A Matter of Taste Prologue

Scrambled Eggs and Toast

I grew up in a family that loves food. Wait, scratch that: I grew up in a family thats obsessed with food. Every meal Ive had has been a feast, regardless of how simply it was prepared or how basic the ingredients were. While I was growing up, I never felt inclined to nosh on the usual packets of crisps, sweeties, and what passed for biscuits among my peers. My relatives all made sure of that: the biscuit jar in every Balfour household was always full of homemade treats, every fridge stocked with raw veg and fresh fruit, and we all knew how to make our own sandwiches from an early age. Soda wasnt exactly prohibited, but the only fizzies I remember in the refrigerator at home were ginger beer, bitter lemon, and blackberry Ribena concentrate cut with soda water; I wouldnt develop an Irn-Bru habit till I was at university and, even then, I drank sparingly of that caffeine-jacked brew. My earliest memories involve being allowed to lick the spoons and bowls clean after my half-French mother made one of her stupendous cakes or one of those scrumptious puddings she was duly famous for. I remember late summer days when Dad and I would go berrying in the woods near our vacation house in the countryside, how hed pop the first ripe berry of the season into my mouth to teach me how to appreciate freshness, the proper sweetness of fruit picked in season. I remember Maman and Dad telling me about the small Oxford caf where they first met, how they first bonded over milky coffee and cinnamon buns. I remember both my grandmothers admonishing me to eat more because I was a wee, pally-wally thing as a child and I never gained any additional heft despite my gluttonous appetite. I remember sharing the contents of a magnificent picnic hamper with my grandfather whilst fishing on the loch on the clan estate. Food has also been the family business for generations. Its what has kept Clan Balfour clothed, sheltered, schooled, and certainly fed and fed well for generations. It all began with our ancestors who farmed wheat, oats, and dairy cattle in the Scots countryside. Eventually, it grew into a business that took our produce to various parts of the British Isles.

It earned our family noble status in the 1600s after one ancestor refused to ship food anywhere in the realm if he wasnt allowed to stay Catholic. England, Ireland, and Wales nearly experienced famine till that unwise monarch relented and allowed the family to practice its faith unmolested. Its been a long-running family joke that we practically bullied our way into the gentry. But it only goes to show you that you really shouldnt bully a Balfour when it matters the most. When my grandfather came home after the Second World War, he expanded the food importation business into the empire it currently is. He and my father run Balfour Imports Ltd. from Glasgow and its a business that continues to prosper to this day. Those of us who chose not to get involved in shipping food from Scotland to elsewhere ended up in the food business, anyway. Some of my cousins are confectioners and chocolatiers. I have uncles who run chip shops or specialty groceries. Other relatives teach cookery at universities throughout the UK. My fathers twin sister God rest her soul was a horticulturist, but she specialized in edible flowers and fruit-bearing trees. Aunt Grisie was an amazing cook when she was alive and was lucky enough to marry my Uncle Alastair who is, himself, quite a dab hand in the kitchen. Their son, Puck, is my favorite cousin. Ive long considered him more of a big brother than a cousin seeing how were both lonely onlies. This is also despite the fact that he lives a whole continent away. He doesnt cook professionally hes a rock star and, when hes not

performing, runs the Asia-Pacific side of his familys shipping empire. He does cook at home, though, and he loves food as much as all the rest of us. Its his wife who went into cooking professionally and he works the counter at her caf after office hours.

And theres me. The whole handle is actually Maximilian Dominic Balfour, Earl of Thornton but no one really throws that into my face unless theyre particularly suicidal. Im just Max, though my grandparents and parents call me Maxie when its just us or Maximilian (usually uttered in a very stern tone by a very loud voice) when Ive done something off. My former boss always called me Balfour and I never gave her the satisfaction of calling her by either her formal title or her given name but Ill get to that in a bit. Im Max and Im a chef.

