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DELIRIOUS DELIGHTS RESTAURANT & PUB
TADFIELD, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 2021
“Crowley!”
My head snapped up from the sauce I was babysitting on the back of the stove as Ana’s outraged voice reached my ears.
“What the fuck is wrong with the chicken? Did you even taste it before you sent it out to the diners today?”
I rolled my eyes as I turned down the heat and motioned for my sous chef Newt to take over. “Where’s the fire, Ana?” I demanded as I stepped up to the pass to see my baby sister glaring back at me, holding out a plate of food. “Oh no, no, no. Don’t tell me someone sent food back.”
“Hell yes, he sent it back! It tastes like shit!” Ana slammed the plate down on the metal counter, her dark eyes flashing indignantly. “Zira wants to know-”
I jabbed a finger at her. “I don’t want to hear what your bestie had to say! The three of us went to primary school together for Heaven’s sake! He’s a bookseller, not a food critic.”
Aziraphale Fell.
In school, he had answered to the nickname Zira, although I knew he hadn’t particularly cared for the moniker. I alone called him Aziraphale, and he returned the favor by calling me Crowley, after I told him that I detested my first name. We had bonded over books and shitty parents (my mum ran off with her secretary shortly after Ana was born and Aziraphale’s dad ghosted when his mum got sick). Ana had been our faithful tagalong and sidekick. The two of them remained thick as thieves after all these years, but we had drifted apart the summer my Uncle Sandy came and took me away to work in his restaurant in Paris.
“He’s a regular customer,” Ana sniffed loudly, ignoring my comments about Aziraphale’s profession. “We’re trying to get back in the black after COVID, and we can’t afford to alienate anyone. Especially not someone as generous as Zira.”
He was also the landlord of Delirious Delights, and the rent we paid annually was a deal that I’d never find anywhere else.
Definitely not in London or Paris.
I made a slashing motion with my hand. “I refuse to cater to that pompous bastard! Have you seen the notes he leaves on his receipts? ‘Could use a pinch more lemon pepper, dear boy’ or ‘Next time, I suggest using smoked paprika’. I mean, come on, Ana!”
Her lips twitched in amusement. “He’s just trying to be helpful, Crowley.”
“I don’t need his help to cook my food.”
“Then why have you kept his receipts?”
“Ngk---”
“And I know for a fact that you have taken a few of his suggestions.” Ana was looking smug now and I couldn’t have that.
“Er, well, I was going to tweak those recipes anyway.”
“Sure you were. But can we get back to today’s problem? This is our signature dish, and it tastes ---”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” I grabbed a fork and speared a piece, popping it into my mouth, chewing vigorously, only to spit the bite out once the flavors hit my taste buds. “What the hell – Newt! NEWT!”
My sous chef appeared at my side, his bespectacled face pale and anxious. “What’s wrong, boss?”
“Taste this.” I held out a piece of chicken to him.
Newt took the offering without comment, chewing and humming. “That’s – well, that’s a bit different, isn’t it?”
“Different?” I bellowed. “It’s bloody revolting! What did you do?”
“Me?” Newt blanched further.
“Yes, you! You mixed up the marinade last night and baked off the chicken this morning before we opened.”
Newt nodded furiously. “I did, and I followed the recipe just as written – no substitutions or modifications.”
“Hmm, nothing new?” I urged.
“No, I – wait. I opened a new jar of fines herbes last night. I noticed the color was ---”
I grabbed his arm. “Show me.”
I followed Newt to the pantry, and he pulled down the giant jar of spices. I ripped it out of his hands, ignoring Ana’s protest, and opened the lid, sniffing the contents. “Fuck!” I swore. “They’ve changed the blend.”
“Who did – the company?” Ana demanded. “They can do that?”
I snorted. “They can do anything they bloody like.”
“Can we get the original back?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Ana, it’s more than likely the original blend has been discontinued by the manufacturer.”
She swore under her breath, but then looked at me with a hopeful expression, the same way she used to when we were kids. The hero worship expression of a kid sister to a big brother. “Okay. Let’s make our own then. Surely you know how to do that, right?”
