Kale to the Queen Read online

  “Yes, he said, ‘Or we could take a break. It might not hurt to concentrate on our careers for a while.’”

  “Did you agree to the break?”

  “I might have,” I said with a shrug, “but I really think we could do the long-distance thing.”

  “So are you on a break or aren’t you? I’m getting confused.”

  “I suppose we are, but I’m hoping he’ll miss me and relocate to London.”

  “Really,” Penny said. “What does he do that he could relocate?”

  “He’s a chef, too, in Chicago,” I replied. My sleep-deprived thoughts turned to John. He’d come to me the night before and said he thought we should use my time away to take a break from our relationship. I had been devastated. I asked him if there was another woman, but he said no; his work was too important to him to juggle me and another woman. John was a gifted chef whose star was on the rise. It meant long nights at the restaurant, mornings spent at markets in search of fresh foods, afternoons spent on creating new dishes. He wanted to one day be a Michelin-star chef. That meant that his entire being was involved in the food world. He knew every critic and every top-shelf customer by name.

  While John was a powerhouse, I didn’t want to ride his coat tails. I wanted a career of my own. It had been a strain on our relationship. While he wanted me to work with him, I wanted to be a personal chef for celebrities. Figuring out the person, the family, and their wants and needs and nourishing them so that they could do their art or their charities or whatever was a goal close to my heart. I didn’t want to be a celebrity like John did; I wanted to help them.

  But I had fallen into working with John. It was easy to get caught up in his excitement. Somewhere along the way, I got lost in the sea of sous chefs and prep personnel who worked for him, but I wanted to be more.

  Perhaps getting his attention was part of the reason I took this job—I mean, besides the obvious glamour of working for the royal family. I felt it was time I took my life into my own hands. So when this incredible opportunity presented itself, I took it. Of course we’d talked about it, and he’d said I should do what I wanted. I was hoping the distance would nudge him enough to see that after six years, I needed to be able to move forward with my own dreams or move on from our relationship. Forward being the choice for me. I tried not to think about what would happen if we ended up moving on. I knew it was cliché, but John was my first and only love.

  Nudging him by moving to London for a year was the right thing to do. So why did I suddenly feel as I had jumped off a cliff into a dark abyss with nothing but my résumé and degree from the culinary institute to use as my parachute?

  Here’s hoping I learned how to fly—or, at the very least, figured out how to keep from crashing to the ground in a ball of flames.

  Chapter 2

  “I have to get back to work,” Penny said. “This is your room, number two-twenty-two. Someone will be by soon to show you to your work space.”

  “Thanks for showing me the way,” I said and opened the door.

  I was surprised to find a small suite with a living area and a tiny kitchenette with a door to what I supposed was the bedroom.

  Undecorated, the living area appeared to be freshly painted in a neutral beige shade. Thankfully it was a bit brighter than the beige in the servants’ hallway. The tiny kitchen had a white subway-tile backsplash, a porcelain sink, and a plug-in two-burner stovetop with a stainless steel tea kettle on top and a dorm-sized refrigerator below. There were open shelves above the sink that held two tea cups, saucers, plates, and bowls made out of white porcelain. There were two cabinets with double doors that I assumed held the minimal amount of pots and pans. The eating area consisted of a tiled breakfast bar and two brown stools.

  Beyond that was a small couch with a matching end table and coffee table. On the opposite wall was a stand with a small old television set on top and a small winged-back chair. While the couch was striped pink-and-white, the chair had cabbage roses in the same pink. It was a bit like going back into the 1980s.

  This must be modern for a palace this old, I thought.

  Across from me was a window with white curtains. I walked over to see what view I had. My room overlooked a small alleyway and the rooftops of the kitchens and other buildings in the complex.

  The view wasn’t much, but it reminded me that I was truly in England, as the rooftops and parking areas looked Victorian. The good news was that the sill was large and flat, so I could put out a few pots of herbs and bring some life to the room.

