I groaned. Patrons often asked for our recipes. There was no way we would share them, but I should still give her a call. I stuffed it into my pocket, intending to give her a call later.
“That’s not all,” Charles added. “You also got a call from the Toronto Daily. They want you to call them back.” He raised his eyebrows, announcing dramatically, “I bet they want to write an article about the restaurant.”
Toni gasped. “You didn’t tell me that.”
He grinned. “I wanted to tell you both at the same time.”
“Oh my God. We’ll be rich.” Toni looked as if she’d just won the lottery, which was ridiculous considering she already was rich.
I was envisioning the steady flow of fat paychecks in my future, and then, “Oh my God, we’ll be so busy,” I blurted, horror-stricken as I thought of all the difficulties our little business could encounter if it grew too fast.
Over the past few months, business had improved enough that we’d added four more tables to our original six, almost doubling our seating capacity. But even with all those extra customers, we were still no more than a small neighborhood restaurant. Sure, we got lineups at lunch, but our dinner clientele still lagged. In the aftermath of today’s television interview and its ensuing rush, however, that just might change. I couldn’t help but wonder if being more successful might not bring as many problems as advantages.
As it was, the restaurant was closed only one day a week—Mondays. And we each took a turn taking nights off. This meant I worked six days a week, five of which I finished late, leaving me only one full day off for personal chores and errands, and one evening free for my private life. If we got any busier, when was I supposed to find time for love? The success of this restaurant was, of course, my priority. But on my list of important things, romance came in a close second. I sighed. It was a good thing Mitchell lived right next door and worked from home, otherwise we’d never find time to see each other. We’d have to start planning breakfast dates. I had a quick image of myself in a sexy peignoir, serving him eggs Benedict or omelets. I walked into the kitchen, smiling secretly.
I grabbed my chef’s jacket and glanced at the daily menu board posted above the plating counter. Today the specials were butternut squash soup and a pear-and-walnut salad with gorgonzola dressing. I went to the walk-in refrigerator, picked up a crate of squash and hefted it to the counter. I set to work, chopping the squash into cubes, tossing them with nutmeg, salt, pepper and oil, and then popping them in the oven to roast. Meanwhile, I silently continued my internal debate about the whole lifestyle versus financial success question.
More business meant more money. With more money, we could hire more staff. And more staff would translate into more time off—time I could spend with Mitchell. Now, there was an incentive. It also meant I could pay off my bills sooner. That would be really nice too.
Suddenly, the bell above the door chimed as the first customers arrived. Jake hurried out front to greet them, and soon our kitchen became a madhouse. Pots were boiling. Pans were sizzling. Charles and Jennifer cooked and stirred over our hot and steamy stove, bumping into each other with every move. Meanwhile Marley chopped and diced as fast as he could. His dreadlocks, tied in a bun under his hairnet, were bouncing along with the rhythm of his knife. And even with Scott pitching in with the food preparation, we could still barely keep up.
I glanced around. “Where’s the gorgonzola dressing I just made? It was on the plating table a minute ago.”
“Oh, you mean this?” Charles pointed to a jug near the dishwashing sink. “I thought it was old gravy, ready to throw out.”
I sighed deeply and raised my eyes to the ceiling. “God, give me the patience.”
Charles burst into laughter. “Just kidding.”
“That was about as funny as a kick in the butt,” Jennifer said, pulling out quiches from the oven.
“She’s right,” I said. I placed a hand on my racing heart. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. Okay, enough with the funny stuff. Get back to work, everyone.”
As they returned to their feverish pace I looked around, trying to imagine more workers in our already tight kitchen. I couldn’t see how it was possible. Maybe we could cram in one extra helper, but we’d be really tight. Sigh. So much for the idea of more staff.
Suddenly, Toni grabbed me by the elbow, pulling me to the swinging door. “Take a look at this,” she said, pushing it open a crack. “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?”
Our dining room, which we’d decorated on a shoestring budget, was bright and inviting. The walls were covered with a multitude of old gold-leafed mirrors. Some were chipped, some were cracked, but the flaws only added to the charm of the place. We’d painted the ugly, eighteen-foot ceiling a velvety black, against which the crisscross of rusty old metal pipes overhead seemed to disappear. The tables and chairs were a mishmash of styles, which we’d coordinated by painting them all fuchsia, adding a welcome splash of color against the black-and-white tiled floor.
