Free Prep work by PD Singer Page B

that effect. I knew it was parsley. I just didn’t know why it floated on top of my soup in this corner pub, where one expects simple, solid fare.
    “I’ll take it away then.” She reached nervously for the bowl, but I stopped her.
    “It’s not your fault.” At least I hoped not; waitstaff in my establishments never garnished the food. “Don’t mind me. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.” She snatched her hand back quickly. Couldn’t blame her.
    “It does say on the menu….” She trailed off nervously.
    Menu? Here? What does a pub need with a menu? I looked around and had to wonder how I’d missed the big green chalkboard marked with the day’s specials. Sure enough, it said fresh green pea soup with chiffonade of prosciutto and parsley and noisettes of something in something sauce that I couldn’t read from here, but the words of doom were in bright yellow and should have sent me running before I got my jacket off. Gastro-pub. I’d been drinking in a gastro-pub. No wonder the waitress looked at me so oddly when I’d asked for a ploughman’s lunch.
    I picked up the spoon. “It’ll be fine.” And it was fine, it was better than fine, it was damned good soup—the parsley and the prosciutto added a bit of salt and savor with the nip of chlorophyll. It worked beautifully; it was just out of place and out of my expectations. I’d always thought good beer and fancy food didn’t happen in the same places. Beer and basic went together and never got near a white tablecloth. I had about a third of the bowl inside when something else out of my expectations happened. Too bad the camera and crew were back at the hotel, because the man in chef’s whites was very photogenic: early thirties maybe, thick, light-brown hair and creamy skin, straight nose. Where’d he come from?
    “Is something wrong with the soup?” he asked, and now I had to explain. I’d upset his staff, and possibly him, with my little tantrum.
    “It’s spectacular soup. There’s something wrong with me.” Only one corner of my mouth smiled, and I continued. “I’ve been eating a lot of strange things lately, and was all set for something plain. I just wasn’t expecting this. I think I walked in with my eyes shut.” Shrugging and taking another spoonful of his concoction by way of apology, I met his eyes, only to drown in the depths of blue and concern.
    “I suppose you have. Where have you been filming?” he asked, and I told him, and didn’t think to be startled by the question until I recited the geography.
    “How do you know?” I wondered out loud. “Do you watch?”
    “Sometimes. Bit of a mixed experience in Thailand for you, poor bloke.” His smile brought out a dimple in his right cheek. “I didn’t think I’d ever have Jude Marshall sitting at one of my tables. Have you hidden the camera crew?” He looked around, as if a grown man holding a Sony SRW-9000 on a Glidecam might be crouching under the lip of the bar.
    “I’d make arrangements with you first. Really, I’m just here for a quiet meal.” Was he disappointed at not getting the publicity? Did he think we’d just barge in? I’m an uncouth SOB, but I have some manners. And if I didn’t, I’d still have Managing Marcie.
    “Then sorry to interrupt.” That smile wasn’t an interruption. “But since this might never happen again, I’m going to ask for an autograph. Would you mind?”
    Being recognized didn’t happen so often that I’d gotten used to it, or that the thrill of being asked had worn off. I looked around for something to write on and patted my pockets, worried that I’d left the business cards back at the hotel. “Sure. On what?”
    His smile was brilliant, full of white but not quite straight teeth. “I’ve got your cookbook.”
    I lost my heart completely. He had a copy of my darling! My poor, flash-in-the-pan magnum opus that never came anywhere near the bestseller list, and he had a copy. Hope he didn’t understand how rare that