by Libby Klein
I couldn’t stop staring at her chest. But then, that was probably what she was going for when she picked out her tight red sweater. I didn’t know they sold plunging necklines in the children’s section.
Tim was having a similar problem. Judging from his expression, I’d say he was half in love and half trying to figure out if her boobs had always been there, and he just hadn’t noticed before.
Gigi pulled two black chef coats out of the bag. They were monogrammed RESTAURANT WEEK 2015. One said CHEF TIM, and the tiny little one said CHEF GIGI. “I had these made special for the competition.” She gave Tim a giant smile and handed him his jacket. “Do you like it?”
“Oh yeah, this is great, Geeg. Where is Poppy’s?”
Gigi flicked her eyes to me and dropped them from my head down to my feet. “I didn’t get her a chef coat because she’s not a real chef. She’s just helping with prep, but I didn’t want her to feel left out either, so I got her this.” She reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a bright yellow frilly apron. She held it against my body. It made my skin tone the color of a five-day-old bruise. I looked like Ronald McDonald . . . in an ugly apron.
Tim looked from Gigi’s boobs to my face. “That was nice of you Geeg, but I’m not sure about the color.”
Gigi waved him off. “All Poppy needs is a good night’s sleep, and those dark circles under her eyes will disappear.”
I tried to muster up some enthusiasm. “That was very—”
“Thoughtful?” Gigi offered brightly.
“Well, I can definitely tell you put a lot of thought into it.”
A stocky man with tight-cropped black hair and plastic holes in his earlobes entered the room and looked around. He crossed his beefy, tattooed arms and shook his head like he’d been lured to an all-you-could-eat seafood buffet only to find one sad pan of fried shrimp amongst several trays of hush puppies.
Tim groaned. “Aww no.”
“What is it?” I whispered.
“That’s Adrian Baxter. We went to school together. He’s a real piece of work.”
“Why?”
Tim didn’t get a chance to tell me because the tinkling sound of a fork tapping a champagne glass brought the room to attention.
“Oh God, okay, is everybody listening? This is awful.” Ivy stood in the middle of the arena, a skinny boy at her side wearing a headset and holding a clipboard. “I have an announcement to make.” Ivy’s voice cracked, and a worried hush fell over the chefs. “I know this was supposed to be a big event for everyone. Channel Eight was going to have coverage every night of the competition, and the marketing team was going to post real-time stats and updates of your progress on all the social media outlets. But . . . I’m sorry to say . . . that . . . Restaurant Week is . . . cancelled.”
There was a collective gasp followed by a murmur of dissension.
Ivy held up her hands to quiet the chefs. “Due to an unforeseen emergency . . . there has been a water main break at the inn where the celebrity judges were booked for the week. My PA here has been on the phone for over an hour trying to get alternative lodging, but all the B&Bs are either closed for the winter or booked solid with holiday specials. The judges are coming in from North Jersey. They can’t be expected to commute. Miss New Jersey is coming all the way from Secaucus. The whole competition is ruined.”
Tim ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, this is not good. I was counting on the publicity from this to boost business. Now what am I going to do?”
The murmurings in the room were getting angrier. Adrian Baxter lashed out with, “Are you kidding me? I hired additional staff to cover my time for the week’s tapings. Are you sayin’ I have to pay them for nothing?”
Ivy held her sides and took a deep breath, counting from one to ten and back again. “Look, I know you’re all disappointed that you’ve been inconvenienced. I’ll probably lose my job over this. The station manager has been promoting the event for weeks. The only thing we have to fill this time slot is old school board meetings and that video clip of Eunice, the belly dancing otter.”
I raised my hand. “I have a bed and breakfast. It’s not officially open yet. We’ve had some . . . kinks to work out, but there are five bedrooms and they’re ready if there are no other options available.”
“Are you kidding?” She rushed over and grabbed my hands. “Yes, yes! Absolutely, yes. You’ve saved my job.”
The Nick Nolte chef interjected over to my left, “And the competition.”
Ivy glanced at him. “Of course, and the competition.”
