The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  Seeing Naomi so out of place made me feel more in place than I really was, and I felt determined to try hard to help her tonight. Her idea of art probably leaned toward objects made of gimp or woven on looms. But nutty as she often made me, I didn’t want to see her embarrass herself. For the first time, I saw Naomi as slightly vulnerable.

  “Here,” I offered. “I’ll do that.” I took a poster from her and began to hang a list of unacceptable workplace behaviors on the front of the table.

  I looked up to see Gavin Seymour, who made his way around the giant egg and headed toward me. I’d met Gavin a few times before and genuinely liked him. He usually dressed in fairly casual clothes, but tonight he was wearing a navy suit and gleaming black dress shoes. In his late thirties and extremely handsome, Gavin attracted women easily and enjoyed bachelorhood. He was a tough businessman, but it still amazed me that someone his age had amassed enough money not merely to lease the high-end property that would house Simmer, but to renovate it. Ordinarily composed, even restrained, Gavin was clearly fired up about Simmer’s first public appearance and practically skipped over to us.

  Josh looked up from the table where he was busy lining up ingredients to make more dressing for the beef medallions. “My man, Gavin!” he called to his approaching boss.

  “My man, Josh!” Gavin held a garment bag out to his new chef. “Look what I have for you.” He ceremoniously unzipped the bag to reveal a bright white chef’s coat for Josh. “All the coats arrived yesterday, and I just picked this one up from the dry cleaner. I know how you hate wearing new coats that haven’t been washed yet.” He removed the chef’s jacket from the hanger and passed it to Josh. “It’s your show now.” He grinned.

  “Hey, look at that stitching,” said Josh, admiring the deep red thread that spelled out his name under the restaurant’s. I left the harassment table to check out the jacket. “Feel the fabric, Chloe. That is one hundred percent Egyptian cotton. Absolute best. Don’t think this coat’ll stay white very long, so you better admire it now!”

  The fabric was thick and soft, and I could tell this was the kind of top-quality jacket that not every chef was lucky enough to wear. The buttons down the front and on the cuffs were covered in more white fabric, and the short collar had been pressed into place. Josh had been a little hesitant to ask Gavin for pure-cotton jackets, since not every boss was willing to spring for them, but Gavin had gone ahead and ordered these ultraexpensive ones for Josh. The cheaper coats were a cotton-poly blend—or, as Josh called them, “bullshit polyester pieces of crap”—that didn’t breathe and made chefs and line cooks sweat even more than necessary in already overheated kitchens.

  “Your Birkenstocks should be here tomorrow. Sorry I don’t have them for you now,” Gavin apologized.

  “Not a problem. I think I can make it through the night,” Josh assured him.

  The first time I’d heard that Josh wore Birkenstocks in the kitchen, I’d had visions of him whipping up culinary masterpieces clad in sandals identical to Naomi’s. Much to my relief, I learned that chefs often wore kitchen clogs rather than sandals suggestive of tofu and granola. Josh had explained that the long hours chefs were on their feet meant that they absolutely had to wear high-quality shoes or end up with terrible varicose veins, back problems, or other aches and pains. Chefs’ catalogues carried a variety of kitchen clogs, but trial and error had taught Josh that the London-style leather clog made by Birkenstock was the only way to go. He went through at least three pairs a year, and he’d gotten Gavin to spring for the high-priced footwear.

  Josh introduced Gavin to Eliot and Naomi.

  “We’re going to be neighbors, I see,” Eliot said, shaking Gavin’s hand.

  “You bet.” Gavin smiled. “I’ve always wanted a place on Newbury Street. This is where it’s all at. I had to outbid that Full Moon Group to get the location, but it was worth the money. They’re supposedly tough, and I never expected to outbid them, but I did. They’re a big-money group. They certainly have more than I do, but I got lucky.”

  Eliot laughed. “I’ve heard they’re tough. I know one of their restaurants has a table tonight at a gallery that belongs to a friend of mine. Anyhow, congratulations and welcome.”