  The place was clean, if plain. I supposed it would be up to me to decorate. I had a box of things coming. I had shipped it here a week ago, but it had to go through customs. I didn’t pack much—just a few pictures of my family and some of my favorite old cookbooks.

  You could find pretty much any recipe online these days, but there was something about the old cookbooks that drew me in. I think it was because I found comfort in the long line of chefs that had come before me. The older the cookbook, the better.

  I imagined that I would put the cookbooks on the empty shelves above the sink. Perhaps a collage of frames over the striped sofa. My best glossy-pictured cookbooks would go on the wooden coffee table.

  I stepped into the bedroom. My suitcases were nowhere to be found. I frowned in confusion. Perhaps Reginald put them in the closet? The closet was actually a double-doored wall unit with dark wood varnish and antique handles. I opened the wardrobe and discovered that my suitcases had been unpacked. My clothes were hung up on the appropriate hangers. Starting with my five chef jackets on the left, the closet was carefully arranged in order from my five pairs of black utilitarian pants, six white polo shirts, and the few other things I owned. There were two drawers under the hanging area. I opened them to find my underthings, folded and placed in order.

  My cheeks burned when I thought of a complete stranger unpacking my things. Even my toiletries were unpacked and arranged in the tiny bathroom. Still, it was all there. My few pairs of shoes rested between the drawers and my hung clothes. I had packed light, thinking I could buy clothes in London after I had been here a while.

  This was my new home for the next year, as per my contract. It was kind of cute in its economy of size and utilitarian mission. I glanced at my wrist watch. I had fifteen minutes to shower and get dressed before Mrs. Worth, or whomever she sent, showed up to continue my orientation.

  “You wanted a glamorous adventure,” I told myself as I got into a lukewarm shower. “You got it.”

  Within minutes of my getting dressed, there was a knock from the hallway. I grabbed a chef jacket and hurried to answer the door. A second impatient knock came before I reached it. “I’m coming,” I said.

  When I opened the door, it wasn’t Mrs. Worth who greeted me.

  “There you are,” an older woman said. “I’m Mary Perkins, Mrs. Worth’s secretary. I’ll be completing today’s orientation. You are Chef Cole?”

  “Yes, hello,” I said and slipped on my jacket.

  “Good,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Button up, as we have a tight schedule. I’ve brought your complete orientation agenda for the next couple of days. This includes your security badge and key card. I trust you have the key to your room?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said and snagged the single key on a small key ring that sat on top of the breakfast bar. Under it was a room inspection list.

  “By now you should have inspected your room,” Mrs. Perkins said. “The maintenance room inspection is provided for you. Please sign it and bring it with you tomorrow when you attend orientation. There is no copying of room keys. If you lose it, you will be docked twenty-five pounds from your salary. Lose it twice and the price goes up to fifty pounds, three times to seventy-five pounds, et cetera. I’m sure you see the importance of keeping your key safe.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “Well, lock your door, and let’s get on with it.” She moved her hands in a small sweeping gesture as if to push me
away.

  I locked the door, pocketed my key, and followed after her while I buttoned my coat.

  “You will keep a clean chef coat every day for kitchen use and a second clean coat for when you are meeting with Mrs. Worth or the duchess. Never wear the coat you are cooking in outside of the kitchen. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very good, then,” Mary replied. “These are the rules: you are not to be seen in a dirty chef coat outside your kitchen, and an apron will never be worn outside the kitchen.”

  She was a formidable woman in her late fifties. She was shorter than I was, but then most people were since I was five foot nine inches tall. I would have to look up what that was in metric units now that I was in England. There were a lot of things I would have to do differently. Luckily I adapted well.

  Growing up, my family had moved a lot. I had gone to nine different schools. If I could survive that, I could survive this.

