by Kim Barnouin
The only place I wanted to get married—Clementine’s No Crap Café—was a no go.
I had no idea what I wanted. Nothing sounded right. Not the beach, not a hotel, not some random space.
Yet I still had a feeling that no matter what Dominique came up with, my answer would have nothing to do with “letting it go.”
Maybe I was impossible too.
9
As I walked up Montana Avenue, I had nightmare visions of standing on a little step stool in the fitting room of some horrendous bridal salon with the five seamstresses hemming and pinning my huge, heavy, white princess ball gown, and Dominique Huffington barking instructions at them: “Tighter, tighter, tighter, until she can’t draw breath!”
With a half hour to spare before I had to hit my office in the restaurant, I ducked into the Tea Emporium for a chai and to decompress and focus. Not on Zach’s mother. Or the wedding. I settled into an overstuffed chair and pulled out my notebook, flipping toward the end where I’d written, New York Times Travel Section: Ideas for recipes. I had six weeks to settle on five dishes, in addition to five appetizers and three salads, to serve the reporter, who was bringing three friends. Based on her and their reactions to the food, ambience, service, locale, and me, Clementine’s No Crap Café would either make it into the article—or not.
Butternut squash in garlic sage sauce. My kick-ass chipotle chili. Mediterranean lasagna. My award-winning blackened-tofu stir-fry. Maybe the roasted-vegetable napoleon—in phyllo. Perhaps my spaghetti and wheatballs, which Gunnar’s little girl liked better than the “real” thing. The bruschetta, which no one could resist.
“Hey, Clem.”
I looked up to find one of my favorite people, Alexander Orr, fellow vegan chef, standing in front of my chair with a blueberry muffin in one hand and a take-out cup of something in the other. He looked fresh scrubbed and cute as always with his tousle of sandy-brown hair and dark brown eyes and constantly popping dimples. I stood up to hug him. “Got a sec? You’re just the guy I need to see right now. The New York Times might include my place in a piece on vegan restaurants and I have to get in. What five dishes would you make?”
He mock-stabbed himself in the heart. “I should have known you’d be my competition.”
Of course Fresh got the call too. It was one of the best vegan restaurants in LA. Alexander had replaced me as sous chef after his asshole boss fired me last summer for supposedly adding butter to a food critic’s ravioli.
“Wow, congrats. Can I bribe you to take a dive the day the reporter comes to Fresh?” He raised an eyebrow as though I could possibly be serious. “Kidding. May the best chef win.”
“Or both of us.” He sat down across from me. “Because guess who’ll get promoted to chef if the reporter includes Fresh in her piece? Emil’s hardly ever in these days because he and his wife are trying to adopt a baby, so his head’s there instead of in the kitchen. My lucky break. I’m still sous chef, but I’m acting chef. If I get Fresh in, Emil promised me the job.”
Fuzzballs. That kind of sucked. Figured Emil—my former bosss—would tie Alexander’s promotion to publicity for the restaurant. The guy was a classic douchecanoe. I hated Emil’s guts for firing me, though he’d ended up doing me a huge favor by forcing me to kick-start my own business. I wanted Alexander to get his totally deserved promotion, but I wanted Clementine’s No Crap Café in that article.
“No one, not even me, can come close to your blackened-tofu stir-fry,” he said, getting up. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Emil would bloody have my head.”
I smiled. Alexander was one cool dude.
“I miss hanging out with you, Clem. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Me too. I’m always at the restaurant.”
“Who isn’t?” He went completely still for a second. “Whoa. Is that what I think it is?” He was looking at my diamond ring.
“Just got engaged Saturday night.”
I caught the slight slumping of his shoulders. “Zach’s a lucky bloke,” he said in his usual earnest, wistful way that always made me want to hug him. I’d met Zach and Alexander around the same time, had everything in common with Alexander and zippo in common with Zach. But kissing Alexander had had the same noneffect as kissing my own brother on the cheek. And kissing Zach? Firecrackers. Marching bands. Sappy love songs.
