Lucie’s Vintage Cupcake Company

‘I’m sure you are, but sorry doesn’t cut it. I can’t have a loose cannon in my kitchen, Lucie. If I let you stay Francesca’s will forever be associated with the chef who went mental. I can’t allow the trattoria and its staff to be tarred with such a reputation. With you out of the way, perhaps, just perhaps, I can salvage the situation. I can inform everyone that the person responsible is no longer a member of staff and everything is back to normal. Gino and Antonio, Sofia and Alberto will still have their jobs.’

Lucie looked around the kitchen at the people she had grown to love and knew Francesca was right. In fact, if she hadn’t been fired she would have quit. She had to go.

Chapter Six (#ulink_5124cc26-9f87-5a6b-b091-b8e72a2c2e42)

‘Oh God! Oh God! It’s truly venomous!’ exclaimed Hollie, peering over Steph’s shoulder as she scrolled down the page on her iPad to read the details of the review of Francesca’s Trattoria on the Anon. Appetit website.

Lucie took another glug from the glass of Prosecco rosé Steph had ordered for her at their regular Saturday night haunt. She’d hoped the effervescent alcohol would deliver a surge of Dutch courage so she could smile through the agony, but every single word – even though she had read the review a couple of hours before in the privacy of the bathroom at Hollie and Steph’s flat in Wimbledon – still fired a sharp needle of pain through her battered heart. She could almost quote the caustic missive word for word. Still, she suspected she would succumb to the tears which had lurked so close to the surface after the Alex fiasco.

Are you planning to spend an evening at Francesca’s Trattoria hoping for a real taste of Italian home-cooking? So was I. Take my advice – try somewhere else!

As regular visitors to my blog know, Italy is my homeland and its cuisine holds a special place in my heart. First of all let me say that a truly bad review is an increasingly rare beast and rightly so. There is always something good to be found in every food establishment whether it be the beautifully laundered linen, the warmth of the welcome, a well-flavoured potage or a carefully chosen table adornment.

However, occasionally there comes a time when a word of caution is necessary and we food connoisseurs should not shy away from its verbalisation otherwise we could be accused of being no more than cheerleaders for our pet eating establishments or favourite chefs. Those who rely on my blog and my website for their dining recommendations do so for the vein of honesty that runs through my words. My followers are discerning diners who expect food critics to be consumer champions offering an informed opinion on where to spend their hard-earned cash, especially if it’s for a special occasion.

So, turning to the restaurant – or I should say, trattoria – which is the subject of my review this week – Francesca’s. What better way is there for this Sicilian boy to spend a Friday night than indulging in the authentic taste of his childhood? I was so anticipating the opportunity to be jettisoned back in time to the days when my grandmother’s home-cooking was a weekly treat to be relished. I must say, from the moment I stepped over the threshold of Francesca’s Trattoria the years slipped away and I was back at my grandparents’ village restaurant nestled on the hillside overlooking the Conca D’Oro, every one of my senses enveloped with happy memories and the craving for a decent minestrone.

I was served by a fellow Italian speaker whose knowledge of that evening’s menu was exceptional. Her enthusiasm for every dish on the menu spoke volumes of her passion for her chosen vocation. The minestrone did not disappoint: full of flavour and crammed with fresh vegetables and just the right amount of herbs. For mains I decided to order light – a superbly grilled fillet steak which was exceptional – as I wanted to ensure there was space for the best part of any meal – the dessert. Regular readers will know my penchant for a well-executed Italian pudding.

If I could end my review here I would bestow on Francesca’s Trattoria the full five stars – a triumph to be celebrated with a glass of the best Chianti – but sadly, when the much-anticipated dessert arrived, the evening took a nose-dive into horror territory. Not only was it the worst tiramisu I have ever had the displeasure to endure, I truly believe the pastry chef was secretly trying to sabotage her employer’s business via my innocent taste buds. Why else would I be presented with an unimaginative, second-rate dessert comprising layers of leaden sponge that coat the roof of one’s mouth with a claggy paste so harsh I had to resort to downing a whole glass of the tepid water I had been served with?

Even this, my dear readers, would not have warranted a reduction in stars – for I am nothing if not fair in my assessment of the dining institutions I am fortunate enough to visit. No, the pièce de résistance was that the whole sorry ensemble was not dusted with the expected cocoa powder and shavings of bitter chocolate, but with a liberal sprinkling of smoked chilli powder! Yes, chilli! That aromatic spice fans of Mexican cuisine will be familiar with strewn all over my dessert! Disgusting!

Was this a joke? I asked myself.

Had the dessert been prepared by the proprietor’s five-year-old daughter?

Could it have been a genuine mistake? If so, it is a puzzle to me why an experienced Le Cordon Bleutrained pastry chef would make such a sloppy blunder.

Whatever the truth, it was surely an unforgivable error to make. I will not be returning to Francesca’s Trattoria any time soon and recommend that, if you are still brave enough to try its fayre, you steer well clear of the sweet menu, for if you stray onto its battleground you should know you will be taking your life in your hands. Maybe the pastry chef has yet to find her true vocation – she clearly takes no joy in her current post.

