The dish completed, she set it on a plate on the table.

There was something almost cavalier about the presentation of Coquilles St. Jacques. The fanlike shell lifted it from cuisine to sculpture. The golden crust was almost unbearably tempting: Just tuck your fork in! it was pleading.

Bringing over a knife and fork, she sat, gazing at the finished article.

Was it going to be good enough?

Her knife drove through the golden crust, through the white sauce and the soft fish, through the duxelles, and pulled away a mouthful. She piled it onto her fork and brought it to her lips, stopping to consider the scent of the fish, the undertone of the mushrooms and vermouth.

    Then she placed it in her mouth.

The béchamel sauce was the first flavor, coating her mouth with a soft, creamy film, followed immediately by the taste of the fish itself as it melted in her mouth. The mushrooms created a counterbalance to the sauce, strikingly tart with their earthy meatiness. And the crust provided an unexpected crunch before a burst of cheese, expanding the taste into a full sensation.

It was magnificent.

A fleeting notion that she should use the scrod flitted through her mind—it was quite a feat to make the tasteless fish so sumptuous. But the thought of downgrading her dish was too much for her.

It had to be the very best.

She lifted a glass of water, making a toast to the Coquilles St. Jacques.

“Here’s to you, my precious Round One winner.”

It was done. Her starter was ready. She would show them all.

Zelda’s Coquilles St. Jacques

(or Scrod St. Jacques)

Serves 4

For the duxelles

1 tablespoon butter or margarine 1 shallot, finely chopped (if not available, use half an onion or leek) 1 cup finely chopped mushrooms 1 garlic clove, crushed 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves, or ? teaspoon dried thyme Salt and pepper

For the fish

4 scallops (if not available, use cod, scrod, or thin whitefish cut into disks) 2 cups milk

1 bay leaf

2 tablespoons white wine

For the béchamel sauce

1 tablespoon butter ? tablespoon flour 1 tablespoon cream (optional) 1 cup breadcrumbs 2 tablespoons grated cheese (preferably Gruyère or similar)

Make the duxelles of mushrooms. Heat the butter or margarine over a medium-high heat, then fry the shallot (or onion or leek) until cooked. Add the mushrooms, garlic, thyme, and salt and pepper, and fry together until browned and soft, around 10 minutes.

      Poach the scallops or fish in the milk, bay leaf, and wine for 2 minutes, then turn and poach for another 2 minutes, until just about cooked. If using fish, you will need less cooking time. Scoop out the fish and the bay leaf, keeping the liquid.

Make the béchamel sauce. Melt the butter, stir in the flour, then slowly add the poaching liquid until the sauce is a good consistency. If you wish, you can add a little cream and stir in well.

Combine the breadcrumbs and grated cheese.

Lay out four scallop shells. First spoon the mushroom duxelles in the bottom, place a scallop on each, and then spoon the béchamel over each scallop to just cover. On top, add the combined breadcrumbs and grated cheese. Put under a hot grill or broiler for a few minutes, until browned and bubbly.

Lady Gwendoline

Breakfast in Fenley Hall was always served in the yellow salon. It was at the back of the great house, where oblongs of morning sunlight traversed the parquet floor entirely at their leisure. The buttery walls, interspersed with white trim, were coated with portraits of unknown and unrelated forebears surrounded by horses and hounds. When Sir Strickland had bought the great house in the thirties—coaxed by Lady Gwendoline on their engagement—it had been his dream to emulate the earl himself. Thus, he had appropriated ancestors that weren’t his, stag heads that he’d never shot, and a library full of well-thumbed books that he’d never once opened.

“I heard the most extraordinary rumor when I was in my London club yesterday. Can you imagine what it was, Lady Gwendoline?” Ever since he was knighted, he referred to his wife as “Lady” Gwendoline. Only, it was said with a hint of irony, as if she were a disappointment to the title that he had bestowed upon her. Consequently, and in an attempt to override the barb of sarcasm, she insisted that everyone call her Lady Gwendoline, an everyday reminder of her status in the world.

