-based puddings for launch next summer, margin of 40% plus. Yeah?’
I do like a challenge when there’s custard involved.
James has gone to Paris. When I left his house on Monday morning, he’d said, ‘I’ll call you on Friday.’
And he does. He always calls when he says he will, andvery rarely at any other time. Although I’ve been busy all week with Devron’s new brief and out every night with friends, I’ve been distracted, hoping he’ll call just for the hell of it, just to say hi, but that doesn’t seem to be his style.
‘I’m on the Eurostar, so it might cut out. What are you doing tomorrow?’ he says.
I have kept my Saturday free in the hope that I’ll see him, but I’m bothered by his presumption that I’ll have done this.
‘Why?’
‘Meet me at the Tate Modern at 5pm.’
‘I’m not sure if I’m free.’
‘I’ve got something for you, it won’t keep.’
‘What sort of something?’
‘Trust me, you’ll like it. The man in the shop said it’ll be okay till 6pm Paris time, so don’t be late.’
‘We could meet earlier?’ I’d like to spend a bit of the day together.
‘I’ve got some errands. Meet me at the top of the slope?’
I wear a white cotton sundress that I bought in a New York flea market for five dollars. When I bought it two summers ago it was too tight, but I fell in love with the idea of one day fitting into it, and the fact that it cost less than the Thomas Keller chicken sandwich I’d just eaten. My wardrobe has a smattering of random, very cheap clothes like this, most of which will never fit, but when I try thedress on today it’s perfect. I put on a pair of beautiful pale pink silk French knickers. And at the last minute, I grab the large brimmed floppy straw hat that I’ve never dared wear outside of my flat. I feel French. I feel pretty and delicate and like someone in a Vanessa Bruno advert, rather than someone who spends most of her life with perpetual underarm stubble.
Today is the first proper day of spring. As I walk along the embankment from Waterloo I feel like the person I always wanted to be: happy, confident, cool. God, I wish I could make myself feel like this every day. Men stare. Fashiony girls surreptitiously look with a mix of envy and admiration. I should wear this hat more often.
There’s so much I want to do around here with James. Late night cocktails at the
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