A couple of the chefs cheered and whistled. Tim hugged me again. “Thank you, Mack. It means a lot to me that you would do this. Let me know if you need any help.”
I gazed into Tim’s eyes and my heart gave a little flip. A lock of blond hair curled over his tanned face and blue eyes, and I reached up to wrap it around my finger. I was pulled away by the director before I made contact.
“Come with me. I’ll need you to sign a few waivers promising that you won’t use having the judges staying in your bed and breakfast as an unfair advantage, and you won’t sue the station for any damages, that sort of thing.”
“What kind of damages?”
“You know, the usual celebrity kind. Just legal mumbo jumbo. Don’t worry, these are professionals. Nothing will go wrong.”
Chapter Three
Ivy took me to the film studio classroom where the TV station had set up their office for the week. I filled out and signed several contracts. I might have promised I would donate a kidney if one of the staff was ever in need. I probably should have read them closer, but I really wanted to get back to the party and hang with the chefs.
When I was finally able to rejoin the group, I saw that they had made themselves comfortable with the cocktail cart. Conversations were a little louder, attitudes were a little bigger. I took a moment to let the gravity of my situation sink in. These were real chefs, with real restaurants. I’m just a widow who makes muffins for a hot Italian barista who likes me.
Nick Nolte came up and took my hand. He had that perpetual tan that came from living by the ocean his whole life, and he carried himself with the easy demeanor of someone more at home on a surfboard than in a boardroom. In a lot of ways, he could pass for Tim’s dad. “Nice job, Red. You saved us.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“Folks call me Hot Sauce Louie. I got a little hole in the wall down by the beach called The Dawg Houz. We specialize in gourmet burgers and dogs and deep-fried hand pies.”
“Ooh, that sounds delicious.”
“You should come by sometime, on the house.”
“That’s very generous of you. I don’t remember The Dawg Houz from when I was growing up here. How long have you been there?”
“’Bout three years. I used to have a food truck called Wheelie Dogs, but the dang thing broke down so often, I spent more time making the repairs than making the food. I finally sold it to a guy in Philly who makes pierogis. I used the money to start up my new joint. Last year we were voted best burgers at the shore. How about you? You got a place around here?”
I felt my cheeks get hot. I knew this was coming, the moment where I had to admit I didn’t belong here, that I was a fraud. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t come so soon. “No, not me. I’m not a chef. I’m working with Team Maxine’s as a favor to Chef Tim. I just make muffins and cookies and things for La Dolce Vita, the coffee shop on the mall.”
Hot Sauce Louie leaned back and gave me an appraising once-over. “You’re the baker behind the gluten-free madness? I cannot get enough of those maple-pecan shortbread bars. I’m addicted!”
I swelled with unexpected pride. “Guilty.”
“Wow. I’m gonna have to up my dessert game now.”
I giggled like a nerd. It came out more like a horse whinny, and I quickly looked around to see if anyone else had overheard. Tim had been watching me with Louie and was suddenly heading our way.
Hot Sauce Louie nudged
my shoulder. “Hey, let me ask you something. There’s a little something in those bars that I can’t place. What is it?”
“There’s a pinch of nutmeg.”
“No, that’s not it. It tastes a little like booze.”
“Oh, that’s my vanilla. I make it myself out of vanilla bean pods and white rum.”
Hot Sauce Louie slapped his leg. “That’s it! It’s been driving me crazy. You’re gonna have to show me how you do that one of these days.”
“I’d be glad to.” Oh my God! Is this really happening?
Tim put an arm around my shoulder and introduced himself to Louie.
“That’s what I love about an event like this.” Louie looked around the room. “Getting to work with all these cool chefs and learning from each other. This is what it’s all about. I’m feeling the love right here. Hey, girl.”
The woman with the braids who had waved me over earlier joined us. She was beautiful, and young. Maybe late twenties.
Hot Sauce Louie pointed from me to the young girl. “Have you two met?”
I smiled and shook my head no.
“Poppy McAllister, this is Vidrine Petit-Jeune.”
