A Taste for It Read online

  Maura moved over to the compact disc player and lowered the volume on the classical CD playing. “The lady in pink over there has just told me she’s Irish and very homesick and I just want to play her some music to cheer her up,” she explained to one of the larger groups.

  The customers nodded and smiled – Riverdance had done wonders for the popularity of Irish music and they had all been lulled by the fine Lorikeet Hill food and wine.

  Maura found a CD called Tin Whistle Favourites for All the Family that Nick had given to her as a joke the year before. The shrill sound of the whistle began to fill the café, concentrated on the table in the corner. How unfortunate that Mr and Mrs Critic have been seated there, Maura thought, as she moved the volume control higher and higher.

  The other guests tapped their toes as the squawking increased. The guests of honour moved angrily in their seats, trying to get a staff member’s attention and shouting over the music to make themselves heard.

  Turning down the music to a dull squeal, Maura mentally reviewed the hit-list again. Pet hate two, loud background music. Two down, four to go, she thought with pleasure. With a wink, she sent her star wine waiter Annie into the fray.

  For someone who had just graduated top of the class from a wine appreciation course, Annie did a terrific job of pretending to be completely ignorant about all the wine. She deliberately misheard every question either of the two asked her. She spoke about Riesling as though it was made from Shiraz grapes. And to top it off she made sure she was clearly visible as she filled their glasses from a cheap cask of mass-produced wine Rob had rushed out and bought that morning.

  “Number three done with perfection, Annie,” Maura whispered. Now, time for the food.

  Rob delivered their first course with great pomp and ceremony – two huge platters of deep-fried canned asparagus spears coated in breadcrumbs. The dish would have looked perfectly at home on the cover of a seventies cookbook. The can of polyunsaturated oil she had used certainly delivered the critic’s pet hate number four too – several times over.

  Back in the kitchen, Maura put the finishing touches to their next course – chicken à la paprika. But Maura felt her hand accidentally slip as she was adding more of the spice. Now it was more paprika à la chicken. And a bit of fresh chilli always went a very long way, she thought, adding three teaspoons of freshly cut red chilli, seeds and all. Number five – tick, she thought gleefully.

  Having removed the untouched asparagus Rob delivered the chicken dish to their table with great pizzazz, placing the plates in front of them with dramatic flourishes, voilà‘s, hoopla’s and every other vaguely French-sounding word he could remember. Maura and the kitchen staff waited as the couple took their first mouthful.

  The spluttering began in seconds. She heard their coughing from inside the kitchen, and peeped through the glass doors leading into the dining-room in time to see the woman grasp the napkin to her mouth and make a dash for the bathroom.

  Maura took the chance to beard the lion in his den. The critic seemed to be suffering a silent coughing attack, his eyes streaming, his voice hoarse as he tried to say something.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Maura said in a saccharine-sweet voice, as she walked over to his table. “Was that a little too spicy for your delicate palate? How awful! And I understand your sixth pet hate is having to ask for water in restaurants. Here, let me save you the trouble.”

  She actually hadn’t planned her final action. But a memory-flash of the trouble he had caused Gemma suddenly made her see red.

  Almost in slow motion, she picked up the large vase of flowers standing on the cupboard beside her, took out the flowers and poured the cold liquid slowly over his head.

  “It comes with Gemma Taylor’s compliments,” she added for good measure, deciding it was time to come clean.

  The only sound he made was a deep gasp, but that was enough to attract the attention of the other customers. They began to whisper and giggle at the sight of the man dripping water, with Maura standing beside him, vase in hand.

  She had to admire his coolness, but really, with a back full of water she could hardly expect anything else. He gave her a long slow look.

  Maura had intended to give him a passionate lecture on the importance of getting his facts right and the severe effects his reviews could have. But a shriek from his companion as she flounced back to their table stole the moment. She took a breath as though she was about to begin shouting when the man laid a hand on her arm.