  As the secretary to the household manager, it was clear to me that Mrs. Perkins took her duties very seriously. She dressed in a plain wool skirt that appeared to reach exactly two inches below the knees and a camel cardigan sweater set along with hose and flat brown loafers. Her gray hair was pulled back into a low ponytail at the base of her neck, and a pair of reading glasses dangled from a beaded eyeglass holder around her neck. She wore little makeup. There were small pearl earrings at her ears and a wedding band on her left ring finger. All this combined with her constant stern expression lead me to believe she was a very serious woman.

  “The duke and duchess’s apartment has twenty-one rooms,” she said. “The family’s living and entertaining areas and three kitchens. You are not to enter any of the apartment rooms without being asked to do so by the duchess or her representative. There is absolutely no snooping. The duke and duchess are a young couple, and they should feel as if their home is their sacred space. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Your room is near the private kitchen and is accessed only through the servants’ hallway. There are no gentlemen callers allowed in the palace and especially in your room without express permission. The doors close at midnight and do not open again until six AM. If you do not arrive in time, you must find accommodations for the night, and you will not be compensated. Security for the royal family is of far more importance than your comfort.”

  “Okay,” I said. The rules were a bit dorm-like, but it wasn’t as if I went out clubbing every night, either.

  “Your ID badge is also a key card and allows you access to this hallway, the staff entrance, and the family’s private kitchen.” She swiped her ID card. “There is no parking for the staff. If you need a ride, there is plenty of public transportation available.”

  “Great, I like to walk.”

  She didn’t seem affected by my agreeableness in the least.

  “As I said, there are three kitchens in the apartment. The first is the family kitchen, where the duchess likes to cook whenever she can. The other two are staff kitchens, which include your kitchen and the main kitchen. Caterers use the main kitchen as well for large events. You are not to set foot in that kitchen unless given permission, and even then, Chef Butterbottom is the boss. You must do what he says.”

  “He sounds like a regular Gordon Ramsey,” I said.

  “It is not uncommon for head chefs to be—shall we say—perfectionists. Now, you are the manager of the family kitchen.” We turned right, went down a flight of stairs, walked through a short hall, and entered a small, square kitchen. “This is your station. You will have two assistants, Francis Deems and Michael Haregrove.” She waved her hand and two men stood from the small table where they sat. They both wore white shirts, white pants, and white athletic shoes. One was short and bald. He wore an apron around his waist and carried a chef hat in his hand.

  “Hi, I’m Chef Cole,” I said and held out my hand.

  “Francis Deems,” the bald one said, his blue eyes clear. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chef.” He leaned in with a stage whisper. “You can call me Frank.”

  “Thank you, I will.” I turned to the taller of the two men. This one was thin with a gaunt face and brown hair and eyes. His skin tone was olive. “I assume you are Chef Haregrove?” I held out my hand.

  “We are not chefs,” he said and shook my hand. “We are assistants to the personal chef, which is you, Miss.”

  “Not chefs?” I turned to Mrs. Perkins.

  “The duchess is not frivolous with the household budget,” Mary Perkins said. “One personal chef is enough for her small family.”

  “But tonight’s menu—”

  “Is unusual, as the duchess said. She is confident you will manage it. And, while they are not chefs, Mr. Deems is an expert in meats and butchering,” Mrs. Perkins said, “and Mr. Haregrove is your food prep assistant.”

  “I’m good at fast chopping, Miss, er, Chef,” Haregrove said.

  I swallowed the sudden rush of nervous energy that went through me at the thought of creating a seven-course meal for twenty-two people by myself.

  Unconcerned by what must have been a sudden look of panic that crossed my face, Mrs. Perkins continued, “The kitchen has everything you need. You will be expected to create a weekly menu and send it to Mrs. Worth to be approved. Once approved, you can go shopping for anything you need. The list of preferred grocers is in your welcome packet. There is also a small greenhouse stocked with fresh vegetables and herbs.” She walked through the kitchen to a wall made out of glass and pushed open the door. I followed her out into a beautiful Victorian greenhouse. Inside were waist-high raised beds of herbs and vegetables, and in the corners, fruit trees came up from large pots set in the ground.

