Whatever a client’s beef, or however they wanted it served, the Chef had a recipe to cater for the occasion. Marco had gained that moniker — the Chef — for his inventive use of a deep-fat fryer earlier in his career, not his culinary skills. His latest contract concerned a hedge fund manager who’d had their greasy little fingers in somebody else’s pie, but Marco decided he’d let the job simmer for a few days. After all, it was the season of goodwill, and it would be the last Christmas the mark would see out before taking the flight Marco had scheduled for him; a swan dive from the balcony of his fifth-floor apartment. Besides, even a contractor specialising in terminations required some downtime over the festive period, and Marco had a goose of his own to cook.
Standing at his stainless-steel island, in a kitchen as clinically organised as his armoury, with the spice rack categorised alphabetically, and the silenced weapons and ammunition by calibre, a fleeting smile sailed across Marco’s lips. His right hand, always steady when clenching cold steel, now moved with rigour over a plump goose, repeatedly piercing the skin with a sharp blade – an ingrained action, but today one with the pleasanter intent of rendering fat, not rendering account.
Awash with a savoury aroma, the kitchen signalled normality, far distanced from the chemical laden spice of cordite and industrial-grade disinfectant, as the goose, now bronzed and roasted, rested under an aluminium foil tent, and a hearty soffritto of carrots, celery, onions and garlic sizzled on the hob in the roasting pan’s meat juices.
“No job is complete without a solid foundation,” Marco murmured to himself, applying the same principle to gravy as he did to an airtight alibi. Liquidising the softened vegetables and fusing them with a little flour, he deglazed the pan with a glass of Brunello di Montalcino, a favourite Tuscan red, before slowly whisking its contents, adding chicken stock in liberal quantities until the roast’s drippings thoroughly melded into a glossy sauce. Each stir felt meditative in an environment far removed from the close-quarter engagement of his day job and helped produce a caramel-coloured infusion that promised warmth and satisfaction.
The silence was profound, broken only by the gentle bubbling of the gravy and the spit and pops of potatoes roasting in the oven. Marco’s kitchen was a sanctuary where no one screamed, no one pleaded for their life, and there was only the soothing hum of domesticity. It was in stark juxtaposition to his chosen career path, but each, in its own way, was equally demanding.
The timer pinged, a sound on a par with a suppressed gunshot, prompting Marco to reach for his oven gloves – a pair far bulkier and more robust than the supple leather ones he used for work. The potatoes emerged from the oven golden, crunchy, and with fluffy interiors, before Marco returned his attention to the bird. Its crisp skin and succulent flesh promised a memorable feast as he carved it with the same surgical focus he applied to others; however, on this occasion, the end product was in aid of his family’s nutrition, and not another person’s oblivion.
Plating began. Each diner received a generous portion of carved goose, golden roast potatoes, and seasonal vegetables. Finally, Marco ladled a sample of the rich, glossy jus over the meat. The heady perfume of roast goose and homemade gravy swirled in the steam curling invitingly above each serving.
“Well done, Chef,” he muttered to himself, admiring the way the gravy clung to the meat without soaking the potatoes.
Tonight, the Chef hadn’t cooked someone’s fate; he had simply cooked, which, in its own modest way, was a gift he valued. The world outside could wait, along with the fifth-floor resident counting his ill-got gains. The Christmas holidays belonged to Marco and his family, particularly today, when crowned by the aroma of roast goose and a perfect reduction.
INSTANT NOODLES 