by Zuri Day
“Sorry, ladies. There’s no going inside.”
“My name is Roz Arnaud with NO Beat. We’re guests of the chef.”
“Everyone in that line feels the same way.”
“No, seriously, I interviewed Pierre for our paper and he invited me to the restaurant to try out the food. This is Stefanie Powell, our photographer.”
Stefanie held up her digital Canon.
Buddy the Bouncer hooked a thumb the size of a turkey leg behind them. “You see that? The restaurant’s full. It’s a private event. VIP. I’ve been given explicit instructions to not let anyone in. You have a problem with that, you’re going to have to take it up with the boss.”
Roz pulled out her phone and called Pierre. Voice mail. That’s just great. “Hi, Pierre, it’s Roz with NO Beat. We’re here at the restaurant doors but can’t get in.”
“Blocked by the Rock of Gibraltar,” Stefanie mumbled, in spite of Roz’s nudge.
“If you get this in the next few minutes, please let your guard here know that we’ve been invited. Thanks.”
She ended the call, dropped the phone into her purse and put a couple feet between her and King Kong.
He followed them. “Ladies, you can’t stand here. You’ll have to go back down the stairs.”
It felt like the walk of shame as they turned around and walked down the steps they’d confidently pranced up just seconds before. And even though it meant walking three extra blocks, they turned right instead of left to avoid the smirks of those they’d sashayed by who were standing in line.
“I am so embarrassed,” Roz hissed, as she pulled out her phone and sent a text.
“I’m just hungry,” Stefanie replied. “And my feet hurt. These are my walk-a-block-and-sit-my-ass-down pair of shoes. Not the ones to walk all over the Quarter.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Wonder if Ma’s is open.”
“Let’s find out.”
Chapter 8
The normally calm, orchestrated chaos of Pierre’s kitchen had been interrupted. Usually a party of ten would have been no big deal, even for a sold-out house. The private rooms were not counted in the dining room total, allowing Pierre the flexibility to make last-minute changes. Good thing, since it took both private rooms to accommodate the Drakes. His pleasure, of course. Pierre wore Ace’s fashions. The restaurant carried Drake Wines. His personal welcome had led to an invitation to spend a week at their California winery. If he survived the crazy success of his opening and could grab a week, maybe six months from now, he’d be ready for a resort and spa. Heading back into the kitchen, he admitted that his body could use one now.
He’d started off the party with his signature seafood gumbo and platters of Cajun-seasoned lobster lollipops, gator balls and creamed corn beignets. Now they worked on a variety of entrees, including a special request from one who had the audacity to come to a restaurant offering premium seafood and order vegan. It was a challenge, but a good chef could create a meal from air. In the time it took to walk from the private room to the kitchen, he’d mentally concocted a unique dish that he now executed, flipping with one hand and seasoning with the other, while barking orders, checking times and watching the expediter eye every plate before it went out. Everything had to be perfect.
“Time on that tender?”
“Three minutes, Chef!”
“More sauce under those crab cakes, Mell.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Riviera, these salmon steaks are perfect. Good job.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
Two hours later, the Drake entourage made a quiet exit by slipping out the back door to limos waiting in the alley. With the VIPs gone, the dining room finally emptying out and all the signature dishes under control, Pierre turned the kitchen over to his sous chef, went into his office and collapsed on the love seat just inside the door. Seconds later Buddha, one of only two friends who remained from childhood, who had pulled impromptu guard duty at Pierre’s urgent request, tapped on the door before stepping inside.
“Here you go, boss.”
Pierre reached for the cold bottle of water Buddha offered. “Thanks, man. And thanks for helping out tonight. I don’t know what would have happened without you on the door.”
“That was crazy, man. I’ve bounced at a lot of clubs and that scene was crazier than all those times put together. Good thing my man was close and in his squad car.”
“So it was you who called the police?”
“A friend of mine on the force, but yes, had to, unless you wanted a riot!”
“People trying to get in, guests not leaving...”
“And that model London...wow! That is one fine woman.” Buddha shook his head slowly, licking his lips and rubbing massive paws that passed for hands together as though ready to enjoy a meal.
“She’s beautiful, and she knows it.”
“Yeah, and I know it, too.” Buddha took a long swig of water. “Tell me that if she’d invited you to go with her, you wouldn’t have been out of here in a second.”
“I would have stayed right in my kitchen with the kinds of flames I know how to handle.”
“People were trying everything to get inside. This one chick even claimed to be your special guest. She—”
Pierre sat straight up. “Roz!”
“Who?”
“Oh, no! In all of the hoopla I forgot all about her. Why didn’t you let her in?”
“My job was to keep everybody out!”
“But she was my guest.”
“I didn’t know!”
Pierre pulled out his phone. It vibrated in his hand with texts, missed calls and voice mail. He scrolled through the messages, recognizing Roz’s number when he reached it. Unsure whether he really wanted to know what she’d said, he opened the text, anyway.
