Chapter 15: Lemon Meringue Cake
Around the time Elizabeth had grown accustomed to her work at the hotel and become close enough to Summer to confide in her, a new routine drew her into the kitchen.
“Looks like some young ladies have come to visit the kitchen,” said Chef Budino with a smile, offering her a small piece of cake.
He was fond of Elizabeth, treating her almost like a daughter.
Even when she had worked in the laundry, it had been Elizabeth who quietly washed and neatly pressed his clothes without complaint. In return, he often gave her leftover food. Unlike the other maids who frowned at his generosity, Elizabeth would always thank him and say the food was delicious, which pleased him all the more.
“Here, take it,” he said.
Moreover, as Summer began dating the kitchen assistant Martin, Elizabeth naturally found herself acting as their cover, moving back and forth through the kitchen and growing closer to Chef Budino.
“What’s this cake for?” she asked.
“It’s a sample for the garden party. I wasn’t sure which one to choose, so I was waiting to ask you.”
Elizabeth took a light bite of the cake with her fork.
“Which one tastes better, Elizabeth?”
“Well, it’s hard to choose… but I’d go with the lemon meringue cake.”
“Good. That’s what I was leaning toward as well.”
Chef Budino winked, making Summer huff in annoyance.
“Why are you always so nice to Elizabeth, Chef? It’s unfair to the rest of us,” Summer complained.
“Think about it—while you’re joking around with Martin, Elizabeth is helping me,” he said, glancing at the bustling kitchen. Judging by the chaotic state, it seemed unlikely that Martin would be able to go on a proper date with Summer anytime soon.
“This one will require a lot of attention. The wounded veterans are invited to Miss Cecile Hobert’s party. They’re respectable people. Though the war seems to have been quite brutal,” he explained.
“I thought Summer said it would be a lighthearted party… was I wrong? Are things really that bad?” Elizabeth asked, concerned. The chef spoke at length, trying to reassure her.
“Elizabeth, if it’s the daughter of Prime Minister Hobert, she should be patriotic, right? And with so many injured soldiers around, such an event is precisely what’s necessary.”
Elizabeth took another bite of her lemon meringue cake.
“Will Sir Belmore’s and Cecile Hobert’s wedding also be held at the hotel?”
“Unless Sir Belmore buys a castle, yes. That family isn’t exactly of notable nobility,” he said bluntly.
Elizabeth was a little surprised at his frankness.
“I thought you liked Sir Belmore,” she said.
“I have my opinions. We’re not slaves,” he replied.
Despite his easygoing smile and casual tone, Chef Budino was quite sharp in his critiques.
“Have you met Sir Belmore personally?” Elizabeth asked.
“He’s been a regular at my restaurant since he was little,” the chef replied. He had worked at the finest restaurant in Londinium. Though unlucky in business and eventually bankrupt, his culinary skills were unmatched.
“From a young age, he carried himself like no other gentleman and was quite handsome,” he added.
“I see, so you do like him,” Elizabeth said, noting the wistful expression on his face.
“He saved me when I was in debt, but he’s the kind of man who would throw me out in an instant if I made a mistake,” Budino said seriously.
“Then the young lady marrying Sir Belmore must be in a pitiable position,” Elizabeth commented.
The chef let out a short laugh.
“The poorest soul in Londinium worrying about Cecile Hobert,” he muttered, kneading dough with a serious look.
“Elizabeth, people tend to stick together. It makes sense for Cecile Hobert to worry about you, but you worrying about her is just absurd.”
He frowned and continued.
“Summer is wiser. Even though that freckled Martin is clearly flirting with her…”
As Budino grumbled about Summer, Elizabeth quickly changed the topic.
“You’re being harsh, Chef. By the way, will it rain tomorrow? The sky looks cloudy.”
“It’ll clear up. My left shoulder is aching. If it rains hard today, there will be a rainbow on the day of the party,” he said.
“That’s a relief. Seeing a rainbow makes my heart race—it feels like something good will happen,” Elizabeth said.
The chef smiled, agreeing.
“Exactly. A cleared sky means my shoulder won’t hurt either.”
As predicted, a heavy rain fell that night, rattling the hotel’s doors throughout the night. Elizabeth woke briefly to check on Summer’s bed—it was empty, without any sign that she had slept—but too sleepy to investigate further, she fell back asleep.
