Daisy James - Lucie’s Vintage Cupcake Company

‘There’s no photograph of the guy – understandable, I suppose; he needs to remain anonymous in his pursuit of gastronomic excellence – but his blog apparently became an internet sensation after he recorded and uploaded his forcible eviction from a French restaurant over in Soho at Christmas when he dared to question the provenance of their black truffles,’ explained Antonio as he chopped up a forest of fresh basil for his pesto sauce.

‘One thing there was a photograph of was the bruise the irate chef gave him after he pursued him into the street armed with a wooden rolling pin and a frying pan of fury. Ever since that crazy incident, every chef the length and breadth of London craves and fears an Anon. Appetit review in equal measure. A five-star review is like sprinkling fairy dust on their cuisine and is enough to jettison the restaurant and the chef’s reputation into the upper echelons of gastronomic preference. André Michelin – take a back seat! Of course, the reverse is also true.’

‘Exactly!’ declared Francesca who had reappeared unnoticed as they listened to Antonio’s story. ‘This is why I insist that we must continue to strive for the pinnacle of our talents every single night of the week! For we will never know whether this food critic is eating at one of our tables. If it’s not tonight, it could be tomorrow or next week, or the week after that, and we must be ready. A favourable review could be the catalyst not only to an upswing in bookings but the fulfilment of my dream to expand this little slice of Italian paradise and the security of your employment.’

Everyone was aware of Francesca’s dream to take over the lease of the vacant shop next door. She intended to open an authentic Italian deli that would serve espressos and fresh Parma ham snacks for those patrons too squeezed of the luxury of time to indulge in the full sit-down experience.

‘Whoever this food critic is, he knows his stuff – that much is clear. As it says on his website banner – the pen is mightier than the spatula. But we have nothing to fear if you all concentrate on what you are employed to do and produce your best dishes consistently. But if it is tonight, I do hope you’re up to it.’

Francesca’s eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary on Lucie, who she clearly saw as the weakest link in her culinary empire, before spinning round on her four-inch stilettos and returning to prowl around the dining room before the evening’s diners descended.

Lucie exhaled a long sigh of anxiety. Ever since the celebrated Anon. Appetit blog had burst onto the scene last summer, she had made a conscious effort to avoid reading the reviews, but she’d heard plenty of outraged and indignant analysis of what was published from Gino, Antonio and Sofia. It had gained a huge following in a short amount of time, with diners scrambling to add their own views to the food critic’s posts, thereby perpetuating the effect of his opinion, whether positive or critical.

Needless to say, the negative reviews – some so caustic Antonio insisted on reading them out in disbelief – were the most popular. Lucie could never understand why readers enjoyed seeing hard-working people trashed, for while the food blogger stuck religiously to reviewing the actual food, his readers often made their comments personal.

She remembered a conversation she’d had only a few weeks ago with Gino and Antonio.

‘The scumbag food critic who hides behind the Anon. Appetit blog has rubbished my cousin Leonardo’s pizzeria. He said it wasn’t up to his exacting cordon bleu standards. It’s a pizzeria, for Christ’s sake.’ Gino had waved his kitchen knife in the air in a gesture of what he’d like to do to the celebrity reviewer.

‘Leonardo is devastated – his takings are down by twenty-five per cent and he’s talking about selling up and going back to Florence. I told him these morons make their living from regaling potential diners with witty observations and comedic asides. They have to continually seek out establishments and chefs to belittle and ridicule to ensure their observations remain in the spotlight. Yet these people who don’t know a roux from a roulade tend to forget what diners really enjoy – the comfort of a delicious and satisfying meal served by a friendly waiter at a reasonable price, safe in the knowledge that there will be no part of their meal adorned with snails’ vomit or distilled rats’ urine.’

If she ever came face-to-face with the author who encouraged such vitriol, like Gino she would certainly have something to say to him, too – she just hoped Antonio’s informant had got it wrong and that Mr Anon. Appetit would have the good sense to steer clear of Francesca’s that evening.

Her fingers started to tremble as she sliced a lemon for her crostata al limone . The day was beginning to feel as long as War and Peace .

‘Good grief, who rattled Francesca’s cage?’ asked Sofia as she strode into the kitchen, her eyebrows disappearing into her fringe in consternation as she helped herself to a jug of water to replenish the fresh flowers on each of the tables.

Gino broke away from his task of pulverising a steak to exchange a mischievous smirk with Lucie.

‘If she’s not careful, I think our boss might spontaneously combust! We will do what we always do and cook, cook, cook and every diner in here tonight cannot fail to have an awesome experience – I know it. Are we not the maestros of minestrone, the virtuosos of veal, the connoisseurs of cannoli and cartellate ? They’ll all be blown away by our offerings, especially your desserts, Lucie, whichever one they choose to indulge their taste buds in.’

Lucie turned up the corners of her lips, but her smile didn’t register as far as her eyes as she continued absently with the preparation of a Sicilian cassata . As she chopped, whisked and sifted, her mind drifted, inevitably, back to Alex. She fervently wished she could join in with the burbling roulade of kitchen gossip that always preceded a busy evening, but all she felt was numbness creeping from her stomach to her chest and clouding her mind of any pleasure.

Was Francesca right? Should she take the night off after she’d finished preparing her desserts?

But the subject uppermost in her mind was where Alex was at that precise moment. It was just after five o’clock. She knew he would be making his way to the local bar with Greg to perform verbal surgery on the tactical brilliance of his beloved Chelsea. But where would he be spending the rest of the evening when his friends left to take their partners out to dinner? And more to the point, who with? The thought of him dating so soon after their break-up hit her in the chest like a whip of fire. Had he even been seeing someone else when she’d proposed? Was that the reason behind his refusal?

Yes, that had to be the answer – someone else was involved! Why hadn’t she thought of that? Who was it? Probably someone he worked with in that soaring glass shard of a law firm; some corporate lawyer, perhaps, with whom he could discuss the finer details of the government’s current taxation policy over a late-night infusion of caffeine at his desk? Yes, she could picture it now; they hadn’t realised the time, they were exhausted from the mentally challenging work, so they retired to a local wine bar for a nightcap before they…

A blade of renewed pain scythed through Lucie’s brain and her temples throbbed as though they were being squeezed of their last drop of energy in a wine press. A headache threatened – yet another consequence of the agony caused by Alex’s shock refusal of her proposal. The whisk she was using to whip up one of her signature zabagliones clattered from her hand to the floor as she struggled to rein in her emotions.