The next time you invite someone to your restaurant, you might consider letting them in. The link to the article. R.
He sighed and flopped back in the love seat.
“I’m sorry, man. Was that your girl or something?”
“She’s a reporter who did a story on me and the restaurant. I invited her here because she’d never tried my cooking.” And to make up for my rude behavior during our first meeting. “And because she’d had a hard time reaching me or getting info from Cathy.”
“And thanks to me she got blocked again.”
“You didn’t know.” Pierre began typing a reply and then, on second thought, clicked on her phone number. “Hey, man, I need a minute.”
“Oh, okay. I’m going to head out.”
“I’ll call you. Thanks again.”
After four rings, Pierre expected the call to go to voice mail. He was formulating a message when she answered.
“Roz, it’s Pierre.”
“I recognized the number.”
“I thought you weren’t going to pick up.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“About tonight...”
“Didn’t go as planned?”
“No, I wasn’t expecting a mega superstar to come to my restaurant and have thousands of her fans trying to come in with her. Everything happened at once. It was a madhouse, and in the middle of all that, time got away from me and... I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Not really. I invited you to my establishment and should have made sure you were able to get in. I understand if you’re upset.”
“I was pretty ticked earlier. But considering the circumstances, you had your hands full.”
“True, but I feel badly that you and your friend were turned away.”
“Me, too. She’s a photographer and we were going to do a spread for a second article that would have run sometime in the future.”
“What are you doing Monday?”
<
br /> “Working, why?”
“If you’d like you can hang out with me, get your pictures and a behind-the-scenes look at a day in the life of a chef.”
“That’s a generous offer, but really, I’m good. One turn with your bodyguard was enough for me.”
“I will personally be at the door to let you in. Please, let me make up for the way you were treated.”
“I’ll check with my boss and let you know.”
“Okay. I look forward to seeing you then.”
Pierre propped his feet on the desk and clicked on the link in Roz’s text. It was a good article. He knew that even though he wasn’t much of a reader. He determined that because of how reading the article on him by “Rosalyn Arnaud,” according to the byline, made him feel. It was almost as though he was reading about someone else’s life. Heck, when he finished what she’d written, his own story inspired him!
The euphoric feeling was short-lived. Pierre knew that as good as what he’d shared with her sounded, it wasn’t the whole story. Had he told the rest of it, there would not have been a happy ending. In that moment he felt the weight that came from hiding a large part of himself for over a decade. Re-creating history into a story more palatable to hear, and to tell. Lies by omission. The family relocated to Houston. Was it his fault that most assumed that family included parents, a mom and a dad? And that Miss Pat was a second mom, because the first one had vanished and was probably dead?
“Chef, you got a minute?”
“Sure, Pete. Come on in.”
Pierre clicked off the online article and suddenly recalled why he’d left the kitchen in the first place—to double a previous order after learning the estimates he’d calculated for prawns, lobster and crayfish were not enough. Business had crashed into his thoughts in time to stave off melancholy. Fortunately, when you had a hit TV show, repped the number one energy drink in the country and ran the most popular restaurant in the city, you didn’t have time to dwell on what was missing from life. What filled his life up these days was pretty amazing. Pierre chose to focus on that.
“We’ve got a special request from a table of ten, the birthday dinner happening at eight.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Um, it’s rather unusual.”
“What do they want, a special type of cake that’s not on the menu?”
“Basically.”
“Okay, what kind?”
“One large enough for you to pop out of after the guest of honor blows out the candles.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Totally serious. The woman who called, a best friend, said you’re the birthday guest’s favorite everything. She’s sure you’ll be mentioned somewhere in her birthday wish.”
“Maybe, but me jumping out of a cake isn’t going to happen.”
“They’re willing to pay extra.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Even if the extra is twenty-five thousand bucks? That’s the price she quoted.”
“Even for two-hundred and fifty thousand. I’m not on the menu. Period.”
“Can I jump out of it, then? Our firstborn will be here any minute and that would buy a lot of diapers.”
“Hey, they’ve booked the private room, so if you can work it out, fine by me.”
Pierre checked in with his sous chef and then called it a night. In the early days of his celebrity, there were many casual hookups and meaningless sex romps. No matter how delightful that sounded to the average man, those no-name liaisons satisfied for only so long before the soul wanted connection, the mind sought intellectual intimacy. With this thought came an image of Roz Arnaud. Pierre looked forward to Monday.
Chapter 9
That night, Roz left a message for Andy about covering a day in the life of their celebrity chef, but by Monday morning, as she paired black skinny jeans with a tan top and sandals, and hurriedly brushed errant curls into a high ponytail, she hadn’t heard back. So the next step after backing out of her garage and putting the car in Drive was engaging her Bluetooth to call her boss’s cell.
“What’s up, Roz?”
“Did you get my message?”
“Yes, but I didn’t get why. We already ran that story.”