She looked up. This was a typical conversation opener for her husband, especially when he had something unpleasant to say. “What was it?” Her appetite vanished.

    He shoveled a forkful of kipper into his mouth, which hovered open to receive it, not unlike a fish itself. “Apparently, you’re entering some kind of cooking contest.”

This was not the first time that her cooking had come up in conversation. Ever since she’d begun the short training that prepared her for cooking demonstrations, he had disapproved of her “meddling in the servants’ business.” Now it had become one of his favorite jeers.

Quickly, she tried to stamp out the flame of his displeasure before it became a blaze. “All the ladies are doing their bit for the war effort, darling.” Seeing his face darken, she lifted her tone. “In any case, it’s just a bit of a lark. It was Ambrose himself who asked me to join the cooking contest.”

A frown creased his brow. “We have the best cook in Kent here at Fenley Hall, and yet it’s you in the contest? And what about your duties to me?” His eyes bulged out a little more as he added venomously, “You’re the wife of an important businessman, Lady Gwendoline, not a middle-class spinster.”

“Of course I’m not a spinster, darling,” she said in her pacifying voice, ignoring the slight—it would only make things worse to draw attention to the barb. “I’ll be on the radio—a BBC presenter. Won’t that be splendid for your business deals?”

“I married you to be my wife.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I do plan to win, you know.” If there was one thing that could bring him around, it was an appeal to his competitiveness.

“You’d better,” he replied, now bored. With his plate cleared, his eyes went to the unfinished dishes on the table: smoked haddock kedgeree, bacon, eggs that were scrambled, poached, and fried. “Have a word with Ambrose. Make sure he helps things along.”

“But I’ll win anyway, with or without Ambrose’s help. My culinary skills are excellent, and—”

He cut her off. “Bring Ambrose along just the same. We’re not the type of people who lose menial cooking contests, are we?”

    It was the one thing they’d had in common: a need for success. In the early days, their love flourished over plans of grandeur. Together they wanted the same triumphs, the same standing, the same material rewards. Together they would reach the heights of society.

Together they would win.

She tried to butter her toast nonchalantly, but her blasted fingers had begun to shake. “Of course, darling—you know what’s best.”

The chair scraped behind him as he stood up, and he dropped his napkin onto the table, where it half missed and tumbled onto the floor. “There’s a good girl. Remind Ambrose that I know the Chairman of the BBC, his employer.” And with that he left.

An invitation to Ambrose was duly sent with the maid. The event was cleverly termed an “Afternoon Tea Reception”—she knew that he’d hesitate if it was just the two of them, but he wouldn’t be able to resist a party. She then sat pondering her options for the first round of the contest.

Her mind sped through the starters that she’d created during her demonstrations. The Ministry of Food was very exacting. Each meal needed to be quick to make, healthy to eat, cheap, and well within the weekly rations of a family of four.

Parsnip fritters were a favorite of hers. The root vegetable sweetened the mashed potato wonderfully. Yet, was it complex enough for a competition? She didn’t want to come across as being less creative than the other cooks, sticking to simple dishes.

What about the Nest Medley? She could use a piping bag to create the mashed potato nests, and once they were baked, she could use strips of steamed carrot and Brussels sprouts to make them look like real nests.

Something using sardines would also work well. Sardine rolls went down frightfully well with her audiences. Tinned sardines contained a quantity of precious oil, which could be poured off to make the pastry. They always came out looking professional: little parcels of golden pastry with a scrumptious, moist filling. They were also very ration-conscious, with the use of tinned fish and its oil. Plus, of course, garden vegetables were frightfully popular with the Ministry of Food. There was a fishiness to the pastry because of the oil, but it was a rations contest, after all. She had to impress using only the ingredients an average housewife could get.