I spoke through gritted teeth, barely holding my temper in check. “Of course I know how! But the thing with spice blends is that not all the herbs are included on the ingredient list, to say nothing of the quantities. It will take an enormous amount of guesswork, along with an extreme amount of alcohol, to offset the effort to recreate the original recipe.”
She bit her lip, and I got a sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to like whatever she said next. “Perhaps we could ask for some help. I bet Zira —”
“No.”
“Crowley.”
“Ana.”
Newt looked first at me and then my sister in confusion. “I’m sorry, boss, but does Ana know of someone who could help us recreate the fines herbes blend?”
“Yes!”
“No!” I shook my head. “Out of the question.”
“Crowley. Zira’s palate is amazing – and definitely on par with yours, no matter what he does for a living,” Ana pouted, putting her hand on my arm. “Do you have a better idea? One single better idea?”
I didn’t. Damn it.
I set my mouth in a grim line and marched out to the dining room, which at this hour of the early afternoon was only half full of patrons. Aziraphale’s regular table was in the corner by the south front window, allowing for lots of natural light even on the cloudiest of days. The man always had a book with him – that much hadn’t changed from boyhood. Neither had his appearance of piercing blue eyes and white-blond curly hair.
Every time I laid eyes on the man, I was reminded of angels. Not just because of his soft, gentle appearance and his name – though both of those would have been reason enough. No, it was because when his father, Lucius, vanished into the night after his mum was diagnosed with Lupus, I knew he never said a bad word about his father to anyone but me. And because when his mum was feeling bad, Aziraphale stayed home from school to be with her, feigning a tummy ache, even though his Aunt Tracy had come down from London to stay with them and there was no need for him to miss school.
I felt my palms begin to itch and my stomach flipped over as I thought about one day closing the restaurant and cooking a private meal for Aziraphale. I would love to be able to wait on him, give him some special time and attention for all that he had done for his mum over the years … but I hastily pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time to think about such things. I needed to focus on fixing today’s problem, not indulging in a fantasy that might never happen. Just because the man had been leaving me culinary notes on receipts for months didn’t mean he was flirting with me and angling for a date … did it?
“Chef Crowley.”
Aziraphale’s greeting brought me out of my private musing as I came to stop beside his table. “I wanted to apologize personally for the herbed chicken. I’m having cottage pie prepared for you right now, on the house.”
“That’s not – I didn’t mean –” Aziraphale cleared his throat, and his eyes dropped to the table. “Won’t you join me for a minute, please?”
I grunted and pulled out the other chair, flopping carelessly into it. With the grand re-opening after the pandemic and the hiring of Newt, I hadn’t had much opportunity to actually sit down and talk with my customers, let alone Aziraphale. I could probably count on one hand the number of times we’d spoken face-to-face since I’d returned home.
I always meant to go and see Aziraphale, to catch up and renew our childhood friendship, but I didn’t. I threw myself into the hard work of opening a restaurant and he was busy at his bookshop or caring for his mother.
Then COVID hit and everything shut down. Ana and I managed to keep things going with a takeaway business and in the middle of the lockdown I heard that his mum, Evelyn, died.
Ana sent flowers and a beautiful sympathy card that I signed.
But I didn’t know what to write – what to say. And now here we were, months later, and I still hadn’t said anything.
Because I didn’t know how to start the conversation.
Aziraphale’s gaze rested thoughtfully on me from the other side of the table. “It wasn’t easy – it hurt me to send the chicken back, but it really was—”
I laughed then, the tension breaking at last. “It’s alright, Aziraphale. It should never have left the kitchen in the first place. Belongs in the rubbish bin tasting like that.”
“Can I ask what happened?”
“Company changed the spice blend.” I shrugged.
“Thought it might be something like that.” Aziraphale nodded as he sipped his tea. “Can you still get the original blend?”
“I doubt it. No, I’ll have to make my own now.”
