Page 27 of A Perfect Devon Pub
She slipped Trish the cellar key, telling her which drawer to return it to. ‘I pulled their wine out earlier, you can’t miss it. It’son the tasting table – I had too many bottles to bring it up with me.’
Fiona carried the plates of duck back to the kitchen, popping them on the serving counter. ‘Chef, I need to check the order slip for Table 6.’
Trish’s handwriting was clear: two duck. Fiona’s pulse rate quickened. Was the mistake Trish’s or the customers?
‘Problem?’ asked George tersely.
‘Hopefully not,’ said Fiona, picking up the plates. ‘The wife claims she didn’t order duck.’
‘Service,’ called Ruben, sliding three plates onto the counter. ‘What’s the matter with the duck?’ Fiona chose her words carefully. ‘Possible mistake on the order slip. Customer says they ordered risotto not duck.’
George huffed, but Ru smiled, slipped off his apron, and took the plates out of Fiona’s hands. ‘Let me see if I can sell this for you.’
As Fiona walked past tables, a hush fell, replaced by frantic whispering, finger pointing, and then inevitably, the phones started flashing. Customers swivelled in chairs, looking not at her, but at the man she was following. By the time she reached Table 6, the room was silent. Relieved to spot wine in their glasses, she leaned over the table and whispered, ‘Madam, I am so sorry.’
Ru stood behind her, his leg brushing against hers. The faint contact sent a shiver through her, dragging her back three years. She’d been a nervous trainee sommelier then; he, the poised sous chef with four junior chefs under his command. That day, she’d bungled a food order – a slip she thought might spell disaster.
But Ru had swooped in effortlessly, turning calamity into charm. That night he glided through the packed restaurant, his presence magnetic, and sold the unordered plate of scallops to adelighted customer.
Later that evening, he claimed his reward: their first date.
Now Ruben stepped forward. ‘I believe the waitress made a mistake with your order, madam. The duck is one of our specialties. I’d recommend giving it a try – it’s the best dish on our menu.’
Blushing, the woman nervously twirled a lock of her hair. ‘Did you make this?’ she asked, her voice soft with curiosity.
His face lit up. ‘A kitchen is a team effort. We made the rub from scratch and cured the meat for twenty-four hours, then it’s been slow cooking most of the day.’ He smiled, his eyes alight with his enthusiasm. ‘It’s the same herb mixture we use inmy London restaurant.’
There it was again.Myrestaurant. Fiona chewed on her lip.
‘Well, if I’m trying the famous duck, could I get your autograph too?’
‘Absolutely! My pleasure. Enjoy the meal, and I’ll have that autograph ready.’
Ru stood, flashed Fiona a smile and whispered, ‘I’ll claim my reward later.’
‘From Trish not me!’ she hissed, scooting off, scolding herself for feeling relived it wasn’t Kim who owed him a reward. But Ru was a free agent. He could date whoever he chose to. She just prayed he didn’t flaunt his independence in front of her.
On Thursday, Fiona arrived at 11 a.m. to a ringing phone and a red-faced George scribbling in the appointments book.
‘I’ve got it, George,’ yelled Fiona, lunging for the phone, hoping it was a cancellation. ‘The Smuggler’s Inn.’
‘Rose?’ said a man’s voice. ‘It’s Sam.’
‘Rose isn’t well I’m afraid. Can I help you? Sam, did you say?’
She lost grip of the phone as someone wrenched it away. ‘Sam, hi – it’s George.’
George covered the receiver with a hand. ‘Need to squeeze a table for three in tonight. What time can we manage?’
Fiona threw her hands in the air. ‘You choose. I might have to lay up a booth, as we’re solid—’
George released his hand saying. ‘That’s fine, Sam. See you at eight. No, it’s my pleasure. Thanks for the booking. Bye.’
He finished the call. ‘Sorry, Sam Hastings is our best customer. Eats here at least once a week and he’s bringing his brother – the Hastings family is our landlord.’
They will need looking after, Fiona thought. ‘How’s Rose? Is she up to working tonight?’
He clicked his tongue. ‘No, and Trish can’t help.’
