Alcove secrets of chefs. Alcove Secrets of Chefs by Irvine Welsh

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Alcove secrets of chefs Irvine Welsh

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Title: Alcove Secrets of Chefs

About the book “Alcove Secrets of Chefs” by Irvine Welsh

Two feuding health inspectors, Danny Skinner and Brian Kibbey, work for the Edinburgh Restaurant Inspectorate. Skinner is a drunkard and a football fan, hates and terrorizes Kibbie, and in his free time reads Rimbaud, Verlaine and Schopenhauer and watches Fellini films. Kibby, quiet and shy, collects model trains, is a fan of Star Trek, is afraid of everything and ends up in the hospital with liver disease - despite the fact that he has never drank a drop. And Skinner decides to recover from alcoholism, goes to America and there - at a meeting of the Society of Alcoholics Anonymous - he finds the girl of his dreams. But the girl is not enough for him, he wants to find the one with whom his mother conceived him at a Clash concert in 1980. And this alcove secret turns out to be key here - the hero cannot become himself until he finds out who his father is...

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THE BEDROOM SECRETS OF THE MASTER CHEFS

First published as THE BEDROOM SECRETS OF THE MASTER CHEFS by Jonathan Cape. Jonathan Cape is an imprint of Vintage, a part of the Penguin Random House group of companies.

The publication was prepared with the participation of the Azbuka publishing house.

The translation is published in a new edition.

Publishing House INOSTRANKA®

A heartbreaking ballad generously seasoned with Scottish fog and drunken Celtic charm.

The Scotsman

Welsh consistently proves that literature is the best drug.

Lev Danilkin

(Poster)

Welsh is a creature of rare malice, one of the most talented on a global scale. His texts are good fiction, done according to all the rules, typical British social satire. Only here they don’t stand on ceremony with the reader - they insert matches between the eyelids and force them to watch how the author scrapes out the souls of his heroes. Look, bitch, sit, I said! - such ironic fiction.

Konstantin Milchin

(TimeOut)

Welsh's heroes are precisely defined - these are those who were conceived under the Clash, and now hang their jaws under Coldplay. And they shift the blame for their meaningless existence onto their parents - they are all to blame. You slept with just anyone, lived anyhow, and now you have to clean it up for us.

The crowd dissolved into a pulsating noise: those in front selflessly jumped on the spot in front of the stage, those in the back climbed onto the seats and also jumped. The green-haired girl was the closest. And she seemed to be jumping higher than everyone else. Or maybe it was the green hair that rose like an emerald flame in the strobe light. Some – there weren’t many of them – spat at the musicians, and the girl screamed at them to stop: the idol had recently suffered from hepatitis.

Before that, she had not often visited the Odeon, the last time was when they showed “Apocalypse”; but the cinema had never seen such bedlam, she could swear. Her friend Tina was dancing nearby, two steps away - only they managed to get so close to the stage that they could practically smell the musicians.

Having finished a plastic Irn Bru bottle filled with a mixture of beer and cider - “snake bite”, a crazy thing! – the green-haired girl crushed it and threw it under her feet, onto the sticky carpet. Cheerful bubbles hissed in her brain, alcohol worked in tandem with amphetamine sulfate: the girl shouted out lines of songs, went into a trance, flew away to places where she could forget the words that he said today...

They had just finished making love, and he somehow became quiet and moved away; The frail body stretched out on the mattress only trembled slightly.

-What's the matter, Donnie? What's happened?

“Yes, fucked up...” he said helplessly.

“Don’t be a fool,” she smiled, “everything is great, today we’re going to see the Clash, we’ve been waiting for this for a hundred years...

He turned around with the water in his eyes like a child's - her first and only lover - and announced that he had fucked another girl. Here, on this very mattress where they slept every night. Where we just made love.

“It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just stupidity,” he muttered, panicking, guessing the true scale of his offense from the depth of her reaction.

He was still young, still groping for the boundaries of what was acceptable, as his emotional vocabulary expanded - right before his eyes and still too slowly. He just wanted to open up, wanted to be honest...

The girl saw his lips move, but almost did not hear his words. Jumping up from the mattress, she hurriedly got dressed, took one of the tickets out of her pocket, and tore it into pieces in front of his nose. And then she went to the Southern Bar to meet the others, as agreed, and go to the concert, at the Odeon cinema, because the greatest rock band of all time was touring in her city, and she would see them today , but he will miss, and at least justice will prevail.

As the band started singing “Complete Control,” the tall guy who was jumping around next to her—short dark haircut, jeans, leather jacket, and mohair sweater—began shouting in her ear. The girl didn’t understand a word, but it didn’t matter, because the next second her lips were already walking across his face, and he was hugging her waist, and it felt damn good.

The musicians were called back for an encore. They started with the rather obscure number "Revolution Rock" and ended with the killer "London's Burning", remade as "Edinburgh's Burning". The girl was also on fire: the meth was melting her brain, making it pulsate in the cold wind, when they left the cinema. The guy was going to a party in Canongate and invited her along; she agreed. If only not to go home! And let someone see that she also knows how to play these games.

They walked, the night was cold. The guy chatted incessantly: obviously, the green mane turned him on great. He said the area used to be called Little Ireland because it was founded by Irish immigrants. Here, on these streets, the famous murderers Burke and Hare killed beggars and homeless people, and sold the corpses to doctors for anatomical experiments. The girl looked into his face—masculine features and gentle, almost feminine eyes. The excursion continued. The guy pointed to St. Mary's Church and explained that within these walls, many years before Celtic in Glasgow, the Edinburgh Irish organized the first football club. Nodding excitedly towards the street where the great revolutionary James Connolly was born, he spoke of the Dublin Easter Rising of 1916, the apotheosis of which was the liberation of Ireland from the yoke of British imperialism.

The guy especially emphasized that Connolly was a socialist, and not a nationalist at all. In this city, no one knows their roots, he sighed, people blindly believe in what is imposed on them.

But the girl was not interested in excursions into history; her head was occupied with something else. This handsome man was to become her lover - the second of the evening. And at the end of the night there will be a third one.

I. Recipes

Alcove Secrets

Danny Skinner stood up first, tired of tossing and turning. I still couldn't fall asleep. Bad sign. Usually he fell into heavy oblivion immediately after lovemaking... No, not like that. He smiled and rephrased: right after sex. Kay Ballantyne was sleeping peacefully, her shiny black hair scattered across the pillow, her lips still lingering in the characteristic curve of the pleasure he had given her. A bud of tenderness blossomed in Skinner's chest.