A boucher-charcutier, to be exact: butcher, preserver of meats, sausage maker. Nothing to sneer at, of course, titles notwithstanding; were working nobles, as my grandpa is so fond of saying. Its the sort of work that demands precision, focus, and a strong stomach to deal with all the blood and guts involved in the job. It demands a steady hand for all that cutting, a welltrained palate for all the tasting involved. In my profession, you cant take a laissez les bon temps rouler approach. Butchery and charcuterie thats the fine and noble art of preserving meats in various ways in case youre too ignorant or too damned lazy to look it up demand the same level of perfection as, say, pastry-making. Its all about perfection so, if you dont think youve either the nerves or the balls for it, dont even think about it. Pack up your knives and consider another profession: lace embroidery, for example or something else that doesnt need so much attention for persnickety details. Cut the carcass up wrong and youve pretty much screwed up everything. Grind the meat too fine for a particular sausage recipe and you fuck up the texture. And dont let me get started on seasoning; lets just say that, if you screw that up, get the hell out of the kitchen before I chase you out with a well-sharpened cleaver! Its a job that should leave no room for error either on my part or, for that matter, anyone elses. You do things right or you dont do them at all. Cousin Puck says I ought to loosen up, that I could run myself to an early grave thanks to my obsessive attention to detail, my mania for perfection. I didnt believe him, of course. Well, I didnt believe him till the day I passed out at work.

It was the day before my birthday, a fine late September day that was neither too warm nor too cold in London. The sky was actually blue with a few fat, puffy, marshmallow clouds drifting overhead. It was the sort of day when youd think nothing could go wrong. Then Fate would suddenly step in, bitch-slap you, spit in your face, and laugh maniacally while taunting you with the words, Thats what you think, loser! I came to LEtoile de Angleterre at the usual time, clad in the whites and checks of the trade; throwing on a crisp, clean white apron over all though it wasnt bloody effective at keeping blood, guts, and gravy off me.

Im currently chef de cuisine the executive chef despite the fact that I still run the boucherie and charcuterie. I supervise Chef Vincent Ville-Valmonts kitchen as the great man is never around, seeing how the perfumed ponce makes the rounds of all the telly talk shows. I started the day breaking down carcasses, turning animal cadavers pigs, beef and veal cattle, lambs, assorted game and fowl into the usual chops, steaks, rib cuts, stewing cubes, and whatnot. Pork legs and bellies were set aside for that unbeatable trio of ham, gammon, and bacon. Everything else got ground up for merguez, Lorne sausages, saucissons des Toulouse, andouillettes filled with rich chitterlings, Lincolnshires, Cumberlands, black and white puddings; sheeps innards went into the haggis that was part of my heritage. All of these would either be part of individual mises en place in the restaurant kitchen or sold in the adjoining charcuterie. By ten, I went inside the main kitchen to oversee the bustling activity. I stopped by each and every station: prep, garde-manger, the grill where my assistants had started firing up and searing cuts, saut, pasta, soup where I caught a whiff of aniseed that said louder than words that the soup du jour was a Bretagne fish soup jacked with Marie Ricard. I stopped by the saucemakers mise where a selection of sauces were ready for tasting, the usual litany of French classics: veloute, lemony mayonnaise made by hand, garlic-infused aioli, sauce Robert, sweetish Madeira for the popular rib-eyes, and proper Bechamel mounted with butter. The only ones that were different were the Brit mint sauce for gigots and lamb chops and our popular tamarind-infused riff on classic brown steak sauce. Im not sure what was going on at the time, but the taste of the brown sauce triggered a rather sharp memory in my head. As the tangy, peppery sauce hit my palate, I found myself staring at the table of sauces. I remembered that there used to be a rather sharp-tongued woman her words and temper as sharp as the taste of that sauce who used to do this in my place. When she was here, shed simply nod in approval if the sauce was done well. If it was off, shed throw the saucier a look that spoke volumes of disapproval and the poor man would meekly back off and dispose of the offending liquid before starting on a fresh batch. I sighed as I handed the tasting spoons to the runner for washing and simply nodded my approval to Kevin OGrady, the saucier. The browns quite good today, I told him. Almost as good as Valerianos. Kevin beamed at that; it was high praise coming from me. Thanks, chef, he replied as he went back to stirring and compounding.