  “Thank you, Carla, but I don’t think there’s anything you can add to this very strange situation. Are you ready to leave?” The man rose from his seat, giving his head a slight shake, which only spread the water further. “I had hoped after the asparagus and paprika that this meal couldn’t possibly get any worse, but now I wouldn’t like to bet on it.”

  “Well, we’re certainly not paying for that garbage!” the young woman almost spat at Maura. “This is the most appalling restaurant I have ever been in.” She strode to the door. “You should be reported!” she shouted over her shoulder as they made a noisy exit.

  Rob and Annie hurried out of the kitchen, congratulating each other.

  “Gemma would have loved it,” Nick said, still laughing. “Revenge accomplished. We should have hired a video camera.”

  Maura smiled with them, but didn’t feel as elated as she had hoped. There was something in the man’s gaze which had unsettled her. She mentally shook herself. It was just the surprise of him being attractive, when you were expecting an overweight old boor, she told herself. You’ve been out in the sticks too long – you’re not used to handsome, sophisticated men.

  As she heard the front door open again, Maura went out to greet the new arrivals. She tried to ignore the sight of Rob giving a reprise of his French waiter’s act, with his fifty-dollar bonus clenched between his teeth. The kitchen assistants were in hysterics.

  The newcomers, an elderly couple, looked over in a puzzled manner at the noise.

  “You all seem very happy today,” the man said in a slightly drawn-out, disapproving voice.

  “Oh, I think it’s the country air,” Maura explained as she led them to the newly reset table. “Now, can I show you the menu?”

  Chapter Two

  “So I could show the slides first, and then do my talk. Or maybe start with the talk and the wine-tasting, then follow that with the slides. Or – ”

  “Talking to yourself again, Morey?”

  “Just for a change,” Maura answered with a grin. She turned around as her sister-in-law Fran came into the room, carrying a large cardboard box overflowing with sketches and designs. Fran was a talented illustrator, and had designed a bestselling series of children’s books as well as all of Lorikeet Hill’s wine labels.

  “Fran!” Maura leapt from her chair and took the box from her. “You’re not supposed to lift anything, let alone heavy boxes like that. You know what the doctor said.”

  “You’re as bad as your brother,” Fran grinned, as she slowly eased her heavily pregnant body down into the one comfortable armchair in Maura’s tiny spare room, which doubled as a guest-room and office. “If you’d both had your way, I would have been lying in bed for the past eight months, propped up on feather pillows and sipping on little cups of tea. And I’d have gone slowly mad with boredom.”

  “He’s just worried about you, and I am too. I’m sorry if it feels like we’re bossing you around or at you all the time to take it easy. It’s just . . . well, you know why,” Maura tailed off, not wanting to mention the two miscarriages Fran had suffered in the past few years. Busying herself, she tried to find room on her cramped desk for the box. In the process she nearly knocked over the huge bunch of flowers that had arrived as a thank-you from Gemma the day after the critic’s lunch, nearly a week ago now.

  Fran looked affectionately at her sister-in-law. “Really, stop worrying. I’m nearly there now, just a month to go. Don’t worry about me, or you’ll spoil your trip.”

&
nbsp; “I will worry about you, until I get that call in the middle of the night telling me I’m an auntie at last,” Maura smiled back. “You have got all the phone numbers in Ireland, haven’t you? The one in the Dublin hotel, and Bernadette’s car-phone and her number in County Clare?”

  “Presumably they haven’t changed since you gave them to us last week? And the week before that?” Fran teased.

  Maura gave an embarrassed smile. “Sorry . . . honestly, I’m carrying on as if I’m going to the moon rather than Ireland for a month. Of course you’ll be okay, and of course Nick will remember to ring me when the baby is born and of course Gemma will cope perfectly well in the kitchen here.”

  Fran copied Maura’s singsong voice. “And of course you will manage to make all the winesellers in Ireland fall head over hills in love with Lorikeet Hill wine, and we can all retire rich and happy in twelve months from now. That’s what happens after these export trips, isn’t it?”