A very generous ***.

‘Oh, Lucie, I’m so, so sorry this has happened,’ said Hollie, her eyes sparkling with tears as she tucked her magenta bob behind her ears and topped up their glasses from the bottle resting in the cooler on the bar. ‘What did Gino say when he read it?’

‘He’s more livid than I’ve ever seen him, and that’s from a guy who’s not afraid of showing his red-blooded Italian emotions. He’s spouting about a cousin of his who can terminate Edmundo Cartolli for a very favourable price. I’m not sure exactly what he means – whether he specialises in taking down websites or individuals. He’s promising that if he ever lays eyes on Ed again he will not be held responsible for the indiscriminate use of his kitchen machete.

‘But what makes it much worse and cringingly embarrassing is that I know him. Would you believe we trained together at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris? He’s the guy I told you about who used to hog all the limelight and flirt outrageously with all the girls on the course. He even tried to get me to go on a date with him once, but it was the night before an important exam and I’m sure it was all just part of his tactics to distract me from studying so he could grab the top spot, like he always did! We were both fiercely competitive. You’ve no idea how hard I worked to take first place, but apart from one solitary occasion, it was always Edmundo Cartolli!’

‘Well, he’s a moron!’ declared Hollie, slamming the stem of her glass onto the marble bar. ‘Why is he a food critic anyway? He can’t be all that special if he can’t get a job as a chef, can he?’

‘Actually, not that I’ve followed every twist and turn of his career or anything, you understand, but I had heard that he was the youngest chef to be awarded a Michelin star at the restaurant he ran in Sicily. I saw the photographs. What? Well, you have to admit, he’s irritatingly gorgeous, especially in his chef’s whites! But for some reason he slipped off the radar last summer, not sure why. I can’t believe he prefers writing about other people’s food to producing it himself, especially when he graduated top of our class at Le Cordon Bleu. Not that I’m jealous or anything. He deserved it.’

‘Well, clearly he’s moved on to apply his exceptional talents to the arena of gastronomic criticism now,’ snapped Steph. ‘Maybe he was fired for poisoning one of his customers and now he’s just a narcissistic peddler of exposition used to draw attention to himself and attract readers of a similar ilk to his pathetic little blog. We all know that negative reviews bring more traffic to his website than a glowing endorsement. Readers of such garbage are like rubberneckers. Wasn’t it his scathing review of that French restaurant that established Anon. Appetit in the first place when the review went viral?’

‘Yes, but you know, I did hear he’d…’

‘Look, Lucie, Ed Cartolli is in the entertainment business. Some people, sad though it is to acknowledge, prefer to invest their precious time in reading vicious diatribes than reviews that are inspiring and uplifting. It’s human nature at its worst. But he of all people should understand how much hard work and sacrifice it takes to set up a restaurant and ensure it not only delivers on its promise of superb food, but exceeds its diners’ expectations so they want to return time and time again. With just one stroke – especially nowadays when reviews are so widely read – a business can be destroyed. It brings a whole new meaning to “poisoned pen”.’

Lucie had never seen Steph so wound up. While her honey-blond hair had been loosened from its elegant chignon in honour of Saturday night, her jaw was set, her lips pursed and her sharp sapphire eyes had narrowed. Two round spots of crimson had appeared on her cheekbones and a splash of prickly heat invaded her chest.

‘It seems I’ve made a habit of swerving into the paths of inconsiderate men lately!’

‘It’s not your fault, Lucie. You can’t control how other people decide to conduct their lives, but I agree it’s been a difficult week all round.’

Steph had been her friend since high school. She was her staunchest ally and knew her almost as well as her sister, Jess, did. When she had asked if she could avail herself of their couch after the Alex fiasco, she and Hollie had agreed without a murmur of hesitation. Not unexpectedly, though, her two best friends had expressed divergent reactions to the news she and Alex were no longer an item.

Steph had declared Alex to be an insipid, weak-hearted excuse for a man who didn’t deserve her continued heartache. Like Alex, she too worked in the legal profession – not in the pursuit of ever-increasing wealth for those who had more than enough for one lifetime, but in the field of matrimonial litigation where she relished the daily opportunity to star in her own courtroom drama. Lucie respected her advice and her judgement. As a side effect of her legal training she was able to slice through waffle and diversionary tactics to get straight to the crux of any problem and exploit its weakness.

Okay, her friend had reasoned over a commiserative cup of over-sweetened tea that fateful night, relationships sometimes didn’t work out. If Alex didn’t want to get married she got that, but to refuse all subsequent contact – to deny Lucie an explanation even – was not only callous but spineless. How could Lucie begin to work through her grief and move on with her life until she knew the reasons Alex had turned down her surprise proposal?

On the other hand, Hollie, top hair stylist and all-round incurable romantic, had been harsh in her condemnation of Alex’s hurtful rejection and had even joined her in a bout of weeping – much to Steph’s irritation. Hollie had urged her to call Alex to demand an explanation for his cruel and humiliating behaviour. Lucie had done as she was told, but her calls had gone straight to voicemail. She’d left two increasingly desperate messages which, in the cold light of day, she’d regretted.

