by Meg Benjamin
“You don’t need a rooster if you’re just doing eggs.”
“I want a rooster.” Her lower lip trembled. “I want Robespierre back.”
Joe put his arms around her, pulling her against his chest so that she wouldn’t see his gritted teeth. “Okay, okay, leave the hen out here to hatch her chicks. She’ll probably be all right. You could even let one or two of the other hens hatch out a brood if they’ve got some eggs from yesterday, assuming Robespierre left a few legacies around. That way you’d have extra chickens to pick up the slack from the ones you lost and for when your older hens stop laying.”
“Stop laying?” She stared up at him with anguished eyes.
“Skip it.” He sighed. “Let’s just leave her to her business. You can come back up to the Rose and help Darcy and me try out some recipes for this freakin’ contest.”
She nodded, nestling her head into the curve of his shoulder. “Okay, I can chop stuff up, I guess.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of having you serve as taster.” Joe moved her slowly toward the back door. “Let’s go see what we can do with some roasted beets.”
“I hate beets,” she muttered against his collarbone. “I want to taste Darcy’s dessert.”
He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
MG stared down at the load of lettuce in the sink that she was supposedly washing. She really needed to focus. Joe had managed to get her some extra hours working Sunday brunch. The money would help, of course, but so would the distraction. Sitting around watching the chickens, and hoping that Robespierre might come wandering back, was beginning to take a toll on her disposition.
Of course, her disposition was the least of her problems. Ever since the attack on the chickens, she’d found herself feeling less and less optimistic about her ability to keep making the payments on the farm. It wasn’t that the eggs had brought in so much money. It was just that the chickens seemed like one more thing that had headed south in her life. Try as she might to be upbeat about her chances, she was beginning to feel like the loss of the chickens was the beginning of the end.
“Are you doing anything in particular?” Darcy’s voice snapped her out of her morning funk. She seemed to be experiencing a lot of morning funks lately. That was something she had to stop.
She sighed, staring down at the half-washed lettuce. “Just cleaning lettuce. Why? Aren’t you supposed to be out keeping track of the line?” She glanced toward the crowd of diners moving through the buffet. Jorge was carving a glistening ham at the end.
Darcy shrugged. “Joe’s taking care of it. Hell, Placido could probably take care of it. It’s just a buffet. We don’t even do omelets on Sundays.”
MG wiped her hands on a towel. “So what do you need?”
“Kitchen slave. And taster. You up for it?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Does it involve beets?”
Darcy shook her head. “That’s Joe’s thing. Right now I need help on grits. We’re going to try introducing them on the buffet next month.”
MG followed her across the room to a currently unused part of the kitchen. “I used to eat a lot of grits in Tennessee. Can’t say I ever cooked them, though.”
Darcy shrugged. “They’re easy, but they taste like library paste unless you add something to them. And they take a while to cook, which means we need to compare instant and full strength to see if we could maybe get by with instant.”
“Define a while.” MG grabbed a clean apron from the shelf, tying it securely around her waist.
“Say forty minutes.” Darcy grimaced. “It’s sort of like rice—not exact. You have to keep checking.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Darcy pulled her beanie down more tightly over her hair, still tipped in magenta. “Like I say, you have to add something to the grits if you want any flavor. I’m in favor of bacon since it’s breakfast. Joe’s holding out for cheddar. We’ll make four or five batches with a lot of variables and see what stuff we like best. Maybe see if we can round up somebody else to taste.”
MG narrowed her eyes. “What do you need me for?”
“You cook the grits. I’ll figure out the variations.”
“You don’t just throw the cheese in when you put the grits and water on the stove?”
“Sometimes. That’s one of the variables. Just cook the grits, slave.” Darcy gave her a dry smile.
MG stopped, folding her arms across her chest. “Did Joe put you up to this? Is this some half-assed thing about keeping me occupied so I won’t sit around and brood about the chickens?”