  “I wish,” Maura smiled. “I’ve just had another e-mail from Rita Deegan, the lady in Dublin organising the whole trip. She’s added another two bottle-shops to my itinerary.”

  “So how many is that all up? You must be into double figures by now.” Fran stretched out her legs as she spoke and began moving her feet in slow circles, eyes closed in pleasure.

  Maura scrolled down her computer screen, trying to find the final itinerary that had arrived during the night via e-mail from Rita.

  “Let me see. I arrive on a Sunday, there’s a cocktail party that night, a wine-tasting in Dublin the next day, then I’m off to the West of Ireland with Bernadette for the assault on the bottle-shops,” Maura counted under her breath. “Eleven bottle-shop visits – or off-licences as I have to learn to call them – and four talks and winetastings, half with slides, half without. Then, thank God, I can stop pretending I know anything about making wine, and move on to three weeks of cooking at Bernadette’s very swanky house in the glorious Irish countryside.”

  Maura spun around in her chair with her last words, finishing with a wide grin in Fran’s direction.

  “You’re not still nervous about talking about the wine side of Lorikeet Hill, are you?” Fran asked, looking over and knowing Maura well enough to guess the anxiety behind the high spirits.

  Maura suddenly looked serious. “No, not any more, though I was terrified at first. But I knew there was no way Nick would leave you so close to your due date. I’ll be fine. And Nick has coached me so hard I’m dreaming about winemaking in my sleep.”

  “You’ll be great,” Fran said encouragingly. “The two of you have worked so closely together these past few years, I bet you’ll find out you know heaps more than you realise.”

  A knock on the front door stopped their conversation. “Oh God, it’s that reporter,” Maura whispered, looking at her watch.

  “What reporter?” Fran whispered back.

  “From one of the local papers. They’re doing a story on me, about the Irish trip. Photo and all.”

  “Good luck to him with that,” Fran smiled wryly to herself, as Maura moved down the narrow hall toward the front door.

  “Good morning,” Maura said brightly as she opened the door to welcome a smartly dressed young man. “I’m Maura Carmody, you must be the new reporter.” Hired straight from a crèche by the looks of things, she thought.

  “Hello, Maura, yes, Gary Lewis is my name.” He suddenly leaned forward and grasped her hand in a firm shake that nearly pulled her off her feet.

  She smiled a welcome, quickly rescuing her hand. “Let’s go on up to the winery and café – are you happy to walk or would you rather drive?”

  She saw him look nervously out through the vineyards and long dry grass that surrounded her cottage and guessed what he was thinking. “There are only a few snakes and I’ll go first and beat them off,” she added kindly.

  She obviously convinced him, and they set off along the well-trodden path that linked Maura’s old stone cottage with the Lorikeet Hill Winery Café.

  “Have you been up here before?” Maura asked as they walked along, both kept busy swatting the flies away from their faces.

  Gary was stepping very gingerly, keeping close to Maura and practically treading on her heels. “No, but I’ve heard lots about it. I only arrived in the Clare Valley from Melbourne last week, but I’m hoping to work my way around all the wineries and restaurants.”

  “That’ll keep you busy for a few months,” Maura wasn’t surprised to hear he was a city boy. “Would you like to sit outside and we can talk?”

  The young man followed Maura as she led the way onto the front verandah. An enormous walnut tree in the centre of the garden shaded them, sending dappled green light onto the grass and the front of the building. As they sat down at one of the tables, a pair of bright green and red birds darted swiftly along the edge of the verandah, making Gary jump.

  He really was terrified of the wildlife, Maura thought. “They’re lorikeets – the inspiration for our business name,” she said. “They’re a sort of parrot – this garden and the hill behind us have been home to a family of them for years. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Gary nodded politely, but she noticed he was sitting very stiffly, as if expecting them to swoop down and peck out one of his eyes. He coughed nervously as he withdrew his notebook from a bag he was carrying.

