A Taste for It Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  A Taste for It

  MONICA MCINERNEY grew up in a family of seven children in the Clare Valley wine region of South Australia, where her father was the railway station-master. She is the author of six bestselling novels, A Taste for It, Upside Down Inside Out, Spin the Bottle, The Alphabet Sisters, Family Baggage and Those Faraday Girls, published internationally and in translation. In 2006 she was ambassador for the Australian Government initiative Books Alive, with her novella Odd One Out. She currently lives in Dublin with her Irish husband.

  For more information please visit

  www.monicamcinerney.com

  ‘It will keep you hoping and guessing to the end’

  Country Living

  ‘A superbly written story… full of dramatic twists and turns that will hold the reader enthralled right up to the final page’

  The Weekender, Ireland

  ‘A rollicking ride from the vineyards of the Clare Valley in South Australia to the lilting hospitality of the Irish countryside’

  Sunshine Coast Weekly

  ‘Here’s one for those who enjoy their romance dished up with a lip-smacking serve of Australia’s finest food and wines. McInerney’s first novel offers unbridled romance where fate continually thrusts the protagonists together and then apart. It’s set against a travelogue of beautiful Ireland and the contrasts of sunburnt South Australian vineyards. Liberally and sensually seasoned with fabulous menus, highlighting magnificent Australian produce, all the players are kept nicely lubricated by our country’s fine wine’

  Herald-Sun

  ‘A humorous, romantic and sexy novel from new name on the scene, Monica McInerney . . . an intriguing and highly entertaining read’

  Sunday World, Ireland

  ‘A well-paced and grown-up rom-com that your mum,

  aunts and older sisters will enjoy as much as you will’

  U Magazine, Ireland

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Poolbeg, Ireland 2000

  This edition published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2008

  Copyright © Monica McInerney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Cover design by Laura Thomas © Penguin Group (Australia)

  Cover photographs: Woman © Albany Pictures/istock; Ground: Lilkar/Shutterstock; Sky: Serg64/Shutterstock

  ISBN: 978-1-74-228362-3

  For my Dad

  Chapter One

  Maura picked up her wineglass and spoke in a low, sexy voice. “I’m rich and full-bodied and you’ll savour my taste for a long, long time.”

  “It’s a wine label not Playboy magazine,” her brother Nick said under his breath, not looking up from his writing-pad.

  Maura took another sip of red wine and tried again. “What about ‘fruitier than Carmen Miranda’s hat and a lot easier to carry’?”

  Nick didn’t even smile. “Maura, you’re not taking this seriously, are you?” He ripped out another page of scribbled notes from his writing-pad and threw it onto the growing pile on the floor.

  She had been taking the label-writing seriously. For the first four days anyway. But they were now into day five of the process and she was rapidly running out of adjectives.

  They went through this several times a year, when the various blends Nick made in their small winery were ready for bottling. Nick was usually very easy-going, but he fell into a high anxiety state when it came to his labels. He was convinced the perfect combination of words hinting at full flavours and bursting taste sensations produced extra sales.

  Maura softened as she looked at her brother’s worried expression. “Nick, your wine is so good, it doesn’t matter what’s written on the label. Let’s just tell it like it is. ‘Here’s a fantastic Shiraz. It was made in South Australia. We hope you enjoy it.’ ”

  “No, far too straightforward. This is the wine industry, remember?” He looked up at her with a glimmer of a grin. “Besides, I want it to be extravagant. There are three years of my life in those bottles.”

  There was silence again as they both bent back over their notes. Maura surreptitiously checked her watch. She had half an hour before she had to start preparing for today’s lunch crowd. She picked up her glass again, letting the morning sunlight stream through the deep red wine.

  “What about ‘ruby rich in flavour, colour and appeal, a gem among Clare Valley reds’?”

  “Now, that’s more like it.” Nick actually smiled, scribbling down her suggestion.

  The sudden peal of the telephone made them both jump.

  Maura got to it first. “Lorikeet Hill Winery Café, good morning.” Her voice warmed. “Joel, hello! How are you?” Nick looked up as Maura walked out into the garden with the portable phone. That would be the last he’d see of her for a while, if her usual conversations with Joel were any guide. Maura and Joel had become friends when she had lived in Sydney, where Joel worked as a freelance food writer. He moved from office to office, usually finding time to ring Maura for a good long catch-up at some editor’s expense.

  Nick was surprised when she came back into the reception area less than five minutes later, a mischievous smile on her face.

  “I’ve got some news,” she said.

  That was no shock. Joel was the gossip king of the food world. Nick waited.

  “The Diner, the OzTaste magazine food critic, is coming here today.”

  “What! The Diner! How on earth does Joel know that?”

  Maura sat down. “He was calling from the OzTaste office. He just happened to see a confidential list of the critic’s restaurant visits this month. And he just happened to read it closely and notice we’re the lucky one for today. Apparently The Diner’s travelling around the country with his wife reviewing regional restaurants.”

