“I want you to help get my restaurant a mention on her new page. Word is, since she no longer works for The Bee, she’ll only post a good review each week via that Page. Mine needs to be one of the restaurants Penelope Monroe reviews. Can you help me achieve that?” The look in his eyes is obstinate and, for a brief moment, they take me on a high speed ride into his soul.
I pause to digest his request and think back to the review I gave the restaurant last year. My mere words—an opinionated assessment—have altered his life. And all Jonathan can fathom is the opportunity to have me—Penelope Monroe—publicly acclaim his restaurant.
“Yes. Of course,” I say, feeling as though I’ve been injected with a potent dose of mind-altering reality. “However, it’s going to take a great deal of effort on your part. You may not like some of the things I suggest and at times you’ll have to—” I clear my throat and adjust the stupid spark of smarts eyeglasses. “Well, you’ll simply have to swallow your pride.”
Jonathan approaches, invading my personal space once again, and extends his hand for a handshake. “You’ve got a deal, Ms. Kennedy Prescott. And by the way, ” his voice lowers to an almost whisper while his perfectly shaped lips curve into a mischievous smirk, “ I like your glasses. They make you look playful, mysterious, and smart.”
Chapter 10
“You smell a bit like cilantro,” I say, embarrassed I allowed those words to charge out of my mouth like a runaway locomotive.
“Oh. Well yeah, Manny delivered fresh cilantro,” Jonathan replies, evidently unfazed by my cheeky outburst. “We use it for our signature salsa as well as for a few other dishes. Would you like to taste some?”
“Cilantro? Um, no thanks.”
Jonathan laughs, and I can’t help but catch a glimpse of his perfectly white teeth. God, he’s absolutely dreamy.
“No, I mean the salsa. Would you like to taste some of our Wicked Salsa? It’s a brand new recipe.”
Of course he meant the salsa, you big dummy. Stop focusing on his looks and focus on restaurant stuff…you imposter.
“Oh right. Salsa. Sure, I’ll try some,” I say, feeling a little out of my element.
Jonathan leads the way out of his office and into the sizable kitchen area where he disappears into a spacious walk-in cooler.
He reappears seconds later, toting a bulky rectangular container that he places alongside a small bowl of tortilla chips resting on top of the stainless steel prep counter.
Curiosity guides me over to the prep table where he snags a chip, dunks it into the Wicked Salsa and commands an authoritative “open wide,” before shoving the fire-laced chip into my mouth.
At first, it tastes like your average chip and salsa. Then, without warning, my taste buds are propelled into a flavor-town utopia. The Wicked Salsa has the ideal balance of tomatoes, jalapeño peppers, onions, salt, garlic, cilantro, lime juice, and something else my palate can’t quite identify. I close my eyes, only momentarily, entranced by the rave-like party happening in my mouth.
Jonathan smiles, looking thoroughly gratified by my expression. “What do you think?”
“Honestly? It’s sinfully good,” I admit, extremely timid to ask for more than what was placed in my mouth.
A recollection of my last two dining experiences here rattles my unrelenting thirst for knowledge. I mean why did those visits go so drastically awry?
“Jonathan, is there somewhere we can chat? I’d really like to strategize some of your short-term and long-term goals.”
Jonathan covers the container of Wicked Salsa and winks at me. “Of course. The restaurant doesn’t open for another couple of hours. We can talk up in the front.” He carries the salsa container to the walk-in cooler and opens the huge industrial door. “Just pick a table. I’ll join you in a second… After I brew us some fresh coffee.”
“Coffee?” I hope you have cream today, I think to myself, pleased I didn’t blurt that out in the same fashion as I did the cilantro remark.
“Yeah, coffee. You do drink coffee, right?”
I nod yes. “With cream and two sugars please.”
“Coming right up.”
Moments later, Jonathan accompanies me at a booth next to a window in the dine. He places two white mugs inscribed Knight and Daze, a pint-sized carafe of cream, a couple of spoons, two packets of sugar, and a coffee press filled with coffee onto the table before he smoothly glides into the booth.
