Spice. Robert A. Webster

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СКАЧАТЬ there always seemed to Cake as if something was missing, his grandmother, Pearl, assured him that one day he would discover HIS perfect spice.

      Cake took up kickboxing in his early teens. He was tall and slim and the martial art developed his body to be muscular, but his legs and arms remained scrawny, however hard he trained.

      Cake was a handsome lad with a thin face, hazel eyes, and dark, brown, short hair. He resembled a young Kevin Costner, although his gangly odd shape gave him a Coco the clown appearance and throughout his mid-teens girls started noticing him, now he had stopped sniffing them.

      His family assumed that on leaving school, Cake would join the family business and become a farmer. However, his dreams and ambitions were a world away from theirs, and he wanted to attend culinary school. His parents forbade it and offered a compromise. He, along with his mother and grandmother, could start a small market bakery business and the three of them would bake, while his sisters sold their products to businesses in and around Louth. Cake agreed to this compromise, knowing this would mean working long hours and the forfeiture of his kickboxing training, but baking was his passion. His grandfather let them use an old barn and purchased two second-hand gas-baking ovens, along with the large AGA cooker in the main kitchen. The family bought a dough-mixer and other baking machinery, including shelves, refrigerators, and storage, as per Cake’s instructions and they set up a quaint rural bakery. His father had given them one of the farm’s Land Rovers to use, and he and his sisters travelled around the small town to find factories and shop outlets to sell their bakery items. Cake kept the menu simple. Although he loved to experiment, the family decided that bread loaves, rolls, baguettes, cakes, and tarts would suffice.

      After harvesting the crops, Cake’s business got underway. They baked early morning, and the first batch left the bakery at 6:00 am. The sisters made deliveries before going to school and Cake would bake and deliver any further batches through the day. This routine worked well and within a short time, they became inundated with orders. The bakery business became a lucrative extra income for the farm. Cake, although happy, didn’t feel content with his lot. The more he read cooking magazines about new techniques and recipes created in the large bakeries, restaurants, hotels, and with the adulation written about the master chefs, the more Cake yearned for the glamorous life.

      One warm summer’s morning, as Cake removed a fresh batch of crusty ploughman’s rolls from the oven, he received a phone call from Bill, the landlord of the ‘Rising Sun’ public house.

      “Morning Cake,” said Bill, “I have a customer who wants a word with you. Can you come here?”

      “What does he want?” asked Cake.

      “I don’t know, come here, and meet him then you can find out,” said Bill, sounding vague.

      Cake, intrigued, looked at his watch and said, “Okay Bill, give me about twenty- minutes.” Cake changed out of his baker whites and drove into town.

      He went into the Rising Sun and over to Bill, who smiled and told him about the customer. “He ate your gourmet sandwich with a slice of Gateau on the first day, and today he ordered several of your sandwiches and slices of cakes. I saw him take a bite from each, savour them, wrap them in a napkin, and place them into a holdall.” Bill scratched his chin and continued, “Today, he asked me who supplied my bakery products and when I told him it was a local baker, he introduced himself and insisted that he spoke to you. I wouldn’t have bothered, but he claimed to be famous, although I have never heard of him.”

      “That’s strange,” said Cake and puckered his brow, “what’s his name?”

      Bill thought and said, “Jimmy, something… I’ve forgotten his surname, but he is sitting over there,” and he pointed to the man sitting in the lounge reading a newspaper.

      Cake went over to the man, who peered over his newspaper and smiled. He placed the paper down on a table and asked Cake to sit. Cake gasped and looked surprised when he recognised the man. He had read articles about him in British Bakery magazines, and well aware of the prestige surrounding the small, round-faced individual, with a receding hairline.

      “I’m Jimmy Constable, the head pâtissier at Harrods bakery,”

      Cake shook Jimmy’s hand and with a tremble in his voice said. “Yes, I know who you are, everyone calls me Cake.”

      “I am pleased to meet you Cake,” said Jimmy, “What can I do for you, was there something wrong with the food?” asked Cake looking concerned.

      Jimmy smiled and said, “No, the food’s perfect.” He then told him, “A few days ago, while I was travelling to Hull to interview a candidate for a position at Harrods I stopped here for a snack. I expected bland, dry, roadside food.” He leant forward and said, “Instead, the flavours and textures of the roll and Gateaux blew me away; I could not believe the taste sensations. I came back the next day to sample other items on the menu and again delighted with the unique, distinctive flavours.” He looked over at Bill smiling, and he whispered. “It tasted a lot better than the awful beer.”

      Cake, thrilled to hear Jimmy Constable sing his praises, explained how he got his nickname, told him about his family’s bakery, and invited him to visit. Jimmy agreed, they left the Rising Sun and went to the Bakewell farm.

      Jimmy looked around the farm's bakery and sampled a few more of Cake’s products, a look of pleasure spreading across his face with every bite.

      “Have you any baking qualifications Cake?” asked Jimmy.

      “No,” replied Cake “Sorry.”

      Jimmy smiled. “Never mind, I have tasted nothing this good for a long time, so we can get around the paperwork. I would like you to do something for me.”

      Cake, looking confused, asked, “Get around paperwork for what?”

      Jimmy ignored his question and took a magazine from his bag. He showed Cake a glossy photograph of a white icing topped custard slice and asked, “Can you make one of these?”

      Cake looked at the photograph. ‘Why would a top pâtissier want me to make a simple custard slice?’ he thought, looking puzzled and replied, “Sure,”

      “Please make me one,” said Jimmy and smiled.

      “Only one?” asked Cake.

      “Yes, Just one,” replied Jimmy.

      Jimmy sat and watched as Cake, who, like a whirling dervish, went through his jars and containers of ingredients. Using no weighing scales, he dolloped, sifted, folded, spooned, and mixed ingredients together, smelling and tasting it until he appeared satisfied and looked a perfect match to the one on the glossy page, he placed it into an oven. They spoke for a while about London and baking until Cake knew that the custard slice was ready. He removed it from the oven and spread icing across the top.

      Jimmy inhaled the delicious aroma and smiled.

      While waiting for the icing to harden, he asked Jimmy, “Why did you want me to bake you a simple custard slice?”

      Jimmy looked at Cake and smiled, “They aren’t so simple and can taste bland. I always look for someone who can produce a unique flavour and turn a bland item into something special,” Jimmy replied.

      “Look for what?” asked Cake, sounding confused.

      Jimmy looked at Cake, and said, “An assistant.”

      It dumbfounded Cake when Jimmy then told him, “There’s a position СКАЧАТЬ