Vidrine smiled broadly. I reached out my hand but she broke protocol and pulled me into a hug instead. “Thank ya, chéri, for offerin’ up yaw rooms to save the event. I know my place needs the exposure of an affair like this, what with me being new in town an all.”
“I’m happy to do it. This is my team leader, Chef Tim Maxwell.”
Tim was also pulled into a hug. He asked Vidrine, “That’s a unique accent you got there. Where are you from?”
She laughed. “I was born in Haiti but moved to Mobile, Alabama when I was a young’un, so my accent is very confused.”
She was delightful. I liked her instantly. “What kind of restaurant do you have?”
Vidrine pulled a card out of her bag and handed it to me. “Honey, I got a little ol’ place just off the mall called Slap Yo Mamma! We specialize in Southern comfort food wit a Caribbean influence.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about that place. My friend Sawyer and I have been trying to get over there and try it out.”
“Well you should, chéri.”
Tim put his arm around me again, “If Sawyer can’t go, I’d love to take you.”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
Vidrine looked to her left and right before leaning in and speaking in hushed tones. “Did y’all hear who one of the judges is gonna be?”
Louie whispered back, “Who?”
“Horatio Duplessis.”
Tim groaned. “Gah! We may as well go home now.”
“Why?” I asked. “Who is Horatio Duplessis?”
The tan had slid right from Hot Sauce Louie’s face, and he looked like he’d eaten a bad clam. “He’s a food critic with a stick up his butt.”
Vidrine’s hands perched on her hips. “Honey, his reviews can make or break a chef’s career. If you don’t impress him, no amount of publicity here can save you.”
I asked Tim, “Have you been reviewed by him?”
Tim sighed. “He gave Maxine’s mediocre reviews a few years ago.”
Louie grabbed a cocktail from the cart as it went by. “I don’t put much stock in those critic columns. The only reviews I care about are Trip Advisor and Yelp. Real people without an agenda.”
“So, I guess you’ve never been demoralized by Sir Horatio?” Vidrine asked Louie.
“A dude that takes himself that serious would never stoop to the depths of reviewing a joint like The Dawg Houz.”
“Then why did you look like you were about to pass out when you heard his name?”
Louie shrugged. “It’s freaking hot in here.”
Gigi popped up on the other side of Tim and introduced herself to Vidrine and Louie as Tim’s sous chef for the competition. “Tim and I are both alumni of CIA in New York. Of course, he was a few years ahead of me.”
Hot Sauce Louie had my kind of filter and blurted out, “Ya think!”
I stifled a giggle, but Gigi went on, “Poppy here didn’t go to culinary school, she’s just on our team to fetch ingredients. Where did the two of you go to school?” Gigi flashed Hot Sauce and Vidrine each a big smile. They both smiled back, unfazed by her prejudice.
Louie shook his head. “Didn’t go to school. I’m one hundred percent organically self-taught. My philosophy is either you got the gift, or you don’t. Anyone can learn to cook, but only a special few cook by instinct.” He gave me a wink. I wanted to hug him right then and there.
Gigi’s smile had cracked some, but she was holding on. She looked to Vidrine for redemption.
“Oh honey, I learned everything I know in the school of hard knocks at my momma’s knee. Every one of my recipes have been passed down through generations of Petit-Jeune women. But I been working in professional kitchens since I was fifteen years old, and then I had to forge my momma’s signature to get a work permit. I’ve worked my way up from dishwasher to sous chef in some of the most prestigious restaurants up and down the coast. And now I got my own little tranche du paradis—slice of heaven.”
Gigi’s eyes were stiff, and her smile was pasted on. I think I saw a mini-stroke building up behind her retinas, and it was all I could do not to jab her in her double Ds.
Tim leaned away from the tension radiating from his left side—too close to his left side I might add. I was concerned he would need a Gigi-ectomy. He politely excused our team and said we were going to go mingle a bit.
We left Hot Sauce Louie and Vidrine amiably chatting about their restaurants and backgrounds and wandered toward the other side of the room. Adrian Baxter, Tim’s old classmate, started our way, and Tim pivoted us in another direction.
Tim took a deep breath. “He’s going to make this week miserable for us, and I really need things to go well if Maxine’s is going to survive.”
