Page 40 of Wild Horses
Tyler had his mojo back. What a buzz to finally feel like himself again.
He had less than a month to prepare for the competition, and every moment counted.
This wasn’t just about creating an extraordinary menu; it was about securing a future for himself and his son, and hopefully leaving behind the shadows of the past.
Paris – with all its promise and potential. The idea had taken root, growing stronger with each passing day. He could see it now: Leo and him walking the cobbled streets, the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the allure of a fresh start palpable in the air.
Of course there was the problem of Leo not wishing to go.
Tyler knew how much his son wanted to stay at Currawong Creek.
He’d found a sense of belonging there, a place where he could grow and heal.
But Tyler consoled himself with the idea of Paris.
What sixteen-year-old wouldn’t enjoy an overseas adventure?
The culture, the food, the endless possibilities.
He envisioned Leo’s face lighting up at the sight of the Champs-élysées, the excitement of exploring a new city.
He had to hold on to that image, and to the hope that this move would be the turning point they both needed.
Leo would come around. He’d have to, for even if Tyler didn’t win, he’d decided to sell Providence and move overseas.
It would be amazing to start off with a cash prize and a prestigious head chef position, but that would only be a bonus.
He gazed out the window of his apartment over his home town of Brisbane.
How much of a wrench would it be to leave?
He’d lived here all his life, but had no family.
An only child who’d grown up without a close-knit collection of uncles, aunties or cousins.
He’d lost his father early, and his mother had died in a care home two years ago from early onset dementia.
She hadn’t even been able to recognise him or Leo at the end.
What about his friends – they were here in Brisbane, weren’t they?
But then he realised that he didn’t have any friends.
He had plenty of acquaintances and colleagues and fans.
But he’d distanced himself from his real friends after Grace died, in the same way he’d distanced himself from his son.
He’d even distanced himself from Grace’s family, which he knew now had been a mistake.
He’d cheated Leo out of the chance to know his maternal grandparents.
Work had been the be-all and end-all of his existence – until Currawong Creek happened.
Christy felt like a friend. He scrolled through his phone to find his favourite picture of her – the one where she’d made a funny face at him.
How he missed her; the way her presence filled a room, her laughter, her warmth.
Tyler closed the curtains. Snap out of it, he told himself. Christy was three hundred kilometres away and already lost to him. He had to get his mind back to the competition. ‘Becoming Top Chef,’ he declared to the silent audience of hanging copper utensils, ‘will only be the beginning.’
To stand out among the other chefs, Tyler needed to blend creativity with precision.
He immersed himself in culinary literature, devouring recipes and articles on the latest trends in haute cuisine.
He stayed up late at night surrounded by stacks of cookbooks, scribbling notes and sketches of potential dishes.
He researched techniques and ingredients that were currently in vogue.
Molecular gastronomy, for example, intrigued him with its scientific approach to cooking, allowing for innovative textures and presentations.
Tyler took time off from Providence to test recipes at home.
Nobody was to get a hint of the direction he was taking.
One afternoon he was experimenting with making a porcini foam, taking his inspiration from Blumenthal.
The technique involved combining natural flavours with neutrally flavoured stabilising agents such as agar and lecithin.
The mixture was then either whipped with a hand-held frother or extruded through a whipped cream canister equipped with nitrous oxide cartridges.
The apartment was quiet, the refrigerator’s hum the only sound.
He worked methodically, each step a mix of muscle memory and intuition.
‘Patience, passion, perfection,’ he muttered to himself, a mantra that was becoming as much a part of him as his own heartbeat.
It had been so long since he’d felt this kind of enthusiasm for his craft, and it thrilled him.
He was ready for the competition; he could almost taste victory on the tip of his tongue.
To make the foam he first cooked a flavourful porcini broth, as delicately spiced as anything he’d ever made.
This was his third attempt, and on tasting it Tyler smiled.
Perfection at last. Then he reduced the broth down to its purest, richest essence, added lecithin and a little milk, then used the frother.
Success! A fluffy cloud of shining amber bubbles that tasted more intensely of porcini than porcini itself.
Pure bliss to the tastebuds. But was the foam perhaps a bit flat?
He eyed it critically, feeling sure that on his next try he could coax more air into it.
Tyler was imagining an accompanying starter of truffle consommé with perhaps an artichoke ravioli when the phone rang. He answered it almost absent-mindedly.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Hunter.’
Tyler’s gut tightened and he almost dropped his spoon. He wiped his hands on a towel and tried to gather his thoughts.
‘Mr Ward, I’m asking for your help.’
‘What with?’
‘Enzo Fontana. How much did you know about his business dealings?’
Tyler swallowed hard, his grip on the phone tightening. ‘Not much. Enzo was a very private person.’
‘How stupid do you think I am?’ Hunter’s tone was low, but for Tyler it felt piercing. ‘I know you’re holding back.’
Tyler leaned against the counter, his free hand rubbing his temple. The memory of that anonymous phone call flashed through Tyler’s mind – the heavy breathing, the unspoken menace. It still rattled him.
When he finally spoke his voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I can’t get involved.’
‘Dammit, Ward. You are involved, whether you like it or not!’ Hunter sighed. ‘If there’s anything – anything at all – that you can tell us, it could make a big difference. We’re struggling to piece this together, and you’re a key part of the puzzle.’
Tyler closed his eyes and toyed with the idea of mentioning the heavy breather, but caution prevented him. He was loath to draw more attention to himself or his son. ‘I’m sorry not to be of more help, Detective Sergeant.’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. ‘Is someone threatening you?’
‘No.’
‘Very well, have it your way. But we won’t give up, and I don’t believe that you really want us to,’ said Hunter, his tone loaded with disappointment. ‘We’ll keep digging until we find the truth. And when we do, I hope you’ll be on the right side of it.’
Tyler ended the call and slumped onto a stool, aware of his own heartbeat. After ten minutes or so, he forced himself to focus. He couldn’t afford distractions. He had to concentrate on what was important – winning the competition. Dealing with everything else would have to wait.