The room looked amazing. It was twelve-thirty—the peak of lunchtime rush hour—and it was filled to capacity. Amazing. And still more customers stood at the entrance, waiting for an available table. Totally amazing!
I was taking all this in when Toni nudged me with an elbow. “Imagine, just a couple of months ago we were on the verge of bankruptcy. Now, we have to start thinking about opening a second location.”
“What!” I swiveled to face her. “No way—we’re finally starting to make money. I haven’t even caught up on my credit-card debt. I don’t want to open a second restaurant and risk what little success we’ve already achieved.”
“You know what I always say,” she said. I braced myself for one of her clichés. She gave me a gleeful smile. “‘You can’t steal second base and keep your foot on first.’”
Just once I wished I could come up with a smart retort when I needed it, instead of hours later.
At that moment, Jake came bursting through the door, almost knocking Toni off her feet. “Oh, uh, sorry. Where’s that Skinny Fettuccine for table three?” he demanded, looking harried.
“Coming right up.” I rushed back to the stove, glancing at Toni over my shoulder. “It might be a good idea to take care of the restaurant we already have before you start making plans for a second one, wouldn’t you say?”
She smiled knowingly. “Just think about it. You’ll see I’m right.” She returned to plating, humming happily.
By midafternoon, the welcome lull arrived at last. The day was not half over and we were already damp from exertion.
Toni grabbed a paper napkin and, lifting her hair, wiped the back of her neck, managing to make the gesture seem sexy. How did she do that? If I were to do the exact same thing, I’d only look sweaty and unattractive.
She glanced at her watch. “Good grief, we’ll hardly have time to recover before we have to start getting ready for the dinner rush.”
“So much for the joys of success,” I said. Bah, who was I kidding? The busier we were, the more I loved it, even if it did mean more pressure. It was all good stress, the kind I thrived on. “By the way, Toni, I didn’t tell you what happened after you left last night—a woman barged in and threatened to kill us.”
“What?” Her eyes grew wide as I told her what had happened. “Do you think she meant it? Shouldn’t we call the police and report her?”
“I thought about it, but what are they going to do? Take a statement and then forget about it.”
“You’re probably right.” She shrugged and made a big show of looking at her watch yet again, this time her eyebrows giving an exaggerated jump. “Uh-oh,” she said. I’d seen that fake surprised look before. And sure enough, a fake apology followed. “I hate to do this to you, sweetie. I know how busy you are, but I really have to run. You can cope without me for one evening, can’t you?”
“Not so fast.” I planted my hands on my hips. “Where do you think you’re going? Your night off isn’t until Thursday. Besi
des, you already took the whole day off yesterday.”
She planted her hands on her hips, in a mocking imitation of me. “Tell you what—you can take two nights off next week. How’s that?”
I groaned. “It’s not a question of keeping count. It’s just that we’re busier than we’ve ever been. We need all hands on deck. You have a date, don’t you? A date with Steven?”
She shook her head. “No, with Judy.”
“Have you told him about her yet?”
“No,” she answered abruptly.
I wrinkled my forehead. “Is everything all right between you and Steven?”
She flipped back a lock of blond hair and smiled. “All right? I’ll say. That man has one thing on his mind. Sex! He wants it when he wakes up. He wants it in the middle of the day. He wants it before bedtime and even in the middle of the night.”
By now, the guys were frozen on the spot, no doubt waiting for more juicy details.
Jennifer walked by with a pot of something that smelled delicious. She winked. “All I can say is I hope his right hand is getting a really good workout.”
This time Toni hooted. “That’s a good one.”
I stifled a laugh. Toni had just met her match. I threw Jennifer a grin. She did likewise.
Without another word, Toni slipped into her coat, grabbed her bag and waltzed out. “See you tomorrow.”
I stared at the door. “Well how do you like that?”
Charles joined me. “Off to play with her sister again, is she? It’s like she’s trying to catch up with the childhood they didn’t have.”
