Free The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

felt, by something more in keeping with the ambience she had in mind for her restaurant.
    â€œThat is very good,” said Mr. Disang. “I am sure that it will be a very popular restaurant.” He paused. “Of course, if one is running a restaurant, one needs somebody to cook. That is very important.”
    Mma Makutsi glanced at him. “Obviously, Rra,” she said. “If there is nobody to cook, then there will be no food. I don’t think there’s much point in having a restaurant with nothing on the menu.”
    Mr. Disang laughed. “It would be very easy to choose, though. I always find it difficult to make up my mind when I go to a restaurantand I see a whole page of choices. How can you decide in such circumstances? Imagine if you’re sitting down for your breakfast and your wife gives you a long list of things you can eat. Imagine that, Mma. What would you do?”
    â€œOr it could be the wife sitting down and the husband giving her the menu,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “I believe there are some husbands who cook for their wives. I have heard of these people …” She left the remark unfinished, demonstrating through the look she gave Mr. Disang that she certainly did not think he fell into this category.
    Mr. Disang laughed again, but more nervously now. “Of course, Mma, of course.” He hesitated. “But, as I was saying, you will need a cook, I think.”
    â€œThey call them chefs,” said Mma Makutsi. “A cook is any old cook; a chef is much more special.”
    â€œThat is very true,” said Mr. Disang. “They are very talented people, these chefs.”
    Mma Makutsi started to cross to the other side of the room. Mr. Disang followed her.
    â€œI was thinking that I might be able to help you,” he said. “If you are going to look for a chef, then I think I know one who might be interested in the job. He is a famous chef, I think. He is very good.”
    Mma Makutsi looked at her lawyer. She noticed that there were small beads of perspiration on his brow. He must be one of those people who sweat easily, she thought. “Who is this chef?” she asked.
    â€œI know him quite well,” said Mr. Disang. “He is a person I see from time to time. He is probably the best chef in Botswana—or so I’ve heard people say.”
    Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow. “But if he is such a famous chef, then why would he want to come and work for me?” she asked. In business matters she tended to optimism, but she was realistic too. “If you’re a famous chef, then surely you’re very busy cooking at those big hotels. The Sun. The Grand Palm. They are the places where all the famous chefs go.”
    Mr. Disang seemed unworried by the objection. “There are chefs who have done all that,” he said dismissively. “They have worked in all those big places and then they think:
I need a new challenge.
That is what they think, Mma.”
    Mma Makutsi stared at him appraisingly. He noticed, and his confidence seemed to grow visibly. “I can arrange for you to see him, Mma,” he pressed. “Think about it: you’ll have no need to worry about finding a chef for your new restaurant. All that will be fixed up.”
    She hesitated, and sensing her hesitation, he continued: “You know it makes sense, Mma.”
    She gazed out of the window into the yard outside. The previous occupants had left that in a messy state too: there were old barrels, an untidy pile of firewood, the chassis of an ancient car like a skeleton long since stripped of its clothing of flesh. There was much to do: tidying the place up; and then there would be the decoration; and the fitting out of the kitchen. If a chef were to be identified at this stage, then that at least would be one thing less on the list of things to be done.
    â€œYou can bring him to see me, Rra?” she asked.
    Mr. Disang nodded.