“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale studied the tea in his cup. “Would you – I mean, you’re more than capable, but if you’d like some help—”
“You’re offering?”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeated sarcastically, leaning my elbows on the table. “Look, I’m the trained chef and you’re just—”
“What, a bookseller? A bookbinder? A pompous bastard with refined tastes?” Aziraphale ticked the points off primly on his fingers. “I do happen to know good food when I taste it. And your food is the best I’ve ever tasted.”
My mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.
“I see I’ve rendered you speechless for once.”
“S’just – you always seem to have a lot to say about how the food could be improved.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale leaned forward, his blue eyes wide and sincere. “Your food is exquisite. My notes were merely meant to – well, they finally got you out of the kitchen and talking to me, didn’t they?”
I threw my head back and laughed. “You really are a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”
“Just a bit.” Aziraphale wiggled in his chair. “So, do we have an agreement? I’ll be your taster and help you develop your own house spice blend. And in return---”
“Yes?” I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “What will you get out of this little arrangement?”
Aziraphale sat back and took another sip of tea, his smile full of smug satisfaction. “Isn’t that obvious? More of your fine cuisine.”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
I took the herbed chicken off the menu, citing ingredient shortage and promising our customers that it would be back as soon as possible.
I also closed the restaurant for the following day.
Aziraphale met Newt and I in the kitchen after hours, demanding to see the new spice blend right away. Without a word, I handed him the jar and watched as he unscrewed the lid and took a cautious sniff.
“It doesn’t even smell the same,” he pronounced firmly. “Who made the marinade?”
Newt’s hand shot into the air. “I did, Mr. Fell.”
“Didn’t you notice the aroma, dear boy? Or the color variation?”
Newt nodded furiously. “I did notice that the color was lighter and that the smell was – different. But I,” he gulped and looked at me, his eyes huge behind his thick eyeglasses.
I cut in. “Newt’s job is to make the marinade and bake the chicken, not inspect the quality of the ingredients.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open and he gaped at me for a full minute before he spoke again. “The boy has eyes, ears, and a nose of his own! He knew something was off with the spice blend. He should have told you – or at the very least he should have tasted it at some point during the process. And you should have done the same.”
My jaw tensed. I hadn’t been verbally flogged like this since culinary school. But back then it had been from qualified chefs and instructors, not my childhood friend who had delusions of being a—
“I’ve overstepped.” Aziraphale was blushing and backing down, his eyes flitting around the kitchen, not meeting my thunderous expression. “I just – as your landlord and a valued customer, I wanted to help save your signature dish. But I’m afraid I’ve gone about things the wrong way, come on too strongly. I’ll understand if you don’t want my help.”
The back door banged open and Ana barged inside. “Sorry I’m late – wait, what’s going on?” She looked between the three of us. “You could cut the tension in here with a bread knife. Crowley, I told you to be nice.”
“I’m never nice, Ana, you know that.”
Newt cleared his throat. “I don’t know that this is going to work out – I mean, between these two.” He jerked a thumb back and forth between me and Aziraphale. “And that’s okay. The boss and I can figure out the spice blend—”
“Really?” Ana’s voice was skeptical. “You think you don’t need Zira’s help? Well, I disagree.” She crossed her arms. “Zira, could you please tell these two idiots what you told me earlier, about the new spice blend for the herbed chicken – you know, before you threw it in my face?”
“My dear girl, I did not throw my plate in your face,” Aziraphale protested, his eyes finally landing back on my face. “That is a most grievous exaggeration.”
“It’s okay, Aziraphale, I know you would never throw your food like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. That’s much more Ana’s speed--”
“Oi!” Ana bellowed and leaned forward to punch me in the arm.
Aziraphale giggled as he watched our antics, and something inside of me warmed. I hadn’t heard that carefree sound in years. I remembered how much I loved hearing him laugh and how often I had done ridiculous things to get him to make that sound. But the sound had never, ever caused my own heart to swell with an emotion I refused to name.
Newt was staring at Aziraphale, his eyes wide. “Do you know what spices we need for the marinade, Mr. Fell?”
