Ausgekocht

Neid und Mord in der Küche: Ihre Ermittlungen führen Mira Valensky diesmal in die Welt der Gastronomiekritiker und Spitzenköche.

Für Mira Valensky, Lifestyle-Journalistin des „Magazin“, wird der Traum vieler Hobbyköchinnen wahr. Sie darf in einem Restaurant mitkochen. Es gilt aufzuklären, was der neuen Wirtin Billy Winter zu schaffen macht: Salz und Zucker wurden vermischt, durch das Fenster fliegt eine Melone, 40 Bürgermeister erleiden eine Pilzvergiftung, der tschechische Koch verschwindet spurlos.
Im Restaurantalltag erlebt Mira, wie wichtig „mise en place“, die Vorbereitung, ist. Auch die Anschläge scheinen genau geplant. Hochdruck in der Küche, Billy Winter zittert, dass das Lokal im nächsten „Fine Food“-Führer seinen Stern verliert.

Das Küchenmesser in der Brust des Herausgebers gehört ihr. Feinde allerdings hatte er genug. Nun schaltet sich auch Vesna, Miras Putzfrau und Freundin in allen Lebenslagen, ein.
Beim Shooting-Star Daniel Capriati entdeckt man salmonellenverseuchte Hühner. Ist er ein Blender, wie der alkoholkranke Starkoch Demetz meint? Aber der kann auch Billy, seine ehemalige Sous-Chefin, nicht leiden. Billy und Daniel hingegen mögen einander und Mira ist etwas eifersüchtig.
Das tritt in den Hintergrund, als sie in der Faschiermaschine zwei Finger einer menschlichen Hand findet. Sie gehören zum Fernsehkoch der Nation und Schwarm aller Schwiegermütter. Ist hier jemand dabei, die gesamte Küchenszene auszurotten?

Hardcover mit Schutzumschlag, 262 S., 13,5 x 21 cm ISBN 3-85256-251-1
€ [D/A] 19,50/€ [I] 18,50/sFr 33,50

Pressestimmen:

„Es sind in der Tat schon viele gute Kochkrimis geschrieben worden. Aber es wird nach Eva Rossmanns fünftem Opus verdammt hart sein, jemals wieder einen, geschweige denn einen besseren zu schreiben.“ Profil

English Version:

„Ausgekocht“, the title of my fifth mystery novel, has more than one meaning in German: if a cook has prepared his last dish, because he’s found with a knife in his chest, he certainly has “ausgekocht”. If somebody is going to kill one famous chef after the other, he is supposed to be “ausgekocht” – something between very clever and hard-boiled…

Mira Valensky, the protagonist in my mystery novels, makes a living as a journalist reporting so called society-events for the “magazine”. But her real love is cooking. So there’s a dream coming true when she is invited to cook in a restaurants kitchen. The reason for this invitation are some mysterious incidents who bother young chef Billy Winter: salt and sugar are mixed up, a deadly big melon is thrown through the window, 40 local mayors suffer on poisonous mushrooms. And the second cook vanishes without leaving any traces behind.

In daily kitchen-work Mira experiences the importance of “mise en place”, the preparation. But also the assaults seem to be prepared very well: there’s high pressure in the kitchen, Billy lives in fear to lose her decorative star in the next edition of the “fine food”-guide.
It’s the editor of this gourmet-guide who is found dead in the backyard of a bar, a knife between the ribs. And it’s Billies knife. But this guy has had enemies galore.
Now it’s time for Vesna to step into the picture: she’s Mira’s cleaning help and she’s her friend for all seasons.

More cooks get their roles: Daniel Capriati, shooting star in the Viennese scene, is caught using cheap but spoiled chicken. Is he really just a pretender, as the former big shot Demetz claims – a cook with a severe problem with alcohol. But this guy also hates Billy, his former sous-chef. Billy and Daniel meanwhile are getting fond of each other, leaving Mira a little jealous… But there are tragedies more serious: the host of the most important tv-cooking show is found dead. Is there a madman going to erase the whole cooking-scene? Or is it a madwoman? Who’s to be the next dead chef?

From the book:

Over the next few hours an eerie silence descends on the telephone. Isn’t there anyone out there who fancies popping in to have a meal with us? And after that review? I mean that magazine’s lifestyle page must be read by a good 200,000 people. Whatever, let’s get on with it. I take Billy’s hand-written note to the computer and put together a menu. Here at the computer I’m one up on her. Here at least.