“Yes, but an even bigger one happened Saturday night.” She told Andy about the Drakes descending on the Big Easy. “Through him we might get an interview with Reginald Drake, co-owner of the—”
“New Orleans Brass. Everybody knows that.”
“I didn’t. Anyway, a high-profile interview like that would be huge.”
“What time is this meeting?”
Roz glanced at her watch. “In about thirty minutes.”
“Why so early when the place doesn’t open until midafternoon? If I were talking to Ginny I’d know the answer. Are you all gaga, too?”
Totally. “Of course not. And because the question came from you, I won’t get offended.”
Andy chuckled. “Tell you what. I’ll give you the day to work in the field if you give me the lead on Reggie.”
“Deal.”
“Oh, Andy. I need to take this call. I’ll check in later.” Roz switched lanes as she switched calls. “Morning, Stef.”
“Hey, Biff. Sorry I missed your call last night. I wanted to thank you again for honoring Aaron’s memory in the anniversary series. Mom is so excited. Dad, too. He’ll be at the office, but said feel free to give him a call.”
“Good old Deacon Powell. Always ready with a sound bite.”
“You know it.”
“And I always look forward to spending time with your mom. Unfortunately, Biff, it can’t be today. I’ve got to cover another time-sensitive story. Is there any way I can move you guys to tomorrow?”
“Sure, that’s fine. I fly home this afternoon, but the parents will be here and we can talk by phone. What’s this news you need to cover? Anything exciting?”
“No, not really. Just heading over to Easy Creole Cuisine to spend some one-on-one time with Pierre LeBlanc.”
“What!” Stefanie held the word like a note to a song. “Ooh, Roz. I knew you wanted to take a bite out of that butterscotch bar. I don’t blame you, girl. Just let me know how it tastes!”
“LeBlanc may not be on the menu, but I’m pretty excited.”
“Y’all talked the other night?”
“Yes. He responded to the sarcastic text I sent after our summary dismissal from the steps of his establishment. He seemed really sorry that we got turned away.”
“Then why aren’t we heading to his place right now?”
“Because this is work, Stefanie.”
“Yeah, he’ll have to blow through, what, a year’s worth of dust?”
“Shut up!” Roz managed to gasp, while cracking up laughing.
“But after the sex, then what?”
“Then I hang up because I’m almost there.”
“Call me later.”
“Will do.”
Pierre had texted Roz to use one of the restaurant’s reserved parking spaces across the street. As she pulled in, two images raised immediate concern. Why was King Kong and not Pierre waiting at the front door as promised, and why was there a helicopter on the roof? Roz grabbed her purse and her keys and set out to get her questions answered.
The big guy smiled as she approached. A positive sign.
“Don’t worry,” he said, raising his hands as if she were the bad guy. “I’m not here to turn you away.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“Sorry about the other night. That was my fault. I’m Buddha.”
Roz’s brow arched as her hand was engulfed by his as they shook. “Roz Arnaud.”
“Trust me, I know who you are.”
What did that mean?
He opened the door. She walked inside, but in
stead of continuing straight into the dining room, he turned toward a hall. “Come this way.”
Behind a door at the end of the hall was a set of stairs. Before she could think to ask Buddha where they were going, they reached the roof, where Pierre stood conversing with another man. He immediately came over.
“Good morning, beautiful.” He leaned in for a hug, smelling like musk and sunshine, then delivered a smile that could cure cancer. “I see the two of you have met. I wanted you to know that beneath that formidable frame is a big teddy bear.”
Roz nodded. “Emphasis on big.”
“Nice meeting you, Roz.” Buddha turned to Pierre with a fist bump. “See you later, Easy.”
“Easy is really your nickname?”
“That’s what the clique called me back in the day. None of us used our real names. Easygoing Pierre was shortened to Easy. Bernard became Buddha.”
“Ah, now I get it.” She turned toward the helicopter. “But I don’t get that. What is a chopper doing on the roof of your building, and why am I standing next to it?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“That my life today happens in New York?”
“No, you didn’t.”
Pierre smiled as he raised a knuckle and brushed her cheek. “Right off the bat, you’re getting a taste of my life. Flexibility is key. Change happens often. You’ve got to be ready for anything.” He reached for her hand. “Are you ready for anything?”
Roz swallowed her fear, grasped his hand and gave him an answer. “Yes.”
Chapter 10
Thankfully, the helicopter ride was brief, landing at the New Orleans Lakefront Airport. Roz had barely wrapped her mind around the fact that the day wasn’t happening at Easy Creole Cuisine, or in New Orleans, before she was being helped out of the helicopter and walking hand in hand with Pierre to a private plane.
While he talked with the pilot, Roz settled into a roomy leather seat. Soon, he sat across from her and buckled up.
“So this is how you celebrities do it? Nice.”
“Only when it’s on someone else’s dime. This is the company behind Intense Energy. I’m shooting some stuff for them today and if we finish early enough I’ll drop by the Chow Channel.”