As I made my way to the dessert station, my best mate since uni and sous-chef Matt Thornton handed me the list of the days specials for my approval. The choices were pretty standard for fall: richer than what we served in the summer (a season punctuated by fish and raw veg), but not involving the substantial cassoulets and daubes of the winter. A salad of seasonal mushrooms on a bed of mesclun; the anise-infused soupe de poisson; foie gras de canard with Brussels sprouts, duck jus, and mustard seeds was the poultry choice; a rather simplistic dish of goujons of Dover sole with beurre blanc; rack of lamb on herb-flecked polenta; and an oh-so-sinful tarte tatin aux bananes topped with a buttery caramel ice cream done entirely from scratch. My heart seemed to skip a beat when I saw what was for dessert and I couldnt quite explain why. All I remember about that particular dessert is that it was one of my predecessors specialties, if not the shining star in her repertoire. I remembered really late nights when all the lesser chefs and the bulk of the floor staff had gone home after some seriously busy evening service. Shed pull out that banana tarte tatin of hers from one of the warming ovens, slice huge portions for those of us still there, top those slices with enormous globs of creamy caramel ice, and set one before each of us. I remembered how, for me, that generous slab of tart was supper in its entirety for that evening and I would sleep so peacefully when I got home. I felt a pang of sadness as I handed the menu back. Considering that Id been chef de cuisine for two years, I still felt as if I wasnt doing enough and I wasnt really getting the job done. This was weird as LEtoile, now working on its third Michelin star, was as popular as it had always been. The food was the same. The ambiance was the same. Everything was the same at least, thats what I keep telling myself everyday. I turned to say something to Matt, and this was when everything went fuzzy. Then, everything turned black.

I come in at eight every morning, my whites and checks beautifully crisp and pristine. I leave at eight every night, my clothes all begrimed by blood, gravy, and whatnot. My parents think Im driving myself too hard. My grandparents think I should take a few months off for a bit. My boss never says anything seeing how hes never there.

Now, the doctor just told me I was severely anemic and burned-out. He wants me to take a year off a whole damned year. All my fretting, fuming, meal-skipping, binge-drinking, and sleepless nights were finally taking their toll. I was shaking very badly as the doctor gave me his grim orders, my mind in a tempestuous whirl. Tell your sous-chef to cover for you for the rest of the day, the doctor said, nodding to Matt who hovered worriedly behind me. Go home and rest and get something to eat. He shook his head in disbelief; the poor doc was probably wondering how a man who works in the kitchen would actually forget to eat. (Believe it or not, it does happen and it happens frequently. When youre surrounded by food all the time, you find yourself sickened by it that you choose not to eat.) Would you believe I actually soldiered on and flouted the doctors orders? I got everything done at the restaurant as if nothing happened, but Matt took me aside towards the end of evening service and told me to take the next day off. I stared at him indignantly, angry both at him and myself. But he said, Chef Valeriano actually worried this would happen. She saw it coming. If she were here and saw you collapse I held up a shaking hand. Stop, I said quietly. I get the point.

Exhausted by the days exertions, the doctors words echoing in my ears, I trudged wearily home to my London flat just a block away. Angrily, I began peeling off my grimy whites and tossed the jus-stained lot into the hamper in the laundry room. I spent the better part of an hour in the shower, finally letting myself shed the tears I dared not weep in public. My head hurt and I was hungry. I was so caught up in my work Id missed both lunch and dinner. (Boy, is my doctor going to kill me if he ever hears this!) Checking the Smeg in the kitchen, I figured I could just throw together a sandwich but opted against it. Times like these when the world seems to be against you, my predecessor used to say, what you need for supper is scrambled eggs. Scrambled eggs and toast you cant go wrong with that. Id never admit it to her face, but she was right.

