Free A Twist in the Tale by Jeffrey Archer

quietly.
    “Why would you
do that?”
    “Because you ‘ ave talent in those fingers. In time I think you become
chef, perhaps even good chef.”
    “No, thanks. I’m off to Coventry to join my mates.”
    The head chef
shrugged. “ Tant pis ,” he said, and without a second glance returned to
the carcass of beef. He glanced over at the plates of smoked salmon. “A wasted
talent,” he added after the swing door had closed behind his potential protégé.
    Mark locked his
room, threw the calendar in the wastepaper basket and returned to the hotel to
hand in his kitchen clothes to the housekeeper. The final action he took was to
return his room key to the under-manager.
    “Your wage packet, your cards and your PAYE. Oh, and the
chef has phoned up to say he would be happy to give you a reference,” said the
under-manager. “Can’t pretend that happens every day.”
    “Won’t need
that where I’m going,” said Mark.
    “But thanks all
the same.”
    He started off
for station at a brisk pace, his small battered suitcase swinging by his side,
only to find that each step took a little longer. When he arrived at Euston he
made his way to Platform 7 and began walking up and down, occasionally staring
at the great clock above the booking hall. He watched first one train and then
another pull out of the station bound for Coventry. He was aware of the station
becoming dark as shad- ows filtered through the glass
awning on to the public concourse. Suddenly he turned and walked offal an even
brisker pace. If he hurried he could still be back in time to help chef prepare
dinner that night.
    Mark trained
under Jacques le Renneu for five years. Vegetables
were followed by sauces, fish by poultry, meats by pâtisserie .
    After eight
years at the Savoy he was appointed second chef, and had learned so much from
his mentor that regular patrons could no longer be sure when it was the maître chef de cuisine ’ s day
off. Two years later Mark became a master chef, and when in 1971 Jacques was
offered the opportunity to return to Paris and take over the kitchens of the
George Cinq – an establishment that is to Paris what
Harrods is to London – Jacques agreed, but only on condition that Mark
accompanied him.
    “It is wrong
direction from Coventry,” Jacques warned him, “and in any case they sure to
offer you my job at the Savoy.”
    “I’d better
come along otherwise those Frogs will never get a decent meal.”
    “Those Frogs,”
said Jacques, “will always know when it’s my day off.”
    “Yes, and book
in even greater numbers,” suggested Mark, laughing.
    It was not to
be long before Parisians were flocking to the George Cinq ,
not to rest their weary heads but to relish the cooking of the two-chef team.
    When Jacques celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday the great hotel
did not have to look far to appoint his successor.
    “The first
Englishman ever to be maître chef de cuisine at the George Cinq ,” said Jacques, raising a glass of champagne at his
farewell banquet. “Who would believe it? Of course, you will have to change
your name to Marc to hold down such a position.”
    “Neither will
ever happen,” said Mark.
    “Oh yes it
will, because I ‘ ave recommended you.”
    “Then I shall
turn it down.”
    “Going to put
cars on wheels, peut-être ?” asked Jacques mockingly.
    “No, but I have
found a little restaurant on the Left Bank. With my savings alone I can’t quite
afford the lease, but with your help . .
    .”
    Chez Jacques
opened on the rue du Plaisir on the Left Bank on May
1st, 1982, and it was not long before those customers who had taken the George Cinq for granted transferred their allegiance.
    Mark’s
reputation spread as the two chefs pioneered “nouvelle cuisine”, and soon the
only way anyone could be guaranteed a table at the restaurant in under three weeks was to be a film star or a Cabinet
Minister.
    The day
Michelin gave Chez Jacques their third star Mark, with Jacques’s