The Tea Room – Part 1: Jam First

"Jam first," said Beth.

The kitchen went silent.

She stood at the pass of the old tea room in York, in a black apron and a frilly cap, holding a plate of warm scones. It was her third day on the job. She was twenty-nine, a former librarian, with a round friendly face and a ponytail, utterly bewildered by the sudden stillness. A tray rattled. A kettle whistled.

"What did you say?" said Isaac.

He was thirty-four, the head pastry chef, tall and broad, with a white hat, a ginger beard, a flour-dusted apron and an expression of grave horror. He held a piping bag like a pistol.

"I said I put the jam on first."

"On a scone."

"Yes."

"Before the cream."

"It's how my gran did it."

"Your gran," said Isaac, in a hollow voice, "was from Devon."

"She was from Cornwall."

"That is worse."

She stared at him. Then, helplessly, she began to laugh. The kitchen assistants, pretending not to listen, shook with silent mirth. Isaac glared at the ceiling. His beard twitched.

"It's a matter of principle," he said.

"It's jam."

"It is civilisation."

Over the next week, they argued about it daily. She served scones both ways to test customers. He wrote furious notes in the order book. On Saturday, the tea room filled, and a queue stretched round the corner. In the chaos, a customer's tea slid off a tray, smashing at Beth's feet. Isaac vaulted the counter and swept it up without a word.

"Thank you," she said.

"It was nothing."

"It was something."

"Can I ask you something?" said Isaac, handing her a fresh tray.

"Yes."

"Will you bake with me on Monday? I'll show you my way."

"Green?" said Beth, a jam jar, a scone.

"Green," said Isaac, a flush crossing his freckled face. "Very green. Bring an open mind."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cream First.