“If you want to try out some recipes on me, you can count on me to be honest,” he said. “Even if we’re competition.”
“Same here.”
Then he took one last look at my ring, bit his lip, and was gone.
By noon, my ring was covered in pastry dough and lemon zest as I made blueberry pies for tonight’s dessert. I was my own pastry chef, so it was just me in the kitchen. ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” blasted from the iPod dock, six pies were either done or baking, and I was ready to move on to the other dessert specials, the baklava and mini vanilla-chai cupcakes.
For me, baking was as good as yoga and hikes with Zach and Charlie on the trails up in the mountains. The process unwound tight muscles, unclenched overworked brain cells. I always got the hard stuff out of the way first, so I’d attended to the books and inventory and paperwork in my office for the first hour, then I’d put on my apron, turned up the iPod, and forgot all about future mother-in-laws, soulless weddings, and competitions that might get a good friend fired and got baking.
I’d just measured out a cup of agave nectar for the baklava when ABBA’s “Fernando” was cut off. Startled, I turned around, and there stood Dominique and her stepdaughter, Keira.
“Sorry to startle you, Clementine,” Dominique said, “but that music was so loud you didn’t hear us arrive.”
What were they doing here? They looked so out of place in the kitchen.
Dominique wore a bright white sundress with the usual pound of bling, her huge pearl-white sunglasses atop her head. “Keira and I were shopping in the neighborhood and took a chance you’d be here. Zach says you practically live here.”
“That’s true,” I said, covering the agave nectar.
Dominique was staring at my ring, coated in dough. She looked horrified. “Of course, we haven’t discussed the actual date for the wedding, but if we’re to secure the places I’ve jotted down, I’ll need to give my personal assistant the information.”
Personal assistant—perfect. I could boss him or her around and wouldn’t have to deal with Dominique herself. “We haven’t even thought about a date yet. Zach and I are both so busy that—”
“Yes, well, we’ll likely choose the date based on availability,” she said, whipping out her iPhone, white like her dress. “I’m thinking the Beverly Hills Hotel, Chateau Marmont, or the Peninsula. I’ve taken Shutters off the list, since Jolie got married there, and of course you’ll want an original venue.”
No on all the above.
And I loved how it didn’t even occur to her to ask me what I was thinking.
“Dominique, Zach and I haven’t even discussed where we want to get married. For all I know, we’ll elope to Vegas and get hitched by an Elvis impersonator.” I said that only to piss her off a little.
She visibly shuddered. “Darling, no one is eloping. I’m so delighted to plan the wedding.” She stepped toward me and lowered her voice. “As you may know, Zach and I have had our differences, and we’ve only started to get closer recently. It means the world to me to help plan the most important day of his life.”
Dang. Was she being decent?
Keira, in bright red, skinny jeans and a long, flowy tank top, was making “aww” faces at her.
“Clementine,” Dominique said, “I can see you’ve got your own style. Of course I’ll take that into account. I’m having one of my favorite designers sketch some dresses, including, of course, the Kate.”
“The Kate?” I repeated.
She rolled her eyes. “Kate Middleton.” At my blank stare she said, “Future queen of England.”
Hadn’t I seen Prince William and Kate Midd
leton’s wedding photos on the cover of a zillion magazines? Kate’s dress had sleeves. Long sleeves. “I can tell you right now that my wedding dress will not have sleeves.”
“Open mind, darling. Both of us.”
I raised an eyebrow and she smiled. Which meant she was trying. I could hear Zach’s voice asking me to try too.
“Okay,” I finally coughed up, in the name of compromise. “But I get veto power. Everything gets run by me.”
She stared me down. “It’s usually others running things by me.”
I stared right back but couldn’t help the smile. “Yeah, me too.”
“I like you, Clementine Cooper. You’re your own woman. I think we’ll get along just fine.”
Ha. But maybe.
