Page 9 of A Perfect Devon Pub
‘Me too,’ grinned Josh. ‘Anyone can read a label.’
‘We’ve not had a sommelier before. Josh, find the wine list and give it to someone who can appreciate its quality.’ He wiped his hands on a cloth. ‘We’ve one of the best cellars in Devon,’ boasted George. ‘Worth a fortune, so it deserves a sommelier!’
Josh rinsed a saucepan and jogged out. He returned, passing her a list which was surprisingly sophisticated. She hoped the evening would provide opportunities to delve into the nuances of these wines – she would be on solid ground while the fabric of her life unravelled.
An hour later, the dining room was bustling. With a deftness born of years of experience, Fiona glided through the unfamiliar labyrinth of tables and chairs, balancing laden trays. A welcoming smile never left her face. She seemed to anticipate guests’ needs, from topping up a wine glass to fetching a bill before they asked for it. Fiona managed light-hearted banter with diners, all the while maintaining a keen awareness of her surroundings, excusing herself to deal with other customers beckoning her.
She spent an enjoyable ten minutes explaining to a couple that they shouldn’t let their dislike of Beaujolais prevent them ordering a well-aged Burgundy, reassuring them that its earthy undertones and complexity were a sharp contrast to the young fruity Pinot Noir they didn’t like. They took her advice. Fiona went to fetch their choice.
Descending the stone steps to the silent cellar, the familiar musty smell of damp stone enveloped her like a comfortable blanket. A dim, flickering light from a single hanging bulb cast a gentle, golden glow over the space. Exposed brick semicircular wine bins lined the walls, each holding bottles, some with peeling labels, reflecting their age. She shivered with contentment. And then a memory crashed over her like a wave.
She and Ru had celebrated their last anniversary in the cellar below the Fork & Cork. Fiona had spent an hour preparing the space, arranging wine crates bearing bowls of floating tealights, their soft flames casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls. She closed her eyes and pictured the scene as if it was unfolding in front of her. A white damask cloth draped the table, with a single red rose perched in a bud vase. Nearby, a bottle of Champagne from a small artisanal vineyard rested in a silver ice bucket.
She could practically smell the enticing aroma of basil and garlic that had drifted down from the kitchen, could almost hear Ru’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by his powerful voice. ‘Service,’ he had called. Then, as Ru reached the bottom of the stairs, he dipped his head, urging, ‘Sit, sit.’ He waited while Fiona settled herself before lowering a plate in front of her with a flourish. ‘For madam – Mersea Island oysters.’
She reached for the Champagne, expertly removing the foil and cage, then easing the cork free with practised hands. ‘You’re going to enjoy this one, Ru,’ she said, pouring him a glass. ‘Look at that mousse – it’s almost dancing, pirouetting in the glass!’
The mousse’s smooth, creamy texture told a story all its own. Delicate bubbles trembled and shimmered, catching and refracting the amber glow of candlelight– all hallmarks of a masterfully crafted Champagne. By contrast, larger bubbles that quickly dissipated betrayed the less refined nature of an ordinary sparkling wine.
Ru took the glass, lifting it to his nose, inhaling appreciatively before taking a sip. His eyes closed, a dreamy expression washing over his face as he swallowed. ‘Wow, where did you find this mousse, Mousse?’
Mousse was his pet name for her, reserved for their most intimate moments. In French,mousseliterally meant “foam,” evoking the light, airy textures found in culinary creations and sparkling wines, like the frothy bubbles rising in a glass of Champagne or the delicate whipped sweetness of dessert.Mousseembodied luxury, indulgence, and delight – a perfect encapsulation of their shared worlds.
He gestured at her plate. ‘Come on, try one.’
The oysters were nestled on a bed of crushed ice, exuding the scent of the ocean. Fiona lifted one to her lips, savouring the briny taste that melted into something almost buttery and fresh on her tongue. The flavours washed over her, and a warmth spread through her as a contented smile tugged at her lips.
‘Take your time,’ Ru whispered, his knee brushing against hers. ‘Nothing’s spoiling.’
Fiona looked around at the racks of dark glass bottles lining the walls, all bearing the silent history of their contents, like liquid time capsules. She reached across the table to take his hand, feeling its warmth in the cool air. His fingers rested gently on hers.
‘Happy?’ he asked, his voice soft.
‘Happy,’ she murmured.
The cellar at the Smuggler’s Inn did not smell of garlic and basil, but of must and damp. Fiona blinked and wrenched herself back to the present. Her eyes were wet, and she wiped them with the back of her hand. The memory of Ru was just that – a memory. Firmly in the past as distant and foreign to her now as the lightness and joy she had experienced that night. The dull, empty ache in her chest reminded her why she had been tryingso hard to forget him. It was too painful to remember everything they shared. She resolved to try and shut out the memories. Starting right now. She would focus on the matter at hand.
She engaged her brain back into wine-mode, assessing the chalk labels above each bin which listed the region the wines came from. After locating the wine, Fiona dashed into the kitchen to collect the order of extra chips for Table 5 she’d asked for earlier. The meticulous layout of pre-service had descended into organized chaos.
The kitchen was a cacophony of hissing pans and clattering utensils, full of the rich scent of roasting meat. His brow slick with sweat, a weary frown etched across it, George darted around the stove like a bird trapped in a greenhouse, flitting desperately from one end to the other, trying to juggle the orders. The methodical movements of his kitchen prep had morphed into a frantic two-handed muddle of stirring as if he were a sailor attempting to bail out a sinking boat.
Fiona leaned against the cool metal of the serving counter, her arms crossed, observing the mayhem.
‘Josh! Get me the asparagus!’ barked George.
Josh rinsed the tray he was washing, set it to drain, then ambled to the fridge, returning with a bag in his hand. ‘Here ya go.’
Momentarily the chef took his eyes off the pans. He huffed, then shouted, ‘No, not the frozen stuff.’ George’s voice sliced through the din. ‘I want the fresh stuff.’
Josh grinned and strolled back to the fridge. Whistling, he rifled through the crates, examining then discarding produce like a museum curator examining ancient artifacts, each item worthy of careful consideration.
‘Come on, come on!’ George snapped, stirring a pot of sauce that bubbled furiously. The smell was intoxicating: a blend of tomatoes, herbs and something unidentifiable that lingered inthe back of her throat. She could almost taste the acidity, the promise of a dish coming together. Her mind conjured wines to match the flavours.
‘Sorry, Chef! There’s no asparagus!’ Josh’s powerful voice echoed off the stainless steel surfaces, before being replaced by cheerful whistling. ‘Hang on ... got it’ he announced, pulling out a limp bundle of herbs. George’s face turned a shade darker.His low rumbling voice sounding like thunder, as he shouted. ‘Not those! Asparagus, Josh! The ones I prepped earlier – you were here!’
Acutely aware of the brewing storm, Fiona stepped forwards. The heat from the stove smothered her, a comforting warmth compared to the tension crackling in the room. Once beside Josh, she elbowed him aside. ‘Let me look,’ she said, reaching into the fridge and quickly retrieving the asparagus.
‘Hey, beauty! That’ll sort out Mr Angry’ joked Josh, strolling back to the sinks.