  Nick looked worried. “That’s really bad news, isn’t it? Isn’t he the one who closed down Gemma’s restaurant?”

  Maura nodded. Several years previously her friend Gemma had opened a small bistro in Sydney. All had gone well until The Diner had visited and written a vicious – and factually incorrect – review. Overnight it had destroyed her trade. Gemma had demanded an apology from the editor, and had received a well-hidden two-
line retraction in the next issue. But the damage had been done. The customers had stayed away in droves.

  “Did Joel have any good news?” Nick asked.

  Maura smiled broadly. “Today’s review will never be published. OzTaste magazine is closing down. Joel’s heard the publisher’s been taken over by some international magazine group and there’s going to be a big change in direction. But it’s still hush-hush and The Diner wouldn’t have heard the news yet.”

  “So he’ll soon be out of a job?”

  “Just like Gemma was when he closed her restaurant.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “If this is going to be his last free meal, we really should make sure it’s one to remember, shouldn’t we?” Maura said thoughtfully.

  “Make sure he never forgets us, do you mean?”

  “Pull out all the stops,” she grinned.

  * * *

  As her kitchen and waiting staff began to arrive, Maura took great pleasure in explaining the situation, promising a fifty-dollar bonus for the most inventive revenge tactics.

  Her head waiter Rob was especially taken with the idea. “He’s an arrogant pig, apparently,” he said with feeling. “He made a waitress friend of mine in Melbourne cry once, he was so rude to her. Leave him to me.”

  In the kitchen, Maura cast an eye over the list of dishes her other customers would be choosing from: a warm garlic, herb and mushroom salad, made with herbs from the Lorikeet Hill garden; a Thai-style beef salad with mint, coriander and peanuts; grilled lamb cutlets with potato and parsnip mash; tangy yoghurt chicken with roasted capsicum and garlic; and a zesty fruit sorbet served with poached nectarines. The dessert was one of her favourites, and was always a hit with the customers. Ironically, she had adapted it from a recipe she had found in an old issue of OzTaste.

  Thinking of the magazine, she suddenly recalled an article The Diner had written a year or so back, in which he’d included a list of his dining-out pet hates. She and Gemma had laughed about it, wondering how the editor had kept the list to one page. With an idea hatching, she hunted for the issue in the box of magazines she kept as reference.

  There it was. Maura frowned as she read his article again. It was people like him who gave food writing a bad name, she thought, as she skimmed through the pompous introduction to his article.

  Australian food has certainly come on somewhat in recent years, but far too many times I have had the misfortune of being served food better suited to seventies dinner parties or countrywomen’s association annual dinners, invariably delivered by drop-outs from a second-rate catering college.

  Maura quickly scanned his list of six pet hates. Perfect. She’d be able to manage them all easily. She’d get her waiter Rob to explain to the critic that they were trialling a new style of dining. They’d serve him a number of small dishes, in a Lorikeet Hill version of the famous Spanish tapas style. It would work a treat.

  By 1.30 pm the café was about three-quarters full of a mixture of local people and visitors from Adelaide, up for a day of fine Clare Valley food and wine. Out in the reception area, Maura smiled goodbye as a couple left, carrying half a dozen of the newly released Lorikeet Hill Cabernet Sauvignon.

  Maura mused for a moment, wondering where that wine would be when it was opened. She loved the whole winemaking process. Lorikeet Hill was right in the middle of the vineyards of the Clare Valley, one of the most beautiful parts of South Australia, and she saw the vines through all the seasons, from the bare branches of winter, to the sudden blast of light green in the spring. She liked to imagine the whole process as a fast-forward film – the grapes flourishing, swelling from tiny seeds to plump ovals on the vines, the early morning sight of groups of grape-pickers, moving down the long, long rows, like flocks of birds eating all the fruit . . .

  The noise of a car engine outside caught her attention. Looking out from the reception window she watched a car with interstate number plates manoeuvre into the small carpark. This had to be him.

  She watched as the passengers took great pains to engage the car alarm and carefully lock the doors. Just as well, Maura thought. The possums around here were notorious car thieves.

  She caught a glimpse as a couple made their way up the tree-lined path. A tall, dark-haired man, with an equally tall, very slender young woman beside him. Her hair was styled in a stark, angular bob and she was wearing a close-fitting bright-pink dress. As for the King of Critics – he was hardly the stooped, overweight, gout-ridden elderly gentleman they’d been expecting, Maura thought in surprise. He didn’t even look forty. Thirty-five maybe. At least six foot tall, she judged, watching as he ducked under the garden arch. Dark, maybe even black hair. And from this distance his physique looked more like that of an athlete on his day off than a man who ate for a living.