She and Keira then made small talk about the cooling pies and asked what I was making. I was in the middle of explaining baklava, which neither of them had ever had, when Dominique cut me off.
“Oh, Clementine, you just reminded me of the real reason we dropped in. I have a huge favor to ask.”
Okay, what was this? I should’ve known—buttering me up with that “you’re your own woman” stuff?
“Based on the other night,” Dominique began, “I could tell you needed some additional help in the kitchen, and Keira is thinking of getting involved in the cooking world. I’ve tried to tell her that culinary school or, God forbid, catering, is not for her, but you know twentysomethings—they think they know it all and sometimes you have to let them make their own mistakes.”
Good God.
“So some real-world experience would really help her come to that quicker. She could chop vegetables or what have you.”
Dominique had to be kidding me. “I’m sure she’d get more versatile experience at Zach’s restaurant. The steak house serves everything. Clementine’s No Crap Café is limited to vegan fare.”
Keira was biting her lip. “Well, actually, I tried working in the Silver Steer a few weeks ago and lasted for three hours. It’s not like Zach’s in the kitchen—or there at all—to help guide me. And the head chef? He’s vicious! The whole staff is. They screamed at me within the first five minutes because I chose the wrong size sauté pan. Honestly, they scared me to death. And they knew I was the owner’s stepsister too.”
“That’s the way restaurant kitchens are, though,” I reminded Keira. I’d worked for some real assholes along the way. Even the nice executive chefs were assholes with orders coming in on a busy night. Screaming, cursing, name-calling, getting singed literally and figuratively. That was life in a commercial kitchen.
“But, Clementine,” Keira said, “when we toured your kitchen after dinner last night, everyone was so nice. The kitchen staff was actually having a good time—while they were very busy. They were being so nice to each other. It was so . . . Zen.”
It was true that I ran my kitchen the way I’d always wanted kitchens I’d worked in to run—a team that helped each other out, not screamed in each other’s face or with a head chef that threatened to fire you every ten minutes.
Keira “Oh, I always forget cheese comes from a cow” Huffington in my kitchen?
“I’ll work really hard,” Keira said, practically batting her eyes at me.
I was about to say no as nicely as I could when my cousin Harry’s face popped into my mind. A month ago, Harry, five minutes out of business school with his MBA, asked if I could put in a good word at Jeffries Enterprises. Twenty-six-year-old Harry Cooper was my favorite cousin and had been living three thousand miles away for the past five years when he belonged in LA so we could hang out. Of course I put in a good word, which meant calling Zach and telling him to give Harry a job or else. Harry was now a junior accountant and took his job so seriously that he worked till eight every night and spent weekends in the office.
What was that annoying cliché? No good deed goes unpunished? It stood before me in the form of Zach’s stepsister. How could I tell Keira no when Zach told my cousin yes?
A test. A simple test that even Dominique couldn’t talk or pay Keira’s way out of. I grabbed a tomato from the wire basket on the counter. “Slice this tomato,” I told her.
With deep concentration, Keira stepped up to the counter, took the tomato, and eyed the knives on the board. She chewed on her lower lip for a second, then picked up the wrong knife and sliced way too thick.
Sorry, babe. Cousin Harry has an MBA. You can’t slice a tomato. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t have the time to train someone right now. A new restaurant needs experienced staff.”
Dominique pulled me over. “Please,” she whispered. “You’d be doing me a huge favor. She’ll see in a few days that working in a hot kitchen isn’t for her. And, darling, seriously, if family won’t, then who can we turn to?”
Oh, please.
“I’m a really fast learner,” Keira said. “I’ll work my butt off, I swear.”
Oh, hell.
I thought of myself right around the time I’d met Zach, when I got fired from Fresh because a jealous wannabe sabotaged me. No one would hire me. No one.
“I won’t let you down, Clementine,” Keira added. “If you’ll just give me a chance.”
I felt kind of bad for Keira, being set up to supposedly prove Dominique right.
I thought of Cousin Harry, so happy in his charmless cubicle. Damn. And hadn’t I planned to hire another pair of hands anyway?