  “Thank you. If you don’t have other plans, we’d love to have you over to Simmer on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll be there. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Naomi was looking worried about our table’s presentation and scurried off to hover over the flyers. Gavin wanted to go check out other galleries and restaurant tastings but promised to return to Simmer’s table. Eliot said he’d walk Gavin to the door. And that’s how Food for Thought began: with excitement, nervousness, generosity, and friendliness. I don’t really believe in bad omens, but for what it’s worth, there were none. I had no forebodings at all.

  FOUR

  Josh surveyed his tables. “I guess I better make more dressing now since I might not have time later.” He packed the Robocoupe full of herbs, oil, and lemon juice, and the noise from the big food processor prevented further conversation for the next few minutes.

  Unable to resist the lure of food any longer, I walked over to Josh and took a good whiff of the dressing. “Oh, that is amazing,” I said.

  One of the many things I loved about Josh’s food was that you were never overwhelmed by one particular flavor; the tastes and smells from his cooking blended seamlessly. I hated walking into a restaurant or eating a meal and thinking, Yup, that’s garlic, or Oh, lots of sherry in this. Josh’s food always consisted of some unidentifiable fusion of ingredients that left you wondering what made up that delicious flavor.

  “Glad you like it.” Josh smiled as he poured the dressing into a large stainless-steel container. He unplugged the Robocoupe, wrapped the cord around it, and lifted it off the table. “I’m going to move this beast out of the way for now. Hey, Eliot? Can I put this in your office?”

  “Absolutely. Put it on the floor, desk, whatever you want,” Eliot called back. He’d been pacing between the front of the gallery and our section at the back and was now heading to the front, probably to peer out onto Newbury Street, eager for people to start arriving.

  By six forty-five, the gallery was packed with art lovers and food lovers, and Josh was working up a sweat to meet the demand for his beef medallions. He had turned on a butane stove and had a skillet heated to the correct temperature. I nudged Naomi every time I saw someone nod and smile while sampling Josh’s food; I was beginning to fear that she’d end the night with a big bruise from all my elbowing. Our harassment booth had a few visitors, mainly people Naomi pounced on when they accidentally approached our table. Naomi’s tactic was to try to engage an innocent person in a discussion of workplace environments and then to interrogate her victim about acceptable and unacceptable behavior.

  I watched her in horror as she spoke to a frail woman of eighty or eighty-five who wore a rabbit-fur coat, a garment not designed to endear its wearer to Naomi, of course. Contemplating the probable ferocity of Naomi’s attack, I mentally prepared myself to leap across the table and catch the poor woman should Naomi cause her to faint.

  Naomi leaned over a mountain of flyers and spoke with urgency. “Do you think it is appropriate for your boss to ask you about what kind of panties you wear? Or what your favorite sexual position is?” That was my cue.

  “Ahem, perhaps she would prefer to just take some informational packets with her.” I shoved a folder at the surprised woman, who immediately and wisely limped off, leaning on a cane.

  Naomi turned to me. “Employers and coworkers say things like that, Chloe, and it doesn’t help anyone to pretend that it doesn’t happen. I know you find my style to be somewhat aggressive, but, Chloe, we have got to make people of all generations and all backgrounds understand the reality of what can happen in workplaces across the country. We’ve got to be outspoken and make our voice heard. Give it a try.”

  A few moments later, Naomi lectured a young man o
n the requirement that every workplace have a sexual harassment policy in place. Would he like her to come to his office and give a presentation? I heard him respond that he was only sixteen and that the only job he had was shoveling his parents’ driveway. So far, he insisted, the only unacceptable thing either of them had done was to refuse to buy him a snowblower.

  I decided to take a short break.

  I told Naomi that I’d be right back and made my way through the crowd to grab a drink. The unseasonably warm weather, combined with a steady crowd and Josh’s butane stove, had heated up the gallery. The only relief came from a welcome draft of cool air in back of our tables. Someone, I realized, must have propped open the back door to cool down the room. I made my way past the sculptured egg and through the crowd, grabbed two bottled waters from the bar, and worked my way back to Josh’s tables, where he had just refilled platters with beautiful focaccia crisps and was searing the thinly sliced beef in the skillet. Considering how popular his table seemed to be, I was surprised to see him looking stressed. He usually loved being the center of attention.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked as I handed him a bottle of water.

  “Mishti Patil is here.” He frowned.

