by Hazel Parker
“You see?” Tira says, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “All’s well that ends well.”
“I don’t know,” I say gloomily. “I have a feeling that this is a long way from over.”
With Stone and Jeff’s exit, the rest of the afternoon passes pleasantly. The girls and I don’t play any more golf, but that’s not what today is about, anyway. Instead, it was all about loosening up the bands of tension in my neck and shoulders, as well as banishing the lead ball that was sitting in the pit of my stomach. By the time Tira drops me off back at my apartment, I’m actually feeling pretty good.
I briefly contemplate going into one of the restaurants to work, but then reconsider. I have a good staff at all three places, more than competent. They can handle things while I’m away for a day. It wouldn’t say much for my confidence in them if I just show up and take over the show.
That doesn’t mean I can’t plan from home, though. I work on the week’s specials menus for a while, making lists and getting organized.
I like being involved in every aspect of the restaurant business, from working over the stove to making the crack-of-dawn journey to the farmer’s market for the best, freshest ingredients. If I were to have a superpower, it would be the ability to be in more than one place at once. The transition time when I have to travel from place to place often drives me up the wall.
It’s well after dark before I knock off for the day. Between the exercise earlier, the drinks after, and the intensely concentrated brainstorming session I’ve just put in, I’m physically and mentally spent. Sleep should come easy tonight.
I look at the clock and see that it is almost exactly twenty-four hours since the fire at Stone’s place. Time flies when you’re repressing a disastrous experience.
Stone. I frown as I gather up my notes and snap my laptop closed.
I had been spared a possible public tongue-lashing at the club today, but I had also meant it when I told Tira I didn’t think the business was over with yet. Angry billionaires can be a problem for us working stiffs.
Still putting my things away, I reflect on the near miss. As terrified as I had felt, and as relieved as I had been to return to see those two empty chairs, I was still curious about Stone.
I had been right about him being in good shape—one look at his tanned and toned arms in his short-sleeved Polo shirt had told me that. And I can’t speak for the other girls at the table, but I had looked more than once in the brief time we had all been at the table together, however awkwardly. It had been much easier to ogle his arms than to meet his eyes.
Those eyes. Brown and intense.
And full of resentment, I think. Don’t forget that.
Suddenly, I feel more tired than ever. The events of the past two days are catching up with me and I’m crashing hard. It takes everything I have left to brush my teeth before I fall into bed early and sleep like a dreamless log.
My last thought before drifting quickly off is that tomorrow it will be back to work and routine and sanity and I won’t have to see Trent Stone ever again.
Chapter 6 - Trent
“This is a long way from over,” I say into the phone.
On the other end, my contact man, Scott, heaves a big sigh.
“Trent, you need to let this thing go, at least a little. It was an accident. Accidents happen.”
“No, an accident is when you burn the toast, not when you burn an entire house down.”
“Your whole house didn’t burn down,” Scott says patiently. Patience is one of his best characteristics, and it’s his methodical nature that I can rely on for odd requests such as the one I’ve called him to make.
“It was just your kitchen and a little bit of hallway,” he goes on. “Bad, yes, but not what you would call a total loss. You could almost be said to being petty with this request.”
My homeowner’s insurance completely covers the cost of rebuilding the damage to my home, of course, but the figure for it is still pretty impressive. I quote the figure to Scott and ask him if that sounds petty. He admits that it doesn’t.
“Okay, okay,” he says, conceding. “Run me through your ‘plan’ one more time.”
“It’s simple,” I reply. “I need the sharpest-tongued food critic in the business. Someone with a razor blade in their mouth. The kind that restaurant owners go into a cold sweat at the thought of.”
“And you want this person to go to White’s restaurant to do a hatchet job on the food there?”
“Not at all,” I say. “I want a fair and impartial review of the restaurant in question.”
“‘Fair and impartial?’ Is that why you’re looking for the culinary equivalent of a contract killer?”
“I want a total professional, someone who won’t pull any punches when it comes to criticism, especially if the situation calls for it.”
Another sigh. “Trent, let’s be honest here—you want to savage this woman’s reputation as revenge.”
I say nothing.
“Trent?” he prompts.
“Still here,” I say. “Start making the calls. Remember, I want—”
“I know, I know,” Scott interjects. “You want the best.”
“Not just the best,” I tell him. “The toughest there is. Get back to me when you’ve got the deal clinched.”
Scott hangs up. He’ll come through. He always does. I’m so sure of this that I go ahead and call White’s third restaurant, the one with the Michelin Stars, to book a reservation for tonight. I believe in striking while the iron, or in this case, the kitchen, is hot.
A little while later, Scott calls me back. Chicago’s most feared food critic, Angelo Tomasso, is now at my disposal for the evening. In the food circles, Tomasso’s nickname is “The Closer” because in the wake of his scathing reviews, several of the high-end restaurants in town had closed.
I have seen him in action on television, on the food channel as a cooking show guest judge. He had reduced one of the contestants, a fireman from Detroit, to tears with his brutal evaluation of the man’s cooking.