“I must confess, a spiffy coffee press is the last device I’d expect to find in your kitchen gadget arsenal.”
Jonathan peers up at me, briefly, as he concentrates on pouring us both coffee, his eyes revealing playful discontent. “I learned to appreciate the art of brewing the perfect cup of coffee while I studied Culinary Arts in Paris several years ago.” He smiles wryly with glaring eyes, as if he knows his comment would throw me in a mental spin.
Somehow his revelation makes me feel as though I fell short on the research side of things.
I should have used Google. Duh.
“Paris?” I say as he slides a mug over to me; the coffee’s pleasant aroma immediately commands my senses—drink me. I give in and bask in the rich flavor.
“Yep. Paris. I studied at Le Cordon Bleu right after high school. I knew at a young age I loved cooking as an art. It was a passion of mine.”
“Was?”
“You’re highly perceptive, Ms. Prescott. And yes, it was a passion of mine. It still is—most days anyway.” He shrugs his shoulders, wraps his strong hands tightly around the mug, and looks down, deep in thought. “But not as much as I’d like it to be.”
“So…what’s changed?” I cautiously probe with high hopes of unlocking the reason why Knight and Daze has seemingly dwindled, like a once-blooming flower allowed to simply wither away.
Jonathan takes a sip of his coffee, “A lot has changed. More than I care to discuss right at the moment. Rain check? I’d much rather discuss my short-term and long-term goals…per your suggestion.”
Insert record scratch…
I try to study his expression but, at this moment his eyes appear cold, revealing nothing credible. “Right. Goals. Okay, so shall we begin with your short-term goals?” I ask, veering to full-on Restaurant Consultant mode.
“Short-term is simple. Improve my image and my restaurant’s image. Long-term, also pretty simple. Maintain said newly improved image.” He then produces that sexy smirk I’m growing fond of. “How’s your coffee?”
“Oh yes, well it’s quite scrumptious actually. The press certainly makes a huge difference. Plus I detect something unique—cinnamon perhaps?”
He raises both brows and nods, “Yes, you’ve got a noticeable palate. Cinnamon, a touch of nutmeg, and a hint of dark chocolate. It’s our signature blend. Java Man Joe.”
Java Man Joe was not the coffee Olivia served me—well at least I don’t think so because I never tasted it. And Wicked Salsa? I don’t recall these items called out anywhere on the Knight and Daze menu. Why?
“Jonathan, I believe the best way for me to help you achieve your short-term, long-term, and any other goals you may have not yet realized, is that I become fully engulfed in your business.”
“Fully engulfed… How?” He asks, appearing to be slightly uncomfortable with my claim. Still, according to Restaurant Consulting For Dummies, in order for me to be resultant in my approach in aiding in the restaurant’s restoration, I must consummately soak up all aspects of the business - soup to nuts. I need to become one with the establishment.
“Well, simply put, I need to become part of your team,” I reveal, “—just for a couple of days, until I have a thorough grasp on how operations are…as it stands today.”
Looking at Jonathan’s whole face light up, seeming to be amused by my spiel, almost frightens me. Once again, what the hell am I thinking? I know nothing about actually working in a restaurant. And somehow I’m convinced Jonathan is more than aware of this not-so-minor technicality.
“Fair enough,” Jonatha
n offers, a cynical tone to his hardy voice. His arms are folded, and his brows embossed conspiratorially. “Shall we begin in the kitchen?”
Chapter 11
“Shit just got kinda real…little lady,” Sebastian’s words dispatch through the speaker of my iPhone like an all-points bulletin. And the term real is an absolute understatement.
You see, I decided to call on Sebastian a few minutes ago to talk me down from the ledge of freaking-out-now that I am most certainly about to dive off of.
“Yeah, I know!” I practically whisper into my iPhone as I scrutinize my reflection in the mirror inside of the ladies’ restroom. I’m changing into a white chef coat Jonathan provided me a few minutes ago. You know, like right after I foolishly declared I need to be thrown into all parts of the business like fresh meat tossed to a pack of hungry wolves. Besides all of that, the chef’s coat is about two sizes too large. I look like I’m all draped up to partake in some type of culinary science experiment…on planet Uranus.