Darcy shrugged, pulling a bag of grits onto the counter. “I don’t know what Joe’s got in mind. What I’ve got in mind is cooking up a large mess of grits and seeing what happens. Are you in or not?”
MG sighed. “I’m still getting paid, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Darcy handed her the grits. “Okay?”
“Okay. I need the money. I may have to buy a new rooster.”
Darcy grinned. “I don’t even want to ask if that’s a metaphor. Get cracking, slave.”
Joe spent the afternoon roasting beets and tasting grits. He hadn’t had a recipe tasting afternoon in a while, but the contest was so close he figured they had to try it. He did variations on vinaigrettes using almost every oil and vinegar he had sitting in the pantry. He even managed to get MG to taste the golden beets with the pecans and goat cheese, which she pronounced passable. Jorge, Leo and Placido had all escaped from the kitchen somewhere around the third or fourth salad iteration. By four, everybody still left in the kitchen was looking a little glazed.
“So what do you think?” Darcy asked. “And the winner is?”
“You mean beets or grits?”
“Grits. I’m too tired of tasting beets to say anything about it.”
He shrugged. “I still say cheddar. But if you want to try mincing some bacon really fine with the cheddar, we can give it a whirl.”
“Regular or instant grits?”
Joe sighed. “Regular. It’s going to be a pain in the ass with the small staff on Sunday brunch, but the taste is significantly better.”
“If anybody offers me another spoonful of grits, I’m moving to New England,” MG muttered.
Darcy rolled her eyes. “Wimp.”
“Okay, let’s call it a day.” Joe pulled off his apron. “As far as the contest goes, we’ve got the salad and the quail down. Now we need to finish the dessert.”
“The dessert’s good to go,” Darcy said stoutly. “We finished with that yesterday.”
“I’d still like to see a little more bite in that compote. Maybe try some lemon next time.”
“Okay, so I’ll try it again.” Darcy sighed. “Are we coming in tomorrow?”
Joe nodded. “Can’t afford a day off this close to the competition. We need to be ready by Friday, which means getting the orders for the food done by Wednesday at the latest.”
“Okay, jefe, see you tomorrow.” Darcy grinned at MG. “You too, slave. You’re getting really good with the grits.”
“I’d say something about kissing my grits, but I’m too tired.” MG grimaced.
“Come on.” Joe took the apron out of her hands and tossed it into the laundry along with his own. “I’ve got a sudden hankerin’ for the Faro.”
“Oh god, I can’t eat anything else,” she groaned. “I’m still stuffed to the eyeballs with grits. And beets.”
“Okay, then, you can drink. Tom Ames’s bar is craft beer central.”
She sighed. “Okay. Is this another ploy to keep me away from the house so I won’t brood about my chickens?”
Joe slung his arm around her shoulders. “Do you need a reason not to brood about your chickens?”
She paused looking up at him. “I don’t know. I’m grateful to you for taking my mind off what happened, but I’m not sure how long the good feelings will last. Sometimes it just seems like everything is going south.”
&nbs
p; He kissed the top of her head. “I’d tell you not to worry, but I know that wouldn’t do any good. Just trust me. I’m with you on this.”
For a moment, she looked like she was blinking away tears. Then she blew out a breath. “Okay. I can do that.”
“Good enough. Let’s go see what Clem’s got on the menu.”
The Faro was still fairly active for a Sunday night, but most of the customers came from Konigsburg instead of the usual tourists. Deirdre Ames came by their table smiling. “So you’re going head-to-head with Clem in that cooking contest Saturday? You know she’s the queen of the short order, right?”
Joe gave her a lazy smile. “I wouldn’t challenge her on that, darlin’. And if this is a semi-transparent effort to find out what we’re cooking in the contest, tell Clem I didn’t crack.”