Venison liver mousse with blackberry chilli
*
Truffle semolina dumplings in a clear fungi porcini soup
*
Black pudding soufflé
*
Crayfish en jus with reduced Weinviertler “ Cognac”
*
Tomato terrine
*
Pillichsdorfer quails on rollotto (barley risotto)
*
Frau Apfelbaum’s classic curd cheese pastry
*
Local and French cheeses
My mouth is watering. I type in the wines beside each course. Then I count up. Makes seven not eight courses. Billy shakes her head, counts for herself as if she didn’t trust my ability to count to eight. As if she couldn’t rely on anyone for anything. She makes it eight too.
“Better one course too many than one too few,” she said. “No idea what I should leave out.”

[…]
I’m in the process of crossing my fingers once more when the telephone finally rings.
“Yes, of course”, I hear Billy say, “that’ll be fine.” She’s almost singing.
“A table for six!”, she cries out. It was as if a dam had burst. Every five minutes there’s another inquisitive foodie on the line and, by midday, we’re fully booked. The others we fob off with a table for the following day, but practically all of them make a booking. That’s the trouble with these last minute affairs: Billy’s on the phone the whole time, leaving the kitchen to Mahmet, the apprentice, and myself.

[…]
The two wine makers who were there to present their wines turn up, asking questions about everything. They also need far more space in the cold storage room than we had bargained for. How are we going to sort this lot out? Time is flying by. The bread’s more difficult to slice than I’d thought and I slip, bumping my injured thumb with full force against the edge of the chopping board. For a moment I see a host of stars and the aubergine cubes for the tepid tomato terrine disintegrating in the blanching water. Faster than ever, I slice three more aubergines into half-centimetre cubes, and blanche them for a second or two. That’s better, now a squeeze of lemon juice and a drizzle of olive oil on top.

[…]
The whole place is humming with diners, not loud but full, a bit of life in here at last. A few locals have shown up too, the GP among them. The talk turns to food and wine. Melons flying through windows, vanishing murder weapons and severed cooling pipes are no longer the flavour of the month, at least not the central topic of conversation.
I burn my right wrist on the mould for the black pudding soufflé but there’s no time to feel sorry for myself. On we go. By the time we’re serving dessert, I realise I haven’t sat down or eaten anything for over 14 hours, not even had anything to drink in the last few hours either. I notice Billy’s face suddenly turning white and how she struggles to prop herself up against the work surface.
“Are you OK?”
“It was just a second. I get dizzy too from time to time.”
“You’re having me on,” I sneered at her. Got the right tone there. The tension subsides, but there’s still another hour to go. Billy grins. I get us two big glasses of soda water. The cold bubbly liquid hits the spot.
Now for the cheese selection. I tell the waiters to check if there’s enough bread in the baskets. Billy lays out a choice assortment then sets off on her first tour through the restaurant. I give Mahmet a hand with the cheese and try to give him some encouragement as by now he can hardly put one foot in front of the other. At the same time we clear up the remains of the evening’s battlefield. Today, as an exception, we’ll only clean the essentials – the rest can wait till tomorrow morning. Once the cheese has been served, I go up to Vesna behind the bar.
“What an evening”, she beams, “even I could get to like working in the restaurant business.”
I pour myself a glass of Sekt. Maybe not the best thing on a empty stomach but I couldn’t resist it.

[…]
Billy lets Mahmet, the apprentice, and some of the waiters go home. Vesna and Hans-Peter polish the cutlery. I fetch the rest of the venison liver mousse from the fridge, collect up all the left-over bread, get a couple of knives and tell Billy to sit down with me. We attack the mousse with a total absence of elegance and without the slightest regard for gourmet protocol, smearing it over the bread, relishing it more than anyone else ever could, while we kill a bottle of Sekt.
“From now on it’s plain sailing!”, I tell Billy.

[…]
I return to the kitchen for a last look at everything and switch the light off. The stainless steel surfaces give off a matt sheen from the street lights, the fridges a low drone. At Mahmet’s place, beside the slicer and the mincer, the large mixer stands in its bowl. It could well fall over so I pick it up along with the bowl, hang it on its fitting and place the bowl in the sink.
I have the impression that Mahmet’s also forgotten to clean the mincer. Although we haven’t cleaned as thoroughly as usual tonight, it doesn’t mean we can leave the mincer with bits of meat stuck all over it. Billy would have a fit if she saw it. Not wanting to sour her happy evening, I switch the light back on and have a look. As I feared. In the container beside the machine, there is still some mince meat. I’m about to get rid of it when I catch sight of the feed. Unbelievably, there’s still some meat inside. I stick my hand in and touch something that feels both familiar and out of place at the same time. I open my hand and see two still intertwined fingers. The fingers of a man, the nails clean and carefully manicured. The skin is a yellowy white and feels dry and cold. I take it all in, or so it seemed, without any real emotion. When I finally come round, I’m sitting on the kitchen floor and notice that Mahmet has also forgotten to clean it. But now that’s really neither here nor there.