Aziraphale held up his hand and began to tick spices off on his fingers. “Basil to start with – the company replaced this base spice with parsley for reasons known only to them.” He paused to shudder. “It changed the entire flavor profile.”
“From basil to parsley?” Newt gasped as he grabbed the spice jar and sniffed. “There’s almost no aroma now—” He stuck a finger in, pinched some of the blend and brought it to his lips, tasting the herbs. “Yuck!”
“Indeed.” Aziraphale nodded. “Perhaps some palates will appreciate the new fines herbes blend but –”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, not bloody likely. All right. Basil. What’s next?”
“Do you have any of the original recipe chicken leftover?”
Ana nodded. “I have some in the fridge that I was saving for our lunches – it’s the original recipe.”
“Wonderful!” Aziraphale clapped his hands. “Let’s all taste some and see what herbs we can pick out.”
The basil was easy to identify.
As were the poultry seasoning and the thyme.
“There’s something else there,” I muttered.
“Lemon pepper?” Newt suggested.
Ana rolled her eyes. “That’s written down in the main recipe, Mr. Pulsifier.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry,” Aziraphale was quick to reassure my sous chef. “The lemon pepper is there, it’s subtle, and I’m happy that you can taste it. This last spice is very subtle as well – it’s, hmm, used sparingly just to round things out – maybe – rosemary – no, --” He speared another piece and chewed thoughtfully. “Sage? No. Oh! I have it, oregano!” Aziraphale announced triumphantly, his fists pumping the air.
My eyebrows shot up. “Really? Basil and oregano? This isn’t an Italian herb blend we’re trying to make here—”
“Trust me.” He nodded confidently. “Just a pinch, my dear, to round out the flavor.” He took my hand and squeezed it gently and I felt like my whole body was on fire from that contact alone.
“I – ah, sure.” I mumbled, refusing to meet Ana’s smug gaze. “Guess we can give it a shot.”
It took a bit of trial and error to get the quantities just right. Our first batch of chicken had WAY too much poultry seasoning. And the second had too much basil. Batches three, four, and five all had something off with the thyme: too much, too little, and in the last batch it was forgotten entirely.
When batch six went into the oven, Ana suggested burning some sage for luck and when I said it couldn’t hurt, Newt looked at us like we’d both lost our minds.
“It’s five o’clock in the morning, Newt, and we’ve been up all night baking chicken,” I pointed out. “I think we’re all a bit mad by now.”
Aziraphale giggled into his tea, took a sip, and then set his cup off to the side. “May I ask a question?”
Ana looked up from studying the marinade recipe and smiled at the bookseller. “Go ahead, Zira. You can ask us anything you like.”
“Why ‘delirious delights’?”
I grinned at Ana. “You haven’t told him this story yet?” I turned back to Aziraphale. “It was meant to be ‘delicious’ – the signage company made a mistake.”
Aziraphale blinked once, twice. “Good Lord. Really?”
Ana laughed. “Really. The name of the restaurant was supposed to be ‘Delicious Delights’. But the guy was hungover and the word became ‘delirious’ instead. Crowley and I got such a kick out of it that we decided to let it stand.”
“Hmm, I’m not sure the whole village shares your sense of humor, my dears.”
“Yeah well, who cares as long as they like the food?” I demanded.
“You don’t think they might be turned off by the word delirious?” Aziraphale inquired.
I snorted. “Who? Stuck-up toffs like RP Tyler?”
Ana elbowed me in the ribs and I bit my tongue, grinning wolfishly.
“Just a thought. You might get more business if you change the name to delicious –”
“Absolutely not!” I bellowed. “The name stands.”
An hour later, Ana and Newt were leaning against the table, their heads in their hands, eyes closed, when I pulled the sixth batch of chicken from the oven.
“We’ll let that cool for a few minutes and then have a taste.”
“Mmm, smells good.”
I snorted. “All the batches have smelled good – can’t go by that.”
“I suppose not.”
“So –” I drawled. “How did you develop your palate?”