Deirdre laughed, showing perfect teeth to go with her perfect complexion and perfect figure. He could see how the average woman might find her really annoying. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t even know what Clem’s going to make. I plan on standing back and watching the show, just like everybody else.”
Clem emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Joseph. Come here to spy?”
He shook his head. “Came here to eat. What’s your specialty tonight?”
“Specialty is chicken quesadillas made with leftovers from yesterday. I’d recommend the catfish.” Clem grinned. “Not that my leftovers don’t rock, you understand.”
“Understood. Catfish it is.” He turned toward MG. “Want anything?”
She shook her head wearily. “No. Like I said, I’m full of…” She glanced at Clem, then licked her lips. “…stuff.”
Clem shook her head, grinning. “Experimenting in the kitchen are we?”
“You mean to tell me you aren’t?” He took a swallow of the draft Deirdre had placed in front of him. Not bad at all
Clem’s brow furrowed. “Okay, if I say I’m not, you’ll figure I’m doing something from the regular menu. And if I’m not doing something from the regular menu, I might want you to think that I was, so no, of course I’m not.”
Joe blew out a breath, subsiding in his chair. “Give me a break, Clemencia. We won’t be doing the same kind of stuff no matter what we’re doing. It’s going to depend on the judges and what they’re in the mood for.”
She gave him a sour smile. “You mean comfort versus high class gastronomic adventuring?”
“Ah, like I say, give me a break.” He rubbed his hands across his face. “Already I’m sick of this thing.”
Clem sighed as she dropped into the seat beside him. “Prepared to be a little sicker?”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Tolly Berenson just hired a new head chef at the Silver Spur.”
“So?” Joe shrugged. “He had to do that sooner or later. The damn restaurant can’t limp on with line cooks forever.”
“It’s not so much that he has one as it is the one he’s hired. It’s Todd Fairley.”
MG’s head snapped up. “The Beav? Why would he hire the Beav?”
“Goddamn son of a fucking bitch,” Joe muttered.
Clem shrugged. “Most of us around town figured when you fired the asshole it was for something pretty bad. My money was on theft. Lee thought theft or messing around with the staff. Tolly apparently didn’t give a crap. I assume he didn’t call you for a reference.”
Joe shook his head. “I would have told him straight out what kind of guy Fairley is. And I told Fairley I’d rat him out to anyone who asked when I kicked his ass out the door.”
“He probably told Tolly he could give him the inside scoop on whatever you’re doing for the contest. Given that Tolly sees you and Brenner’s as his biggest competitors, he’d find that really appealing.”
“If he did, Tolly’s in for a major disappointment,” Joe growled.
“So Tolly deserves whatever he gets.” Clem prodded the placemat with her forefinger. “But now you know Fairley will be running the contest for the Silver Spur.”
“Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know what we’re doing.”
Clem nodded decisively. “Good. Because you have to figure he’s going to be out for revenge. Although I don’t know what kind of revenge that dickwad could come up with.”
“Yeah, well, I’m shaking in my boots. Is there any catfish in my future, Clemencia?”
“Trying to get rid of me, huh?” Clem grinned as she pushed herself up, turning to MG. “Want me to send you out a salad? I’ve got some decent raspberry vinaigrette. Unless that’s what you were eating all afternoon.”
MG gave her a bland smile. “A salad would be great. Thanks.”
As soon as Clem had disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door, she turned to Joe. “Could the Beav sabotage you some way?”
Joe shook his head. “Not likely. But it’s another complication.”
“Terrific. More complications. I’m thinking I’d prefer a little simplifying.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, letting her curls drift around her face. If he hadn’t been so hungry, he would have suggested forgetting about dinner and heading back to her place. He still might do that if she didn’t stop messing with her hair. It was a major turn-on. Instead, he took another swallow of his beer.
MG’s eyes widened as somebody else stepped up to the table. Joe glanced back to see Chico Burnside in all his massive glory. His dark hair was slicked back from his face and tied with a leather strip. He wore his usual jeans with a T-shirt and leather vest. He wrapped one massive hand around the top of one of the chairs and turned it around so that he could sit with his arms resting on the back. “Evening.”