‘Lucie, darling, you just have to move on,’ urged Steph, draining her glass and reaching into the cooler for a top-up. ‘Use this minor hiccup in life’s arduous journey as the catalyst to start following your dreams, not Alex’s! Why not don your Dessert Diva crown and focus on your own career goals? Use this setback as an opportunity to throw yourself headlong into the arms of your lifelong passion – the creation of confectionery magic! What happened to your idea to revolutionise the cake-making business by offering gourmet cupcakes modelled on our love of cocktails? I’m still waiting for those raspberry cupcakes with Prosecco-flavoured butter icing you promised!’

Lucie knew it was good advice. After all, she came from a family whose genes screamed culinary artistry, although her mother had long since relinquished her role of popular TV cookery personality and presenter.

‘You sound like my mother!’

‘How’s Margot enjoying her retirement in Sunny Spain?’ Hollie asked in an effort to divert the conversation to a more cheery subject as she ordered a third bottle of wine.

‘Loving it! She’s enjoying the sunshine and swears her arthritis is finally conquered. Her last email fizzed with details of the current plan she’s working on to present a course of Spanish cookery classes to the ex-pats! I don’t think she’ll ever be able to truly retire.’

‘Well, if you are as passionate about food as your mum has been for the last fifty years then it’s hardly surprising. Did I tell you I watched a few of her classic TV cookery shows from the eighties on the Food Channel? She’s amazing – and so are her recipes. They’re a piece of social history. Steak Diane and Black Forest gateau anyone?’

Lucie smiled. Hollie was spot on. Her mother was amazing and both she and Jess had her to thank for their own addictions to all things gastronomic – she as a pastry chef with ambitions to run her own business some day in the not-too-distant future; her sister as a beta tester for the recipes of a celebrity cook book writer.

Yet it had been a huge challenge to follow in her mother’s celebrity-infused slipstream and forge a career that would not tempt others to suggest nepotism. This professional insecurity had been her catalyst to work even harder and longer at every project she put her mind to, to create a contemporary twist on everything she prepared so that her critics could not accuse her of relying on her mother’s fame. But she adored her and was inordinately proud of what she had achieved. Like Hollie, she still watched her mother’s programmes on the Food Channel. She loved them, but they were like visual instruction manuals for the enthusiastic housewife, totally different to the fun and quirky twists she liked to introduce in her own recipes.

But the pressure of her mother’s brilliance still lingered heavily on her shoulders. It was the overriding reason why she had worked so hard to prove her talents at Le Cordon Bleu and why Ed’s rivalry, and success, had rankled so painfully. While he was out romancing a different date every night, she was holed up in her attic apartment, studying recipe books and experimenting with increasingly exotic ingredients with which to wow her tutor; and still she couldn’t pip him to the top spot. She continued to ask herself whether she would ever be good enough to match her mother’s culinary confidence – in the kitchen and in public.

She still experienced a sharp twang of loss that her mother had chosen to emigrate to Andalucía just before Christmas, especially as her father also lived abroad with a Greek woman he’d met over the internet when her parents divorced ten years ago. But she knew it was a long-held dream of her mother to live out her days in the sunshine, indulging in her own version of Spanish paella washed down with plenty of full-bodied local Rioja. And anyway, it was only a two-hour flight away if she wanted to visit, and her sister and young nephews, Lewis and Jack, still lived in her mother’s house in Richmond where there was a guaranteed welcome whenever she craved a dollop of family love and affection.

‘Oh my God!’ screamed Hollie as she scrolled down her iPhone screen, her eyes growing wider as her finger speeded up. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! I’ve just checked my Twitter account. You’re everywhere! Someone’s uploaded a video of your meltdown at Francesca’s last night. Lucie, you’re famous!’

Chapter Seven (#ulink_0aac1454-0531-5ac2-8e7d-da74fa4722ae)

‘Infamous, more like,’ Steph muttered under her breath, as she too grabbed her mobile to check her Twitter feed, a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘You’ve even got your own hashtag and it’s trending! Look!’

Lucie sighed and braced herself to take a peek at her own phone.

While #LividLucie had a certain ring to it, it wasn’t a tuneful one. She was mortified. She dropped her head into her hands, her curls falling across her fingers, as nausea coiled around her abdomen. Could this really be happening to her? Did she really have her own hashtag that was trending on Twitter?

‘I’m so, so sorry, Lucie. But, well, it is sort of funny, don’t you think? Excruciatingly embarrassing, of course, but in a few days I’m sure you’ll see the funny side,’ cajoled Hollie as she squeezed out the last drop of wine into Lucie’s empty glass. ‘Ed Cartolli had it coming to him. Have you read some of his other reviews? There’s a Thai restaurant in Hammersmith that had to close its doors as soon as his review of their place went live.’

‘That’s because he found a snail in his coconut and prawn soup. The environmental health inspectors would have closed them down, not Ed Cartolli,’ said Steph, but held up her hand to quieten Hollie as she opened her mouth to continue her tirade of indignation against the reviews on Anon. Appetit. ‘Okay, Hols, okay, I’m not defending the guy. I’m just saying it wasn’t him who shut the restaurant down.’