The very act of cracking a couple eggs into a bowl, adding a bit of milk (or cream if youre as nuts as I am), salt, and pepper, then beating the hell out of the lot with a balloon whisk is primal: the sort of violence you want to inflict on people you hate is tamed and tempered into an act of creation. Its therapeutic: the sound of the steel whisk tapping against the ceramic bowl that measured chink-chink-chink beat sounds like someones chipping away at the stresses of your day. I know breakfast for dinner sounds really odd, but the French do it all the time. Why the hell do you suppose dishes like oeufs en cocotte or quiche Lorraine are so popular over there? Besides, I find it really soothing after working on substantial fare for other people all day. After all, Im not hurting my heart, liver, or psyche in the process. Your pan should be hot when you pour in those creamed and beaten eggs. I set my battered old cast-iron skillet on the hob, putting in a fat knob of lightly salted butter in to melt. While the butter melted, I tossed a couple slices of white bread into the toaster. Once the butter is all melted and has browned a bit, pour in the eggs. You want the heat turned down low at this part of the game: too hot and the eggs will burn into a charred, rubbery mess. I stirred the eggs carefully, gently with a wooden spoon. I suppose I could have just left the eggs to cook till crisped at the edges and set; a slight toss would fold it into a proper plain omelet. But that wouldnt have sat well with me on this night. I wanted something substantial, but softer, more comforting, caressing both palate and soul. The idea is to cook the eggs just till large, moist curds form. You take the pan off the hob immediately, lump the lot onto a plate, snatch the toast which has just popped out of the toaster, and sit down to eat with the butter crock within your reach, of course. I fired up my laptop even as I sat down to butter the toast. There was an email from Manila in my inbox when I logged on. Not from cousin Puck whom I miss (along with his wife Ginger whos like a big sister to me and their two sets of twins), but from someone I claim not to miss. Of course, if people found out the truth about how I really feel, Id have to start a murder spree.

Hey, Balfour.

Thanks for yesterdays email. Things are kind of stressful here at the moment, seeing how we got called in to cater for a presidential luncheon with a goddamned capital P! loved the food. Madrileo I told you about? Worked like a charm!) People

(Remember the modern take on cocido

It irked me that the President didnt eat anything not even the complimentary bread we had to source from your cousin-in-laws shop. WTF?! Im starting to agree with Ginger and Ditas that hes not human

I smiled as I crunched through my toast, spooning fluffy eggs onto each bite. She left to take the reins of the family restaurant empire in Manila. I also heard that she was planning to publish a cookbook or something. For all the bitching she did, however, I could tell she was happy. Happier than me, thats for sure, I thought glumly as I read through her email.

Before she left, Chef Valeriano overheard me quarreling with my girlfriend on the phone during a lull in service. My girlfriend, you see, is of the opinion that I ought to quit cooking altogether and get a desk job or something. Gemma, my girlfriend since our freshman year at Oxford, thinks chopping up animals for meat and cooking in general are beneath a man of my titles and stature. I thought otherwise and, to my relief, so did Valeriano. Bollocks to that! she declared indignantly when I got off the phone. She looked me in the eye as she spoke. I dont like you, Balfour youre a right, uppity little bastard. But youre a chef to the very core. Youd rather take a bullet to the head than quit cooking. Tell your woman to sod off. You think so? I asked, thinking shed say she was pulling my leg and would tell me so. Yeah, she replied, her back to me. I recall that she carefully plated a helping of beautifully seared foie gras de canard with a few braised Brussels sprouts, drizzling savory duck jus around the liver and sprinkling it with minced scallions and toasted mustard seeds. Order up! she called, placing the finished dish in the window before turning to me. Id break up with

the little bitch if I were you. Shes not good for you. She looked me straight in the eye. And, given what you are, shes not good enough for you. I considered her words; I took them to heart. (At the time, however, I chose not to break up with Gemma.) For once, I didnt quarrel with her. For once, we actually ended the day without yelling hell and damnation at each other. For once, I didnt think of skewering her in the gut with a heated toasting fork. I didnt know what to say except thank you. When she left LEtoile some time later, I actually cried.

And now, two years have passed since she left and Im not sure as to where to go next. I dont quite know what to do. I do know, however, I have to get out of London damn it, I might even have to get out of Great Britain, period. And I know that I have to talk to Valeriano and talk to her soon. I know shell yell at me or something, seeing how we dont really like each other, but shes the only one who will understand. But for now, Ill polish off these scrambled eggs. Ill go straight to bed and try to sleep. And, maybe just maybe tomorrow will give me the answers I need.

***

Scrambled Eggs on Toast 2 large fresh eggs 2 tablespoons full-cream milk or all-purpose cream 2 tablespoons salted butter Salt and pepper 2 slices sliced white or whole-wheat bread Extra butter for spreading

Pop the bread into a toaster or toaster oven and cook for 3 4 minutes.

Whisk together the eggs, milk, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter in a skillet over medium heat and heat till browned at the edges. Lower heat and pour in the egg mixture. Stir gently with a wooden spoon and cook till large curds form. Remove from heat immediately and serve with buttered toast.

Serves 1.