  Moments later the doorbell jangled as the couple walked in. Maura nearly laughed aloud – the man was carrying a copy of OzTaste’s guide to regional restaurants. Well, that was subtle. She’d heard of some critics who insisted on anonymity. This one was obviously the opposite, dropping hints so he’d get the best treatment.

  She took a moment to look at him closely, taking advantage as their eyesight adjusted to the dim, cool light of the reception area. She nearly wolf-whistled. He was gorgeous.

  Beautifully dressed in a white linen shirt and close-fitting dark jeans. Tanned, lean features, yet his face looked lived-in, not male-model smooth. He and his wife looked like they had just stepped off the set of an expensive aftershave commercial.

  It wasn’t fair, she thought, suddenly feeling a rush of dislike for him. Not only did he make his living wreaking havoc on poor restaurateurs like Gemma, but by the looks of things he lived a glamorous, charmed life as well. Maura thought cheerfully of the imminent closure of OzTaste. A taste of his own medicine at last.

  Still, Maura decided on one last check before it was all systems go with what they had dubbed ‘Gemma’s Revenge’. Heaven knows she didn’t want a poor innocent couple from Adelaide to go through this particular experience. Joel had been unable to give her a detailed description of The Diner but had alerted her to his distinctive voice. “He grew up in New York,” Joel had hurriedly explained on the phone that morning, “and he’s still got traces of an American accent, even after years here in Sydney. I’ve heard him being interviewed on the radio. But I’m sure he’ll stand out – by all accounts he’s not the easiest of customers.”

  He was right. These two stood out like sore thumbs.

  She decided on two quick tests – if she managed to hear his American accent and find out they’d driven from Sydney, then it was full steam ahead.

  “Good afternoon,” she said brightly. “Welcome to Lorikeet Hill – can I help you?”

  The stylish woman answered in a drawling voice. “Yes, we’d like some lunch – I sure hope we’re not too late.”

  “Oh, there’s no such thing as time in the country,” Maura answered lightly. “Have you driven a long way?”

  The man answered, in a deep, almost musical voice. “We’ve come from Sydney, but we’ve broken the trip over a few days.” Maura strained to catch his accent, but he’d spoken too low to be sure. But they’d come from Sydney . . .

  “Sydney?” Maura repeated, almost shouting. “How lovely! Well, you’re both very welcome to the Clare Valley and Lorikeet Hill. Your table will be ready in just a moment. But could I just ask you both, if I may be so bold, are those American accents I hear?”

  “Yes, I’m from New York,” the woman replied, in a bored tone of voice.

  “And you, sir?” Maura pressed.

  “I lived there for a number of years,” he answered, looking a little puzzled at the sudden interest in accents.

  “Ah, America, land of the free – and you’ve just driven down from Sydney, well, that’s terrific!” Maura felt her voice get slightly high-pitched. “Just one moment please and I’ll have someone escort you to your table.”

  ‘Have someone escort you to your
table?’ What had come over her? She’d never said that in all her years in restaurants. She walked quickly back into the kitchen, where her staff waited.

  Maura gave a big wink. “Thank you, Rob – if you could please show our most honoured guests to their table.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Carmody,” Rob said with a wide smile.

  The staff peered around the kitchen door to watch.

  The sleek woman was checking her reflection in the glass-framed photographs by the door, while the critic was reading the food and wine reviews pinned to a noticeboard on the wall.

  Rob coughed politely, and as they turned around, greeted them with a shocking grimace, far removed from his usual sweet smile. Maura watched as the couple tried not to react. “Bon jour, madam and mizure, pliz follow me to ze table we ‘ave chosen for you,” Rob said, adopting an appalling stage-French accent.

  Rob was a born actor, Maura thought. He chattered away as he led the couple through the entire café, weaving in and out of every table in the dining-room, before returning to the first table they had passed on their tour. “Sit ‘ere, pliz. I ‘ope you enjoy ze special taste sensations we ‘ave pre-pared for you today. Zee wine waitress, she will be wiz you shortly.” With a flamboyant bow, he placed their napkins on their knees and flounced off.

  Pet hate one – fussy, fake French waiters – done, Maura thought to herself. She came out to the reception desk again and eavesdropped as the couple settled into their seats.

  “What on earth’s going on here? This isn’t a French restaurant, is it?” she heard the woman hiss.

  “It’s supposed to be modern Australian,” the man replied, checking the OzTaste guide. “But didn’t that waiter say something about the Spanish tapas style?”

  “Well, by the look of these decorations it’s more like a fake Irish pub,” the woman sniffed. “We’ll have tin whistles playing jigs and reels next.”

  “Thanks for the idea,” Maura whispered to herself. Fake Irish, indeed. The white walls of the café were decorated with the originals of a series of beautiful paintings Fran, Nick’s wife, had done for their wine labels. Depicting musicians and Irish scenes, the paintings reflected the Irish heritage of the Clare Valley.