“Why? What’s going on with Maxine’s?” I asked.
Before Tim could answer, a little Italian in a paisley pink shirt was kissing both my cheeks. “Poppy, I thought that was you. I would know Gia’s bella amore anywhere.”
Tim’s back stiffened and the muscles in his jaw were making little veins pop up on his neck.
I recognized the little man from Mia Famiglia, the restaurant across the courtyard from the coffee shop where I make the gluten-free baked goods for Gia, the sexy Italian barista who holds a big piece of my heart. “Marco?”
“Si, sono qui.”
“Is Gia’s mother one of the chefs competing in Restaurant Week?”
“Si, si, si. Oliva is competing. But you know she no speaks the English so good, so Marco is here to translate.”
“Is she here now?” My eyes darted around the room looking for a little old lady putting the evil eye on me.
Marco dipped his eyebrows and shook his head. “No. She’s does not come tonight. She will be here Saturday for first event.”
Gigi looked around the room. “I knew there were supposed to be six chefs. She must be the one who’s missing.”
Marco kissed my cheeks again. “Gia sends his love and says good luck, Bella.”
A warmth began to rise from my toes.
Tim tightened his grip on my arm. “Come on, I want to introduce you both to one of the most influential chefs in South Jersey. He’s also our toughest competition.”
He led us up to the very dignified chef, who reminded me a little of Sam the Eagle from the Muppets, with his bushy eyebrows and tufts of gray hair over a serious expression. He stood ramrod straight off to one side with his teammates, quietly watching the mingle without joining in.
“Chef Philippe, I want you to meet Chef Gigi, of Le Bon Gigi.”
Chef Philippe gave a courteous head nod to Gigi. “Mademoiselle.”
“And my pastry chef for the competition, Poppy McAllister.”
Chef Philippe gave me the same nod. “Madame.”
Why’d she get a “mademoiselle”?
Tim went on, “Che
f Philippe owns La Maîtrisse, a very popular brasserie in Sea Isle.”
“Are you also an alumni of CIA?” I asked, before Gigi could pounce on her passive-aggressive soapbox.
Chef Philippe had a deep rich voice with a touch of an accent, like dark chocolate poured over a soufflé. “No, madame. I graduated Le Cordon Bleu in Paree, but that was many years ago.” He gave me a kind smile.
Ivy’s PA came by with the cocktail cart. Tim handed me a refill on my sparkling water and offered champagne to Chef Philippe, who accepted. “I had your caneton à l’orange last spring. It was magnificent.”
Chef Philippe’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at Tim. “Thank you for your praise.”
Tim was about to continue gushing over Chef Philippe’s food, but he was forcefully booted out of the way by a brazen attitude with tattoos running from wrist to shoulder of each arm.
“Well, look whooz here. You gonna cheat at this competition too?”
The blood drained from Tim’s face, while Gigi and I made matching bookends of horror. Well, one of the bookends may have been a little top heavier than the other.
Tim poked Adrian Baxter on the collarbone. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here and accusing me like this.”
Chef Philippe and his team politely excused themselves to go anywhere but here.
Adrian didn’t seem to care how offensive or loud he was to the rest of the room. “Why? That’s what you do, in’it?” He turned to me and Gigi. “I suppose you’re his line chefs. Did he tell you about me?”
I squared my shoulders to poke back at the stocky bear. “That depends. Who exactly would you be?”
He sputtered, “I’m Adrian Baxter. Only the hottest chef at the shore. Everyone’s heard of Baxter’s By the Bay. We got a raw bar that’ll make yooze weep for joy. And this poser and I were in the same graduating class at CIA.”
I shrugged. “I don’t believe Tim has ever mentioned you.” I wanted to ask if it took a lot of training in cooking school to set up a raw bar, but we were already getting some negative publicity with the rest of the room, so I kept my mouth shut for Tim’s sake.
Gigi finally managed to get ahold of herself. “Are you sure your restaurant’s in South Jersey? I’ve been a chef in West Cape May for five years, and I’ve never heard of you.”