  “Get out! That’s excellent!” Mishti Patil was the restaurant reviewer in Boston. She wrote a weekly newspaper review and also did guest reviews for local magazines and online publications.

  Josh shook his head and whispered to me. “No, it’s not excellent. I don’t want her here eating food I’m cooking off of a goddamn cafeteria table. Whatever. The beef is fine, but it’s not the first dish of mine I want her to taste. And when she came over here, she told me Gavin had invited her to opening night. I mean, opening night! Can you believe that?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Chloe, opening night is going to be crazy, and I don’t want a reviewer there! It’ll be the first night the whole staff has been on. Nobody will know what they’re doing. It’s going to be a mess. Opening nights always are. We should’ve just opened the restaurant quietly, worked out all the kinks, and then had an official opening where we invited people like Mishti. Now, she’ll show up on New Year’s and see chaos. This is ridiculous,” he fumed while placing beef slices on focaccia. “I mean, Jesus, the kitchen isn’t even ready to cook in yet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m psyched that he gutted the place and that he’s putting in all the new equipment and everything, but we haven’t even had a real run-through. I still have to finish teaching my cooks how to make and plate all the dishes.”

  I hadn’t realized how unready Josh felt for the opening. “Well,” I said hopefully, “did she seem to like your food tonight?”

  He sighed deeply. “I have no idea.”

  We were interrupted by Naomi. “Oh, it looks beautiful, Josh. Could I have one without the red meat, though?”

  Josh managed not to roll his eyes and graciously made a plate of focaccia crisps and dressing for Naomi. Eliot appeared, looking more bug-eyed and frizzy-haired as the evening kicked into gear.

  “Guess what? Randolph Schmitt, who’s the organizer of this entire event, is going to give a toast here sometime tonight! I’ve heard he’s going to do three or four toasts at different galleries tonight, but this will be his first stop.” Eliot looked as if he intended to jump up and clap his feet together in a celebratory jig, but he just reached out and clutched Naomi’s hands in his, evidently because she was the only one who appeared as excited as he was.

  I’d invited my parents, together with my sister, Heather, and her husband, Ben, and spotted them in the big front room of the gallery. Heather and Ben looked relaxed and relieved to have a night out without their two children. I stood on tiptoe to wave to them. I caught Heather’s eye, and she waved back excitedly as she pointed next to her.

  What has she done?

  My ex-boyfriend, Sean Blackett, was standing right beside my sister.

  I am going to kill her! First, I am going to take back the expensive sweater from Ann Taylor Loft that I gave her for Christmas, and then I am going to kill her! What in God’s name was Sean doing here? As far as I knew, he had no interest in art. I looked around in the hope of seeing that he’d come with friends but saw him surrounded only by my family members.

  Mental note: Add to Naomi’s list.

  6. Having ex-boyfriend (brought by dumb sister) appear at new boyfriend’s event.

  “Crap, crap, crap,” I muttered.

  “What?” Josh asked.

  Oh, God. Josh. There was no way I could avoid some dreadful introduction here. I mean, the gallery was only so big, and Sean might actually want to eat something at a food event, meaning that he’d end up right in front of Josh and me.

  “It appears that my lunatic sister has unearthed my ex, Sean, and now we are all squashed together in this fricking art gallery celebrating the holidays together!” I was, perhaps, going to have some sort of anxiety attack.

  “Well, let’s get a look at the ex then, shall we?” Josh teased, standing on his toes to get a good view.

  “Argh! This is a nightmare. I better go say hello and get this over with. I’ll be right back.” I walked toward Sean and my family and tried to think of polite things to say.

  Sean had been a great boyfriend, but he just wasn’t someone I’d wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Heather, on the other hand, thought Sean and I should’ve run off into a picturesque sunset and had forty babies together. And she knew damn well that when I’d broken up with Sean I’d been left with monster-sized guilt over dumping an altogether nice guy.

  To top it off, Sean didn’t look particularly good tonight. His whole body had thinned out. Not that he’d been heavy when we were dating, but now he looked sort of gaunt and pitiful. And he’d started wearing glasses. Look what I’d done to him! Maybe I’d upset him so badly that he’d barely eaten in the past few years? And I’d caused his eyesight to fail? I had zero interest in facing someone whose heart I’d crushed, but I forced an enthusiastic smile.