  “Perhaps you could give me a bit of background on Lorikeet Hill, before we talk about the trip to Ireland?” he asked, his pen poised.

  Settling onto the wooden bench opposite him, Maura briefly explained that Nick had set up his winery just outside their home-town nearly five years before, after serving his apprenticeship at other wineries in South Australia.

  “I joined him about three years ago. I’d been working as a chef in Sydney, came home for a holiday and Nick convinced me to go into business with him and open the café here as well.”

  And that’s as much background as you’re going to get, young fellow, Maura said to herself. The newspaper’s readers weren’t going to get all the juicy details of her break-up with her boyfriend Richard, the real reason she’d come running home from Sydney. There’d already been enough gossip in the town when she first arrived back. She didn’t want to set it alight again.

  Gary was scribbling down her every word. “And are you older or younger than Nick?”

  “Nick’s thirty-two and I’m four years younger.”

  “And can I just double-check the spelling of your first name – it’s quite unusual isn’t it?” he asked.

  Not for the first time, Maura slowly spelt out her name. “It’s an Irish version of Mary,” she explained.

  “Oh, were your parents Irish?” Gary asked.

  For a fleeting moment, Maura debated whether to give him the complete story of her parentage, but decided against it. “Oh, there’s Irish blood in the family tree, for sure,” she answered vaguely. “But one in five Australians can say that.”

  “And is that why Lorikeet Hill was chosen to be part of this Irish trade trip?”

  Maura shook her head. “Just coincidence really. But I think it helped that we had links with County Clare already – do you know about those?” she asked.

  Gary nodded. His editor had filled him in that morning on the twinning arrangement between Clare and the County of the same name in Ireland.

  Maura explained that a group of Australian wine exporters had teamed with an Irish wine society to promote sales of Australian wine in Ireland.

  “Lorikeet Hill was chosen to represent the Clare Valley, and there’ll be other winemakers from the other wine areas around Australia. We’re all touring different parts of Ireland, leaving no stone unturned and no bottle unopened.” She grinned.

  “And you’re doing some cooking in Ireland as well, is that right?” he asked.

  “That’s right. After the wine trip I’ll be guest chef at Cloneely Lodge in County Clare.” She explained that in the early preparations for the trip she had learned that the wine society member
she would be travelling with also owned a well-known residential cooking school and country house restaurant, south of Ennis, the main town in County Clare.

  “Her name’s Bernadette Carmody – and no, no relative,” she added quickly. “Just a common surname, I guess. We talked a lot while we were working out the itinerary for the wine trip, and realised it was a great opportunity to promote Australian food as well as wine. I’ll be teaching Bernadette’s students during the week, and then cooking in the restaurant for real-life diners each weekend.”

  Gary closed his notebook. “That all sounds great. It’ll really help put the Clare Valley on the map, won’t it?” he said earnestly. Maura smiled at him. She suspected he was parroting his editor’s words but he was right. It was a brilliant opportunity to promote the Clare Valley and Lorikeet Hill and get great experience herself. She didn’t mention her other personal reason for wanting to visit Ireland, and County Clare in particular. That idea was still tucked firmly away at the back of her mind.

  “Now, I need to take your photo for the article as well, if that’s okay?” Gary asked.

  Maura nodded, inwardly groaning. She hated having her photo taken and hated even more seeing the results. Nick had inadvertently made her even more self-conscious, after seeing her in a recent set of photos. “You’re actually very good-looking in a kind of gypsy way,” he’d said, “but you always do look weird in photos.”

  “Thanks very much, Nick,” she had said crossly.

  “No, really, you do look better in real life. You need to have a still sort of face to look good in photos – you’re too lively-looking.”

  “And my hair is too messy and my eyes too green as well?”

  Nick had taken her question seriously. “Well, I wouldn’t say messy exactly,” he’d said, inspecting her almost waist-length dark-red curly hair. “More unruly. And there’s not much you can do about your eye colour – unless you want to try those coloured contact lenses?”