He sounds perfect.
I get in touch with Tomasso, who sounds as humorless as a Dark Ages monk in a drafty castle cell. He’ll do it, but he won’t be happy about it. In the first place, he doesn’t sound like the kind of person who’s ever happy about anything anyway, and in the second place, he’s having gall bladder surgery the following week and is thus feeling, in his words, “grouchy.”
This just gets better and better.
“I don’t owe many people many favors,” he says. The tone of his voice suggests he has plenty of acid to spare for his opinions, which is fine by me. “I owe Scott Wilson one, though, and I’m obliged to do this for him.”
“And I appreciate it,” I tell him. “The reservation’s at seven.” If White finds out I’m behind this, she’s likely to be nettled that I scheduled Tomasso for dinner at the same time she had served me during her ill-fated outing this past weekend.
“I write my reviews from the notes I take during the meal. I’ll have my piece ready later tonight.” He pauses. “It never takes me long to write up a disappointing experience.”
“And I’ll get to read it before it goes to press?” I ask.
“An uncommon perk I’m allowing in exchange for triple my usual fee. And of course, my review will stand as it is, with no editing on your part.”
“I completely trust your judgment,” I assure him, resolving to add a little extra to his fee for his trouble, especially given his condition.
After I hang up, I tell myself that Tomasso is a professional. White is one, too. If she weren’t, her restaurant never would have gotten Michelin Star status.
What I’m curious to see is how she deals with what went down at my house on Saturday night, if she’s rattled by it or if she can still bring her A game.
In the business world, failure is a big part of success, or at least it’s what you do with failure. Do you wallow in it and let it hold you down, or do you learn from it?
I want to see how White deals with failure. I want to see what she’s made of.
And so, a little trial by fire is in the making. I busy myself with other tasks but am looking forward to an enlightening phone call later in the evening.
“Her Michelin Stars are well-earned,” Tomasso reports to me shortly after ten o’clock.
“So you’re saying the meal was good?” I ask, a little incredulous. If I were a betting man, I would have put money on White being too shaken up to execute a flawless dish, which, apparently, she had.
“Beyond reproach,” Tomasso confirmed. “I even added in some special dietary requests. They were executed beautifully and in no way took away from the food itself.”
“I see. And you’re sure it was prepared by White herself?”
“Absolutely. She even served me. She said—” And here, Tomasso gave the dusty, coughing sound of someone who doesn’t do a lot of laughing. “She said she wanted to be sure the meal was at exactly the correct temperature when it arrived at my table, so she didn’t want even the tiniest delay in transferring the plate from her own hands to those of a server. Wonderful food. Wonderful chef. My review will reflect, I assure you.”
I thank Tomasso, wish him well on his upcoming surgery, and hang up.
So White doesn’t stay down for long, then, does she? Perhaps.
But I wonder how well she’d stand up to the pressure of playing another game on a court where she’d previously lost and lost big.
It’s close to eleven o’clock now, and White’s restaurant is surely closed. I call it anyway. The hostess confirms that they are, in fact, closed for the day. Would I care to make a reservation for another evening?
“Actually, I’d like to speak to your head chef, Ms. White,” I say.
“She’s not available to come to the phone at the moment,” the hostess tells me. “I’d be glad to take a message down for her, though.”
“My name is Trent Stone,” I say. “Just tell her that and see what she does.”
The hostess gives me her uncertain assent and puts me on hold. A few minutes go by. I drum my fingers on the blotter of the hotel suite’s desk and stare out the window.
“Mr. Stone,” a voice says, the line opening again.
“Ms. White. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”
“If this is about the…damages from the other night, I called my I insurance agent first thing this morning, and they assured me they’d be getting in touch with you as soon as—”
“It’s not about that,” I interrupt. “Or rather, it’s about addressing that in a way that doesn’t involve the insurance proceedings.”
“Okay,” she says cautiously. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want to see how easily you can get back up on the horse that threw you off.”
“I’m still not following you, Mr. Stone.”
“I want,” I said, “you to come back to my house to cook a meal for me. Again.”
There is a silence for a moment. Then, “But, Mr. Stone, I expected to be the last person you’d want setting foot in your kitchen ever again!”
I say nothing and let her roll the idea over in her mind some more.
“And anyway,” she goes on, “you don’t have a kitchen anymore! You have a kitchen-shaped briquette.”
“That second part is true enough, or at least it was until seven o’clock this morning. Repairs are underway as we speak, and I have it on good authority that the job will be finished before next weekend. The question is, can you be ready by then?”
She hesitates again. “Mr. Stone, I’m not sure how I feel about taking your money…again, after what happened.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be taking my money,” I say. “I’ll cover the cost of ingredients, but that’s it.”
“So I’d be working for free?” she says, now sounding a little peeved. “What am I supposed to gain from this situation?”
“The same thing I intend to gain,” I reply. “I’m absolutely certain that you can cook well. What I want to know is how well you can cook under pressure. I’ve heard you’re the best. I only want the best.” I consider for a moment. “Besides,” I add with a smile, “you owe me dinner.”