“You mean – living in such a small backwater village and never travelling and seeing the world?”
“I didn’t say that….”
“It’s alright, Crowley.” Aziraphale reached out and touched my hand again, just a brief touch before letting go. “Even though you claim you’re not a nice person, I do know you’re not a mean-spirited one.”
I tried hard to ignore the tingle that zipped up my arm from the contact. We’d touched each other all the time as kids and it had never affected me this way. Why was I feeling like this now? And why did I suddenly want to touch him more?
I grunted. “So – your palate?” I prompted, steering the conversation back to what I wanted to know.
Aziraphale smiled, his eyes glazing over as he stared over my shoulder, and I knew he was remembering something from our childhood. “Do you remember my Aunt Tracy?”
“Uh, yeah, she and your Uncle Shaddy came to live with you after your dad left.”
He nodded. “She took over the cooking and cleaning whenever my mom was too sick.”
I frowned. “Okay, but what does that have to do with—”
“I’m getting there. Aunt Tracy was a terrible cook, though she did her very best. One day when I was in the garden, mum didn’t know I was out there, I overheard her and Tracy talking about an accident that Tracy had as a little girl. An accident that left her without her sense of smell.”
“Shit!” I swore, and the exclamation was loud enough to startle Ana awake.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Ana, everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.” She put her head back on the tabletop without complaint, her breathing evening out again.
“She couldn’t smell at all?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
Aziraphale shook his head. “Her sense of taste was also affected.”
“It would be.” I nodded. “I can’t even – it’s my worst nightmare. I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I couldn’t be a chef without my sense of smell and taste.”
He lifted his hand and for a moment I thought he was going to touch me again, but he didn’t. He merely kept his eyes locked on mine. “That’s where – that’s how I developed my palate. I became Aunt Tracy’s taster and helper in the kitchen. I described all the smells to her and tasted everything as it was cooking and nothing left the kitchen before I made sure it was properly seasoned.”
“Where’s your aunt now?”
A shadow crossed Aziraphale’s face. “Uncle Shaddy had a stroke a year before COVID hit and Aunt Tracy moved back to London, to put him in a care facility. He passed away last year."
This time I reached out and took his hand, lacing our fingers together. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I should have tried harder, gotten in touch with you as soon as I got back home. I didn’t know what to say or – ngk.”
“We both had responsibilities.” He sniffled and squared his shoulders. “Goodness, I didn’t mean to bring the mood down. Must be a side effect of staying up all night. Do you think the chicken has cooled enough for us to try?” He released my hand and got up to check.
Newt stirred and yawned. “Did someone say chicken?”
I grimaced. “You can’t still be hungry for chicken after all we’ve tried tonight.”
Newt shrugged. “You need tasters, right?”
“That we do, dear boy.” Aziraphale nodded as he picked up a breast and put it on the cutting board. “Ana? Are you with us?”
“Hmm? Oh, is it morning?” Ana sat up and stretched. “Ugh, more chicken?”
I laughed out loud at the face she made. “Fingers crossed it’s the last.”
“Well, it’s the last for me either way,” Ana declared. “I want coffee and a croissant for breakfast, not herbed chicken.”
“I think that’s a reasonable request.” Aziraphale popped a piece of chicken in his mouth and chewed slowly. His eyes widened and a slow smile spread across his face.
“Well?” I demanded. “How is it?”
“Why don’t you taste it for yourselves and tell me.”
Ana and Newt grabbed their own pieces and I watched their faces, not daring to breathe as they chewed.
“Tastes like our chicken,” Newt declared.
“You did it!” Ana laughed as she danced up and down. “You really did it!”
I couldn’t wait any longer.
I grabbed a piece and shoved it in my mouth, letting the flavors burst across my tongue. First the basil, followed by the rounded blends of the other spices: tangy, herbed, and perfect.
I felt the grin stretch across my face, as I reached out and swung an arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. I felt another shiver of that wonderful new feeling I had yet to define go down my spine. “Well, our friend here said to trust him.”
Aziraphale beamed. “And I’m so glad you did.”