Joe didn’t think he’d ever exchanged more than a couple of words with Chico Burnside, but there was a first time for everything. “How’s it going?”
Chico glanced at him briefly, then shrugged. “Good enough.” He turned to MG. “Are we good for Friday?”
Joe blinked. MG had a date with Chico? He sure hoped he wasn’t going to have to fight him over it.
She shrugged. “Sure. What time?”
“I need you to do a couple sets, then be ready to fill in for anybody else who doesn’t show up. Say two in the afternoon and maybe again at six. And you can fill in on Saturday afternoon if you’re around.”
MG nodded. “I can do that. I need to be down the street for the cooking competition on Saturday, though.”
“Not a problem. Contest’s at three or so, as I recall. You can come here and then go on over. I’ve got you scheduled right before the headline acts start playing at seven on Friday.”
MG’s shoulders tightened slightly. Joe wondered if she was nervous. “Great.”
“One other thing you need to know—you get paid out of the contribution bucket. All the artists up until the headliners get an equal share of the take. We’ll have buckets set up all around the beer garden so you should get a decent payout.” He pushed himself to his feet, the chair creaking under the weight of his hand. “Any questions?”
MG shook her head. “Seems square.”
“It is. Plus you get food from the kitchen and water. Beer you have to pay for.”
“Right.”
“See you.” He nodded at MG, glanced at Joe, and sauntered back across the room. Assuming that somebody that big could ever be said to saunter.
“I forgot you were playing.” Joe picked up his beer. “I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to hear you.”
“And I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to watch the end of the contest. But I guess we’ll work it out.”
“I guess we will.” He smiled as he watched one of the waitresses swing through the kitchen door. “And here comes the catfish. Life is good.”
Or passable. He wasn’t yet sure which.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The rest of the week passed in a haze. MG worked from ten until three in the kitchen at the Rose, then either practiced or got ready for performances. On Tuesday, she helped Darcy with a
wedding dinner and picked up a few more hours, but by the time the evening was over, she was ready for someone to carry her off to bed.
Fortunately for her, Joe was more than willing.
Sometimes she managed to push off the feeling of hopelessness that had descended after the coyote attack. Sometimes she looked out at the back yard and felt as if a stifling overcoat made of gray clouds had been dropped on her shoulders.
Joe and Darcy spent all their spare time making dozens of versions of their contest entries until everyone in the kitchen was screaming for mercy. Even the dishwashers flatly refused to eat any more quail. Only the waiters, some of whom were endlessly hungry college students, continued to consume beets, quail and panna cotta in amazing quantities.
Joe made it to her Wednesday show, cheering lustily when she threw in a version of Guy Clark’s “Texas Cooking.” By now Dewey and his bartender knew him by sight. Dewey even asked his opinion on adding food service at the hall, and Joe managed to be politely noncommittal.
The show itself was packed. Of course, the headliners were a group from Lubbock that was well-known locally, so she couldn’t take all the credit. Still, it was great to play for a full house, and she tried out a couple of new songs. Dewey stopped her after the performance.
“How about coming back Friday afternoon this week, sugar? We’ll be doing some extra shows for that Wine and Food thing. Got Roy Sanchez bringing his barbeque truck over from Dripping Springs. Should get a good turnout.”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m already booked at the Faro for two sets on Friday. And I’m supposed to fill in that night.”
Dewey nodded morosely. “Guess I should have booked you earlier, sugar. You’re getting a real following here.”
MG managed to keep the idiot grin from spreading across her face. She figured it wouldn’t do her any good in future negotiations with Dewey if he knew how much she enjoyed being adored. “Thanks. That’s good to know.”
“Got any time Sunday? I’m doing a no-cover show with different people playing all afternoon.”