  “This is wonderful,” I said as I looked around.

  “Jasper Fedman is the head greenhouse gardener. He will send you a list of what is ripe. Mark what you want to use and he will ensure it is harvested and cleaned for you.”

  “Great!” I replied.

  “This is the extent of your area of the palace. As I have said, the other apartments and family spaces are all off limits. We have a temporary identification card printed up for you. You will wear it at all times. Tomorrow after breakfast is finished, you will report to the office of human services, and they will replace the temporary identification with a real one. There will be a photo and a copy of your fingerprint on it. There are regular tours at Kensington Palace. It is our duty as staff to ensure tourists never enter the private areas.”

  “I understand.”

  “Security is tight in the palace,” she said. “You may have noticed that there are mesh screens on all the windows. Do not open them. They help prevent any glass from being blown inside in case of an attack. There are also several emergency procedures. Those are covered in the welcome packet in your room. Also, we conduct quarterly drills. We expect you to participate and sign off on them. It’s part of your contract.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said and followed her back into the kitchen.

  “Also there are cameras in all of the hallways to allow for the safety of the royals.”

  “Are there cameras in the kitchen?”

  “Not inside the rooms, as privacy is still maintained in good measure. Well, that’s it then. Do you have any questions?”

  I clipped the temporary badge on the pocket of my jacket. “Yes—who unpacked my clothes and where are my suitcases?”

  “Reginald put the suitcases in your room. It is your chambermaid’s job to take care of such errands so that you have time to devote to properly prepare the menus the duchess gives you.”

  “Oh,” was all I could say in answer. “I’ve never had a chambermaid before.”

  “I’m sure that you will meet her soon.” Mrs. Perkins sent me a frown. “If you have any further questions, they can be answered tomorrow. Now, tonight’s menu for the children’s birthday party is set. I presume you brought it with you. Is there anything on the menu that you can’t do in a professional man
ner?”

  “I’ve prepared everything on the menu the duchess gave me before and should have no issues.”

  “Should?”

  “The meal will be perfectly prepared with fresh ingredients and served on the duchess’s timeline.”

  “Good,” she said and gave a short nod. “My office is connected to Mrs. Worth’s office. We’re located up two floors, the second door on the right. I will expect you to be prompt with all your meals, as the duchess and her family have busy schedules. The duchess prefers good English home cooking with fresh organic foods that are locally sourced and contain no antibiotics or GMOs. I’m certain you know that we must cook only the best for the growing family. There will be none of your American chicken nuggets and that dreadful macaroni dish.”

  “Mac and cheese?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” she said with a shiver of disapproval.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I specialize in fresh and seasonal cooking. What about desserts?”

  “They are expected and traditional. Tonight we are expecting a birthday cake that will appeal to a toddler. Along with ice cream that pairs perfectly with the cake.”

  “Are there any foods that the family does not like?”

  “No. The duchess does not allow the children to be finicky. They must learn to eat whatever is put in front of them. They will spend a lifetime being served food from all parts of the world. They must learn from the start that they are not to offend. Now, since it’s late May, there are many delightful vegetables available. Again, I expect you to consult with the gardener.” She glanced at her watch. “Are there any more questions? I’m running late for my next meeting.”

  “No, no more questions,” I assured her.

  “Good,” she said and turned on her heel. “We expect nothing but perfection. See that you give it, and we won’t need to take any disciplinary action against you.”

  “Right,” I said and gave a soft sigh. Then I realized that Michael and Frank stood behind me. I pasted a brave smile on my face and turned to my staff.

  “Well, let’s get started,” I said with an authority I didn’t feel and pulled out the menu. “We’ll start with warm cheese puffs and shrimp cocktails. Frank, I need sixty-six jumbo shrimp shelled and deveined. Michael, please shred me two cups of Leicester Cheddar, chop rosemary for inside, and leave some uncut for a garnish. Also I will need freshly ground horseradish, fresh tomatoes for paste, and a lemon.”