Sebastian snickers, sounding annoyingly entertained. “And explain again how you got yourself into this fascinating quandary?”
“I’m really glad you find this humorous.” I buck in sarcasm, rolling my eyes in disgust. As I lean against the bathroom wall, I notice a small window above one of the stalls. “Meanwhile I’m over here, laying out my escape plan. I can easily fit through the window, you know. Need I remind you it’s a Monday? For crying out loud, I really should be at home, curled up under the covers where it’s safe.”
“Sweetie, please snap a selfie and send it to me,” Sebastian interjects, blatantly ignoring my academy-award-worthy rant. “I’m dying to see you in that chef coat. It’s been a tough morning and a good gut-busting laugh is what the doctor ordered. That along with another green tea latte.”
“Sebastian really, I need your vote of confidence,” I plead, dodging the austere request flung my way. “I know in order to help Jonathan, being enthralled into all parts of his business is essential.” I slowly ease my back down the wall and sit on the cold tile floor. “But at the moment I’m feeling overwhelmed.”
“I’m sorry, baby girl. You’ve got this. And trust me, if I didn’t think you, of all people, could help him, you wouldn’t be there today. So tell me your plan.”
My plan. I bite my nails.
“Right. My plan.” I stand and begin to nervously pace the tile floor as I quickly devise a course of action. “Well, I suppose I’ll spend most of today observing and learning all about the kitchen, the chefs, the recipes, and the roles of Jonathan’s employees.”
“Then go get ‘em, doll. Break a sexy leg.”
I end my call with Sebastian, but somehow feel our conversation was far more therapeutic for him than it was for me. I take a final once-over in the mirror, maneuver my long hair into a crafty bun, adjust the eye-glasses that keep slipping down the bridge of my nose, and say to my reflection, “You, my lady, have got this shit.”
The next few hours seem to speedily pass by, like one of those high-tech, fast-motion video clips I sometimes watch on YouTube. I’ve shadowed almost everyone on every back-of-the-house station so far, which has garnered a respectable appreciation for the harsh demands restaurant work encompasses. As a food critic, I am categorically influenced by a restaurant’s service, atmosphere, value, and the fundamental execution of food advertised on the menu. However today, I’ve ceremonially gathered it’s so much more than all of that.
By 4pm, I feel physically debilitated, as if I’d finally participated in the New York City Marathon. My hair is emphatically awry, and both sides of what was once the white oversized chef coat are now artfully splattered with an array of colors—the aftermath of having unsightly collisions with all but one of the servers. I’m pretty sure I look like a walking abstract painting.
Jonathan encourages me to sit for a break and, after several of his failed attempts, I finally agree without further protest.
I remove the chef coat and stuff it into my bag, hoping I find some energy to wash it at home tonight. And after finding a booth in the back of the restaurant, I plunge into it like I’m its oreo cookie and it’s my cold glass of milk.
With my aching back sinking into the comfort of the booth’s cushion, I lie here, eyes shut, melting in the amenity of quiet relaxation—today’s rare commodity that is mine for the taking.
Jonathan’s hunky voice interrupts my moment of quietude. “Would you like some refreshments? I come bearing coffee and tiramisu cheesecake bites.”
At once, I pop up, feeling instantly revived. I mean even the walking dead probably can’t resist cheesecake.
He places two mugs of coffee and a plate with two petite portions of cheesecake, capped with a dollop of cocoa dusted whipped cream, onto the center of the table. My mouth waters at the sight and smell each item conjures.
“I added cream and two packets of sugar to your coffee. That is how you take yours, right?”
I nod yes, as I grab hold of the mug he slides over to me and offer a smile in appreciation.
He sits down across from me with a skeptical look to his expressive eyes. “You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted. But well worth it. I learned a great deal today. More than I expected to.”
Jonathan offers me a cheesecake and I graciously accept. And of course it’s love at first bite. Well the only bite. Bite-size literally means bite-sized.