“What if I say no?” she asks. “What then?”
“Well, then I guess we’ll both have to go on, not knowing the answer to a very nagging professional question. You made a mistake, Ms. White. I’d like to see if you can cook your way out from under it. Dinner at seven p.m. this coming Saturday. The menu is up to you. You have my number.”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
The gauntlet, it seems, has been thrown down. Now, it just remains to be seen whether or not White has the courage to pick it up again.
Chapter 7 - Steph
I’m in a stew of feelings about this as I pace my apartment into the wee hours. On the one hand, I feel like I’d be returning to the scene of a crime by being in Stone’s home again. On the other hand, you don’t get many chances at redemption—especially not in the cooking world.
Maybe the overriding feeling, though, is anger. It’s coiled in my stomach like an acidic snake.
Stone doesn’t think I can cut it, cooking in a place where I’d previously bombed. He thinks I’ll choke, the sonofabitch.
I have to admit, too, that there is still another hand. Some part of me is actually looking forward to seeing him again, even if it is an angry part that’s determined to show him who’s boss of the kitchen, his or anyone else’s.
Anyone else—that gives me pause. I don’t know if this is going to be for another of his date nights or what. Best to find out before I start planning the menu.
It’s after midnight at this point. Should I wait and try to get in touch with him tomorrow?
Screw it, I say to myself. He called me after hours; that means I get to do the same right back.
I fire off a text asking how many I’ll be serving on Saturday. It occurs to me that this is a two-pronged question, as it also confirms that I’ll actually be there for the occasion. I’m hoping it’s not for another session between him and the model, Jamie Wells. I have a feeling that if there’s any lull in Stone shooting barbs my way about this past weekend, Wells would be glad to pick up the ball and fire off a few more. After all, I had spoiled her night out with a handsome, sexy billionaire.
Whoa, whoa, whoa…handsome and sexy? Is that how I’m thinking about him now?
I can’t think that way! Stone is the enemy. I have to crush him with this dinner.
Yes, that’s what I have to keep in mind, showing him a thing or two.
He’d probably like to have a look, too, the devil on my shoulder said slyly to me.
I tell the devil to shut up and go back to pacing. I have a pretty good head of steam built up when, surprisingly, my phone pings. I have an incoming text.
You’ll be cooking for one, it says simply.
I gulp a little at this. I don’t know if this is better than cooking for him and Jamie or worse. I decide on worse when my phone pings again.
And dress casual, it says.
Casual? I frown, looking at the screen. Now what does that mean?
Yet another ping sounds from my phone.
No chef’s jacket, the text reads.
“I…” I try, but that’s all I can get out. “You…” That stalls as well. I settle for “Ohhh!” and pace some more. I’m glad I live alone. If I had a roommate, they would have been after me with the weighted net and tranquilizer darts by now.
I finally calm down enough to speak, albeit to swear oaths to rub some truly fabulous food in Mr. Trent Stone’s face.
The next day, I get an email from Stone telling me to call Curtis with the figure for supplies I’ll need for the dinner on Saturday and he’ll wire the money to my bank account. He concludes the message with this:
“And remember, no chef’s jacket.”
It’s not nearly as satisfying to savagely click a close button on your computer
screen as it is to slam a door, but I give it a good try nonetheless.
It’s Wednesday before I know it, halfway to game time, when Tira drops by the restaurant. I put the assistant chef into the driver’s seat so I can spare Tira a few minutes, and we go to the bar. I’m on the clock, but Tira tucks into a glass of pinot and listens smilingly as I outline my war plans.
“I’ll show him!” I snarl. “I don’t need a chef’s jacket to kick ass and take names!”
“So what’s the menu going to be this time?” Tira asks.
I smile wickedly. “Sushi roll—lobster tail, avocado, wagyu beef, caviar, and truffle oil. His wallet shall feel the sting of my wrath.”
“If he’s as rich as I’ve heard he is, your wrath is going to need a much larger stinger.”
“Yeah,” I concede, “he’s a billionaire. I’ve got that.”
Tira sips her wine. “Girl, Trent Stone is a billionaire’s billionaire. He didn’t just barely clear the mark; he’s firmly in the mid-billions.”
This steals away a little of my momentum. I’ve cooked for the rich and powerful before, so money doesn’t exactly impress me, but to be worth several billion dollars?
I shake my head. It’s a level of wealthy that I can’t even comprehend, so I decide it doesn’t bother me.
“So what?” I say. “The latest generation of a rich family thinks he can boss me around and feel superior to me? He’s got another thing coming.”
Now it’s Tira’s turn to smile, but hers is kind compared to my sharklike grin. “You really need to look up from the stove every now and then,” she says, “see what’s going on in the world around you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Stone doesn’t come from old money. His parents were working class. Mother was a housewife; father was a working man. Stone built his company singlehandedly from the ground up. If he’s got cash to burn, he’s earned it, in my opinion.”
I’m definitely stalled in my righteousness at this point. “How do you know all this?” I ask.