Tampered by Ross Pennie Read Free Book Online

with Nick, chef to chef. It took some time for the man to loosen up, but eventually they exchanged details of their culinary training. Zol outlined his studies in Stratford, Ontario, before shifting gears and heading to medical school a decade ago; Nick talked about earning his ticket at Toronto’s George Brown College. They traded stories of chefs who roared at their staff like boot-camp sergeants.
    As Nick relaxed he pushed up his sleeves. He rubbed at an ugly patch of skin near his right elbow. Was it eczema? Psoriasis? Impetigo? The crusty lesion was perched at the crest of the tattooed waterfall Zol could see cascading down Nick’s forearm.
    â€œWhat are the Oliveiras like to work for?” Zol asked, finding it difficult not to gawk at Nick’s forearm.
    Nick caught himself scratching and quickly rolled down his sleeves. “Okay, I guess. But you know the Portuguese.”
    â€œSorry?”
    Nick shrugged and shifted his feet.
    Zol raised his eyebrows and fixed Nick with his gaze.
    â€œSkinflints,” Nick said finally. “Never met a penny they couldn’t squeeze into a dollar’s worth of supplies.”
    â€œHow does that affect you?”
    â€œFor one thing, they never let me do none of the shopping.”
    Zol understood that grumble. A good chef liked to choose his own quality ingredients, the cornerstone of a good meal.
    A hint of pink flushed Nick’s granite jaw. “Like,” he continued, “I give Gus a shopping list and all, but he never buys me the best stuff. He snaps up the leftover baked goods and produce at closing time, when the store is practically giving them away.”
    â€œI see you’ve got a lot of no-name products.”
    â€œNothing wrong with no-name. It’s the wilted veggies I hate. Okay for soups and purées. But a nice Sunday dinner? Forget it.”
    Puréed meals would be the ultimate drag for a cook. No art in them, and little flavour. But that’s all the Mountain Wing patients would be able to handle without teeth. And most of them had forgotten how to swallow. “I guess you whiz a lot of stuff in the blender in a place like this,” Zol said.
    Nick gave a rueful smile at being understood by a colleague. “I’ll say.”
    Natasha pulled a large plastic bag from the bottom of a chest freezer. She grunted at the effort of dislodging it. Frosty condensation obscured the bag’s contents, but Zol could just make out what appeared to be a jumble of vegetables — corn, celery, broccoli, and a couple of beets.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Natasha asked. “This stuff should be labelled and dated.”
    â€œHey —” Nick chuckled “— we use everything up so fast we don’t waste time with dating.”
    â€œBut what is it?” said Zol. “At least the bag should be labelled.”
    Nick shrugged. “
I
can tell they’re veggies.”
    â€œAll thrown together?” said Natasha. She lifted out another bag. “And what about these?”
    â€œBread and baked goods. Gus puts everything in the freezer after his shopping trips.”
    Natasha replaced the heavy bags and shut the freezer. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter if the vegetables are all mixed up if you’re going to zap them in the blender anyway.”
    Zol fingered the loonie in his pocket as he watched Nick taste the soup the Asian man with the pockmarked cheeks had been stirring on the stove. Even if the Oliveiras did their shopping at the end of the day, and at down-market places like Food-Club and Price-Slashers, it wouldn’t cause food poisoning. But it bothered him to see good food thrown carelessly together like that. Even if it didn’t violate any regulations, it seemed a sacrilege. The quality of the meals at places like this was a constant preoccupation among the residents. And why not? They had a right to their money’s worth.
    â€œWhat about the meals in the