It took forever for me to spit out my next word. “Okay. Your first day will be Wednesday.” I waited for her to complain that it was too soon. But she didn’t. “And you’ll have to start training yourself today until then—I want you to watch a bunch of videos on how to properly cut vegetables.” Still no objections. She was nodding quite seriously. “I’ll send you some links. Study them and practice. You’ll have to prove yourself in the kitchen. If the staff thinks you got hired because you’re related to Zach, it’ll create problems. You have to show your stuff.”
“Swearsies!”
I almost burst out laughing. Gunnar would never forgive me.
Dominique beamed.
While the baklava was baking, I texted Zach.
Me: Your stepsister is suddenly a kitchen trainee.
Zach: She’s a sweetheart.
Me: She can’t slice a tomato.
Zach: She might surprise you.
With what else she couldn’t do?
10
When I got back to my apartment around eleven that night, Sara wasn’t home, so I went into my bedroom to start packing up. Last night, Zach and I had spent hours in bed talking about how living together would be, how we wanted it to be. I’d never lived with a boyfriend before. I liked the idea of coming home to him every night—obviously, since I was marrying the dude. And his place was huge, so there would be a lot of space. Plus, Charlie the beagle. Always Charlie. God, I loved that little dog.
I was working on packing up my makeshift closet when I heard the door to the apartment open and slam shut. Uh-oh. Sara was pissed about something.
I came around the divider that separated my room from the living room. “What’s up?”
“Hey,” she said, dropping down on the red velvet couch and resting her feet on the coffee table with a thud. “Joe and I got into a huge fight. We sniped at each other throughout the last half of last night’s show, which the producer loved, of course. The audience went wild for it. Assholes. And then the fight continued the second we both opened our eyes this morning. I finally left and went to Greasy Spoon and ate a bacon and American-cheese omelet with home fries and then had a slice of cheesecake. So now I feel like double crap.”
I sat down beside her and put my feet up too. “What was the fight about?”
“You know how he abuses contestants on the live cook-off show? Yelling at them, berating them, egging on the audience to make fun of them and shout out insults?”
Yeah, I knew. I had been on the receiving end of his abuse on live TV. I couldn’t believe the cable network he was on let him get away with all the c
rap he pulled. But the show was sickeningly popular. Sara had been hired as his “good” sidekick to speak for the contestants who were too rattled to give it back to him. He called them losers who couldn’t cook their way out of an Easy-Bake Oven; she shouted back that he probably couldn’t even spell little. On and on for an hour, twice a week.
“Well, he went way too far with this poor guy who obviously was falling apart,” Sara said, “and then the guy burned his hand and forearm pretty bad on the oven rack and left in the middle of the show to go to the ER. So Joe yells, ‘The dork forfeits!’ And was saying all this crazy stuff, and I just stood there, looking at him, like, who the hell are you? The guy had to go to the ER and it’s like he didn’t even care. All night, I kept waiting for him to call the hospital and see how he was—even to ask his assistant or the producer how the guy was. But he never even mentioned the contestant again.”
“Did he see your side of it at all?”
She rolled her eyes. “He told me I was being too sensitive. That it was about ratings and it was the whole point of his show. It really bothered me. It’s one thing to be snarky. It’s another to be a total asshole.”
“Isn’t he always like that?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
She leaned back against the couch cushions. “I guess. But he’s worse on camera. Sometimes, when it’s just the two of us, when he’s not cracking jokes, he can be a good guy. But he’s always making fun of people on the street, you know? Like the jerks who used to make fun of my weight. The other day, he was laughing at some kid with bad hair and a shirt two sizes too small for him. Not to his face, but still. A kid.”
Just listen. Don’t say a word against him. She just needs to vent. She’ll figure it out for herself on her terms, on her time.
“Part of me wants to break up with him. But part of me still really likes him. Why do relationships have to be so impossible?”
“I know exactly what you mean.”