Chapter Text
London. 1985.
Taggie O’Hara had plenty of failings. She was no good at school. Not the workload, not the social pressure. She didn’t possess the gumption to stand up to her own mother. Didn’t possess the gumption to travel the world like her other classmates that hadn’t gone to university.
She was good at one thing. Excellent at it, really. She was a brilliant chef.
Or, at least, she’d always thought so.
“Expedite the lamb.” “Fire the risotto!” “Where's the bloody garnish?”
Taggie’s senses were ablaze. She was overheated, overwhelmed, and every command was filtering into her ears like static noise. She understood the kitchen. She understood cooking. But this kitchen spoke a different language. It was faster than she could parse.
It felt like five minutes, not five hours, had passed when it all inadvertently slowed down.
“Get out,” the head chef spat out.
Taggie swallowed. “I-I wasn’t sure what the recipe meant so I…” The words dried up in her mouth. How could she explain that the rush of the kitchen had heightened her nerves. That she could not make sense of their pesto recipe for the life of her. That, though she should have asked for help, she felt like she needed to prove herself.
“So… so what? You thought you’d improvise?” the chef asked incredulously. He let out a mirthless laugh and muttered, “This! This is what I get for letting some celebrity’s twat into my kitchen!”
Taggie swallowed hard. “I…”
The chef didn’t let her finish. “This is not your home kitchen.”
Taggie tried to remain calm. “I know that, chef, and I know that running a business is-”
“A business? This is an establishment.” He looked away from Taggie like she disgusted him.
“Take a breather, Taggie,” the sous whispered. “Let him cool down.”
And so, Taggie walked out of the one place she thought might fit. Back to my kitchen, she thought glumly. Mummy’s gonna say I told you so, she thought even more morosely.
She knew as she stepped into the restaurant alleyway that this was no quick ten. The chef might calm down. He might give Taggie a second chance because she was someone’s – two someone’s – daughter. He might not. None of his decisions mattered.
No, when Taggie felt her toque slip, she did not stop it from hitting the ground. She knew there was no future for her in a restaurant. Five hours in one of London’s best establishments and she knew her shortcoming would stop her short of this dream too.
It wasn’t that working in a posh restaurant was all she ever wanted. It was that, at 19, she thought she might finally do something. This felt like the way to do it.
Taggie frowned at the toque. Now off her head, she could admit Maud was right in saying it didn’t suit her round features.
Suddenly, there was a blurry cigarette in front of her. Well, the cigarette was normal. It was Taggie's vision that was all teary. She shook her head and sniffled. “No thank you.”
“Suit yourself, gorgeous,” a smooth voice responded.
Taggie wiped at her eyes and looked up. She went still at the sight of a man. Man, indeed. He was much older than Taggie, who thought carrying a torch for her older brother’s friend was dangerous.
He smiled at her and lit the cigarette for himself. Taggie realized she was staring at him. She instantly felt frumpy in her borrowed uniform.
“Bas,” called a distant female voice.
Another, whinier, “Bas!”, from a new voice.
“Sounds like you ought to get back to your dates,” Taggie joked. Bas shrugged noncommittally. Oh, Taggie thought, feeling even further out of her depth. She lived in London but didn’t get out much.
“Basil!” Taggie couldn’t tell if this was a third voice. She was too hung up on the word.
“Basil?” Taggie repeated quietly. She laughed. What started as a one-note giggle devolved into a full-bodied, nearly manic laughter. The man, perhaps named after a herb, arched his brow.
She collected herself. “I’m sorry, you must think you’ve stumbled upon a lunatic.” After realizing she had not explained herself, she added, "I'm pretty sure I was just fired over not using basil in a recipe.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Here?”
“Fired might be the wrong word,” she admitted. Why was she admitting things to a stranger? This was why she stayed home, she thought belatedly. “It was… a trial run.”
The man hummed. “If it’s any consolation, the food’s pretty shite anyway.”
“Cause I cooked it tonight,” she groaned.
“No. It’s always pretty shite,” he confirmed. The distant voices were getting louder. He stomped out his cigarette and met Taggie’s eyes. “If you ever find yourself in need of a job, I’ve got a restaurant in Rutshire. Called Bar Sinister.”
Taggie could not gauge how serious he was. It sounded like a throw-away but his eyes were crinkled and his tone was warm. She started to say thank you, but caught herself. People were always laughing at Taggie for being so earnest. “I might be retiring,” Taggie said instead.
It was his turn to laugh. She looked a touch young for retirement. “Keep your chin up,” he offered. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“Bas!!!” a not-so-distant voice called. A pretty blonde popped her head around the corner.
The man winked at Taggie and headed back to the street.
In the night that followed, as Taggie wallowed in her failure and uncertain future, she thought back to her interaction with the man presumably named Basil. Not because he was handsome, or for any reason really to do with him, but for his offhand comment.
Rutshire. Taggie had never been to The Cotswolds. Her parents loved the hustle and bustle of London. Well, her father said he preferred Dublin, but London was all Taggie’d ever known.
When Taggie went home, tail between her legs, Maud didn’t even ask what went wrong. She’d told Taggie she’d never be able to handle a job like that. But Taggie tried to explain herself. Tried to justify that a posh restaurant in Soho was not the sort of place Taggie would thrive. Maud had, of course, asked the question, “Then where would you?”
The alleyway fresh in her head, Taggie supposed, a quaint countryside pub. Aloud, Taggie walked back her justifications. Accepted cooking as a pastime.
Over the next few weeks, she forgot about the man and the interaction altogether. When she thought back to that night, it was the crushing glare of the chef that permeated. The toque on the ground.
In fact, she did not think of the word “Rutshire” for nearly a calendar year.
London. 1986.
When Declan sat the O’Hara family down to tell them they were moving, Maud was fuming. She even threw Taggie into the crossfire with, “What is Taggie meant to do in the middle of nowhere?”
A distant memory resurfaced. A pretty face. An offhand remark Taggie had put no stock in…
I might have a job, she almost said. Bar Serious? Taggie couldn’t remember the name. She remembered its owner's name.
Taggie bit her tongue. Moot point. They weren’t talking about her. Not really. They never were.