“What do you think? About the cheesecake?” Jonathan asks, looking apprehensive and excited all at once.
“It was delicious, but I feel teased. Like I want more but know I’m only getting a bite.”
He laughs, “Perfect! That’s what I’m after. They are part of the Teaser Menu.”
Teaser Menu? I’m really starting to think this place has some sort of a secret menu like Starbucks. Add Teaser Menu to my never-before-seen offerings here at Knight and Daze.
“Jonathan, today you’ve introduced me to three things that aren’t mentioned anywhere on your current menu. The Wicked Salsa, the Java Man Joe coffee, and now dessert featured on a Teaser Menu I know nothing about. Can you explain why?”
Jonathan opens his mouth to speak when his cellphone rings. He glances at the caller ID as he removes the phone from the front pocket of his chef coat. He grimaces, “Shit. Hold that thought, I’ve gotta take this call really fast.”
He excuses himself from the table and walks toward the kitchen, speaking emphatic yet inaudible words.
When he returns a few minutes later, he seems perturbed. “I’m so sorry but I have to leave right now. I’ve gotta go pick up my little sister. She’s supposed to work the evening shift tonight as the hostess, but—”
“I’m sorry, your little sister?” I interject out of sheer curiosity.
He backs away in an obvious hurry to leave, “Yep. Her name is Olivia. Anyway, thanks for today. I’ll see you tomorrow? Around the same time?”
Jonathan disappears through the front doors of Knight and Daze leaving me…dazed.
The rude, pink-haired, gum-popping hostess, Olivia, is Jonathan’s little sister.
Yep. Shit just got kinda real.
Chapter 12
The next morning I am all too eager to get my butt over to Knight and Daze as early as possible, despite feeling dead tired. I stayed up half the night, pondering over a strategic game plan that will help me help Jonathan achieve his goals.
The first part of said strategy is to discover an approach that will lead Jonathan to divulge why his passion for cooking has lost its prominence. Trouble is, I don’t know him well enough to make him want to open up to me. I suppose I could inject him with magical truth serum. But I’m fresh out of that.
The second part of my strategy is getting him to be forthcoming about his apparent—Starbucks-like—secret menu. Although I’m relatively convinced he was just about to expose this yesterday—that is before our conversation was interrupted by that phone call. The one that made him abruptly leave me hanging to pick up his little sister.
When I told Sebastian about this last night while the two of us were having dinner at in-PHO-tuation—a fairly new Vietnamese fusion restaurant near our loft—his unsurprising response was, “You mean the rude little shit that served you the other day? Well, ain’t that some Anderson Cooper-ish style breaking news.”
I hop off the subway and begin my short stroll toward Knight and Daze.
The streets and sidewalks of TriBeCa are riddled with busy New Yorkers. Some in an obvious hurry to get somewhere, while others are simply out for a morning jog, a walk to the local bodega for coffee and a bagel, or dog walkers struggling to keep unruly dogs in line. My scenic drift along Leonard St. never ceases to amaze me as I’m always enamored by the trend setting lofts. I can only dream of someday living in one of them. Just a minor problem: TriBeCa lofts have become especially pricy. And don’t get me wrong; I fancy the quaint little Harlem loft I share with Sebastian. The two of us rent it at a reasonably decent price since the owner is a client of Manifique. Still, there is something about the sheer ambiance, buzz, and excitement TriBeCa seems to shed. ‘You’ve got Caviar Dreams’ is what Sebastian always tells me.
I’m caught off guard by a familiar-sounding voice bursting from a short distance behind me.
“Kennedy!”
Only, it takes a few seconds for me to conclusively realize I’m Kennedy. Duh.
Instinctively, I pivot my body to turn toward the voice and notice it’s Jonathan, almost out of breath, sprinting to catch up with me. He looks yummy…and sweaty, but not at all dressed in any sort of restaurant attire. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. Both articles of clothing highly accentuate his extremely chiseled physique. Stop staring, I dutifully tell myself. My eyes don’t follow the command—can I blame them? Uh, no.
“Are you on your way to the restaurant too?” I ask as he approaches me.
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 7