Aisling's Summer Diary

Chapter 24 | Coming Up Roses

Saturday 10 June

4 p.m.

After so many winning reviews RE: my chocolate stout cake, I decided to try my hand at perfecting one of Slater’s family recipes—the classic rhubarb tart.  The chef had hinted I might debut one of my own desserts on his summer menu!  I wanted to create a fusion dish, one that would combine the homey bittersweetness of the Irish tart with the buttery deep-dish crust of American pie fame.  The trick was striking just the right balance between filling and base—too much of the fruit reduction and the pastry would turn to mush!  

I took extra care prepping the dough—too much handling would make it rubbery—and then caramelized the rhubarb with sugar, cinnamon, and a dash of dried coconut.  I finished the top with my brother’s favorite, a sugary crumble, and after twenty minutes, divvyed out a slice to the chef.  He took a bite and paused, mid-chew.  OH NO!  He hates it!  But when I reached out for his plate, he dug in for another bite, and this time he closed his eyes in raptures!  “It’s gorgeous, Aisling.  I’ve never had anything quite like it.” 

He reached into his apron pocket and drew out a brochure and handed it to me.  It was for a cookery college in the city!  Between mouthfuls, he told me I have a real talent for food!  Maybe I should think of cooking as a career option.  And who knows?  Someday, I might be the one making Princess Beatrice’s nut loaves!  

5:30 p.m.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I got back to the hotel that night: guests were pouring in!  Siobhan winked at my behind the reception desk—her canny advertising scheme had worked!  The energy about the place was amazing!  After so many stops and starts, everything seemed to be going just as we’d hoped!  Ciaran and Ali zipped up and down the stairs toting bags and showing guests to their rooms while Siobhan juggled phone calls and check ins, and I whipped up a batch of strawberry smoothies for all of us.  At this rate, we were DEFINTELY going to win that bet!

7:00 p.m.

When everyone had settled in, I ducked into the kitchen to make Siobhan a special bolognaise for dinner (with just a hint of garlic and fresh crushed tomatoes and basil, just the way she likes it).  I even made the pasta by hand—spelt and whole wheat spaghetti!  

Siobhan watched over my shoulder, dumbstruck.  “Since when do you know how to make pasta?!” she laughed.  “Since a week ago,” I said and piled our plates with heaps of spaghetti.  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Siobhan.  Where I’ve been sneaking off to.  I started taking cookery classes at the French café in the village.”  Siobhan’s eyes bulged.  She twirled her fork and took a big bite of the bolognaise.  “This is...REALLY good!” she said.  “So this whole time, you’ve been learning to cook.  Whoa.”  She took another bite.

“Whoa what?” I asked.  “I’m impressed,” she smiled.  About my keeping my NO BOYS promise or about my serious kitchen skills? I wanted to know.  “Both,” Siobhan said.  I heaved a sigh of relief.  Finally I’d proven to my best friend that I’m not just some boy-crazy flake—I’m a good friend!  With creative AND practical talents!  

“In honor of your top-class cooking, we should totally rename this place!” Siobhan squealed.  “Again?” I laughed.  “Seriously, food like this would be a huge draw—I just know it!” Siobhan cheered.  “How ‘bout the Shark’s Tooth Hotel AND Beach Café!”  That sounded pretty amazing to me!

All of a sudden there was a knock at the door.  Siobhan shot up and peered through the window.  It was Slater!  I did not want to talk to him.  Siobhan said not to worry, she’d take care of it, and tromped to the door.  I tried to go on eating, but I couldn’t!  What were they saying?!  I darted over to the window and peeped out.  It was Slater alright, and he was giving something to Siobhan, but I couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying.  I ran back to my chair, nearly toppling it, just as Siobhan came back in.

“What did he want?” I asked trying very hard to pretend like I didn’t care.  She handed me a scrap of paper.  Mr. Neem Orlando Shoa, party of fifteen, 086-222-4332.  “What’s this?” I asked.  “It’s a booking Celia tossed.  According to Romeo, they’re booked solid for the weekend.  If we want it, the booking’s ours.”  

I blinked at the note.  “Aisling, if we take this booking, we WIN the bet!”  At first I was over the moon like Siobhan—we were only a phone call away from snagging that €10,000!  But the whole thing, it just seemed too good to be true.  Should we trust Slater after all?!  Or should we carry on with our own resources?  The way the rooms have been filling up, we might just win the bet without that sketchy booking.  But then again, we might not...

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