The next day began as usual, with preparations for the party.
“Elizabeth!”
As she checked for stains on the neatly rolled carpets, someone poked her shoulder.
“Yes?”
There were gentler ways to get her attention, but the impudence toward Elizabeth rarely abated.
“The chef’s in a frenzy. He’s grabbing Summer like she’s a mouse, and she’s just crying. You need to go.”
Elizabeth quickly got up and rushed to the kitchen, only to be stunned.
It was natural for the kitchen to be messy on party day, but this was unlike anything she had seen before.
“What on earth…”
Rainwater had poured in through an open window near the prep counter, pooling on the floor.
Worse, cakes were left on the counter, now soaked.
“Who the hell left the window open?!”
Martin and Summer were pale, pressed against the wall, while the chef waved a rolling pin like a club in a panic.
“The party’s this afternoon!”
Elizabeth stepped forward toward the terrified Summer.
“Chef… please calm down for a moment.”
“Calm down? Do I look like I can calm down? That blasted Belmore is going to hang me at the hotel entrance!”
He shoved the waterlogged, collapsed cakes in front of her.
“Do you expect me to stay calm seeing this?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. The cakes were in a miserable state, but she had to speak up.
“Let’s buy some desserts from Madame Clément’s shop to cover part of it,” she suggested, glancing at Summer. Summer nodded.
“Clément? She’d boast endlessly if she knew about this,” Budino muttered.
“Ordering from Madame Clément’s shop won’t tarnish your reputation. Failing to handle this situation would be the real flaw,” Elizabeth replied.
The chef scratched his cheek, pacing.
“That’s not enough! How much dessert do nobles eat?!”
“We can make the rest from now,” Elizabeth said calmly.
His voice grew louder again.
“There aren’t enough ingredients! Do you think cake can be made that quickly?!”
“But we have chocolate,” she said.
“Chocolate? And what am I supposed to do with that? There’s not enough chocolate to make all the cakes at once!”
“It’s not cake, but cookies would be sufficient. I used to bake cookies at the convent. They have a fragrant buttery aroma…”
But her words failed to calm him.
“You want me to serve those to the nobles? They’d consider them peasant food!”
Budino raged again. Summer opened her mouth to protest the harsh words but didn’t have a chance.
“Chef, you said wounded soldiers from the war will attend, right?”
“So?”
“If we make medal-shaped cookies, it will be meaningful.”
“Medal-shaped?”
For the first time, the chef lowered the rolling pin he had been waving around.
“I saw the Queen awarding medals. It was even in the newspaper. Making cookies modeled after them will make them special and won’t seem rushed.”
Elizabeth explained patiently. Budino didn’t reply but instead tossed her his apron gruffly.
“Since it’s your idea, you’re responsible for helping with it.”
Elizabeth nodded brightly.
“And you! Off to Madame Clément’s shop, now!”
At his shout, Martin scurried out the door.
Elizabeth sketched the medal she had seen in the newspaper.
“The medal looks like this. It’s an octagonal star on the outside, with a circle in the center.”
“The Thistle Medal,” Budino said, scratching his nose as he commented knowingly.
“The outside is blue, and the center is filled with red jewels. We can represent that with colored icing,” she said.
“Wow, how did you know the medal’s colors?”
“I went to war myself when I was young. I just don’t want to remember it,” he replied.
Finally at peace, Budino spoke softly to Elizabeth as she held a measuring cup.
“You’re a strange girl.”
Elizabeth frowned mid-sprinkle of almond flour.
“You say that to me too, Chef,” she replied.
“Who else would say such a thing? Don’t meet anyone like that,” he muttered. It seemed he preferred criticizing someone else over expressing gratitude.
“You just said it, though,” Elizabeth protested, wide-eyed.
“That was praise,” he said.
“Why is that praise?”
But he didn’t explain further.
“A young lady like you should meet men who call you lovely or pretty. If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let him near you,” he said, pounding the dough. Suddenly he shouted in a strained voice.
“You! Do I need to watch the cookies burn?”
Startled, Elizabeth ran to the oven. The fragrant buttery aroma greeted her.
“Chef! They’re baked perfectly! Look at these!”
“I don’t need to see,” he sniffed.
“May I take some cookies with me?” she asked.
Finally, the chef smiled.
“Take some with milk before bed. You’re too thin. You need to be strong to endure hard work.”