  “Sean! What a surprise! It’s great to see you,” I lied. I gave him a brief hug and gave my sister the finger behind his back.

  “God, Chloe. It’s been a long time,” Sean said. “I hope you don’t mind I’m here. Heather called me and invited me to come out with everybody tonight. I thought it’d be good to see you again.”

  “No, of course I don’t mind.” But I did mind.

  I hugged my brother-in-law, Ben, who whispered in my ear, “I cannot begin to apologize enough for this. I swear I had nothing to do with it.” I loved Ben. He was always clean-cut and well-groomed, but tonight he looked especially put together. I could tell he’d recently had his monthly haircut, and his short, neat style showed off his high forehead and warm, green eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I know it was all Heather,” I tried to reassure him, although I couldn’t help wondering whether the whole family was engaged in some horrible reunite-Chloe-with-Sean conspiracy. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” I turned to my parents. My mother was wearing a tremendously awful cape-like thing on which she had affixed patchwork squares. Her latest craft obsession?

  “Hi, sweetie.” Mom gave me a hug. I tried to avoid chafing my cheek on her cape. “Where’s the food?” she asked.

  “Yes, where’s the food?” Dad chimed in, craning his head over the crowd. “Oh, yeah. Nice to see you, too, kiddo,” he teased. But at least he gave me a sympathetic look that I took as a reference to the Sean problem. I was pleased to note that my father had not only run a comb through his graying hair but had traded in his usual jeans and flannel shirt for a pair of corduroys with coordinating jacket and dress shirt.

  “Down this way.” I gestured to the back of the gallery. “Mom and Dad, come with me. I have to get back to the Organization’s booth, anyhow. Heather, why don’t you stay here and get something to drink, okay? I’ll see you guys in a little bit.” I glared at her. I wanted to keep Sean away from Josh for the moment.

  “What has your idiot daughter done this time?” I av
oided screaming at my parents as we moved toward Josh. “Sean said Heather called him? She is a piece of work.”

  “I don’t even know what to tell you, Chloe. I cannot imagine what she was thinking,” Mom shook her head. “Oh, there’s Josh!”

  “Jack and Bethany! You made it,” Josh said to my parents. My parents greeted Josh, whom they adored, and immediately asked him for a full description of the food he had prepared. I felt a little better realizing that my parents were complete fans of Josh. I left them hovering over their plates and returned to Naomi.

  “There you are!” she said. “We had a rush of interested people here. This is such great publicity for us!”

  “Really? That’s good news.” Naomi was so happy that I couldn’t help smiling at her. Maybe she had relaxed enough to stop accosting everyone who stepped too close to our table.

  Our piles of information had been significantly reduced, so I reached under the table and pulled out more brochures, fact sheets, and flyers from a box and restocked our table. Naomi was right; our table was doing well. I spent the next twenty minutes busily describing our organization to visitors. I was surprised at how much I knew about the Organization and wondered whether I’d been absorbing more information than I’d thought. When things quieted down, I realized that I hadn’t even tasted Josh’s food, so I excused myself and walked over to the good smells.

  Josh was speaking with two sets of well-dressed couples who were standing at Simmer’s table. “Hey, Chloe. This is Oliver and Dora Kipper, and Barry and Sarka Fields. Oliver and Barry are from the Full Moon Group,” Josh said, giving me a knowing look. Oh. The very same Full Moon Group that Gavin outbid for Simmer’s location! “You know, they own Lunar, the Big Dipper, and Eclipse?”

  Despite the fancy space-themed names, those places were pretty much bars and nightclubs, not restaurants. The Full Moon Group had just finished some sort of marketing blitz; you could barely go anywhere in Boston without hearing or reading something about its clubs. I’d been to Lunar a few times with Adrianna, but it was such a meat market that we hadn’t been there for a while. For one thing, she and I both had boyfriends now. For another, it was … well, a meat market. Lunar served food of some kind, but it wasn’t exactly known for gastronomic originality. I couldn’t even remember its menu—and on the subject of food, I’m known for my total recall.