“I think you hit the nail on the head,” I said, and then brought the subject back to the here and now. “So what did we decide would be the special tonight?”
“Eggplant Parmesan—remember? I just perfected a two-hundred-and-fifty-calorie version that tastes divine.”
“Oh, right.” We’d gradually added a number of wonderful low-cal dishes to our repertoire until we now had a different dinner special for every night of the week. We often tested our new recipes on our lunch crowd, moving them onto our dinner menu when they rated high with everyone. “Sounds yummy—is everything ready to go in the oven?”
“Not even close. Lunch was so crazy busy we didn’t have a minute to start.”
“Well then,” I said, grabbing my chef’s jacket. “Let’s get this show on the road, people.”
In the walk-in refrigerator I found a large cardboard box full of eggplants and preselected cheeses. And for the next hour, everybody sliced, diced, chopped and grated until we had a dozen large casserole dishes ready to pop into the oven. By the time the first batch was ready, and dinner customers were walking in, I kept expecting the crazy woman of the night before to come storming in.
Hopefully Charles had been right—nothing to worry about. But for some reason, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that we hadn’t heard the last from her.
i call it rabbit food
It was ten forty-five and the kitchen was clean, dishes were washed and stacked neatly on the stainless steel shelves. The floor was swept and the counters sterilized. With nothing left to clean, we waited patiently for our last customers—who were taking their own sweet time—to leave.
Jake nudged the kitchen door open a crack and sneaked a peek. “They haven’t even picked up the bill yet.”
Marley glanced at me. “Maybe Jake should go over and pick up the bill folder. That should give them the hint.”
I turned and stared at him. “Sorry, Marley. We run a classy joint here. We don’t want our customers to feel rushed.” And then taking pity on them, I added, “But you, Scott, Jennifer and Charles can leave.” They sighed with relief and headed for the swinging door.
“Not through the dining room,” I whispered. “Use the back door.”
Scott, Jennifer and Charles almost ran out—no doubt worried I might change my mind.
“You can go too, Marley,” I said.
He shook his head, looking embarrassed. “I’m waiting for Jake.”
Jake grinned. “We just moved in together.”
I’d known about their relationship for a while now, and was happy for them. Lately it seemed that love was all around me, everybody happy. I felt a shiver run down my spine, as if thinking such a happy thought would bring bad luck. How silly of me, I thought, shrugging off the ridiculous thought.
Now, he peeked through the doorway again. “Yesss!” He pumped the air with his fist. “He just pulled out his credit card.” He waited another minute and, adopting a regal bearing, entered the dining room.
A minute later I joined the couple as they rose. “I hope you enjoyed your meal,” I said, escorting them to the door.
“It was delicious,” the woman replied. She was an attractive middle-aged woman with caramel-colored hair and intelligent eyes. “I can’t believe how good the food was, considering this is a diet place. My husband was certain he’d hate everything on the menu.”
He gave me an embarrassed smile. “I don’t usually go for diet food.”
She chuckled. “He calls it rabbit food. I had to plead with him to come.”
He went on, sounding surprised. “But everything you served tasted normal.” I laughed, and he quickly explained. “I mean, who’d expect to see pasta on a low-cal menu?”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your meal. And I hope we’ll see you again.”
“You can count on it.”
I retrieved the last two coats for them from the rack behind the cash register. At last they turned to leave. I opened the door, standing aside for them. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’ll see us again,” she said, giving a small wave.
I shut the door behind them, glowing from the compliments. Jake appeared with both our coats.
“Did you hear what they said?” I asked. “They loved the food.”
He handed me my coat. “You say this like it’s a surprise.”
“I still have to pinch myself that we’re doing well.”
“Well, get used to it. If you think you’re working hard now, I predict business is only going to get busier.”
“Knock wood.” I rapped the nearest table with my knuckles. In my experience, whenever everything went too well, something bad was bound to happen.
*
The weather had grown progressively worse all day, until now the wind howled like a wolf, and the light snow of earlier had turned into a wet drizzle. I crossed the street, holding my coat tightly against the storm and glancing around nervously for the crazy woman. There was no sign of her. I breathed a sigh of relief and made a mad dash to my car. I stopped ten feet away.
“Oh, shit.” My tiny smart car was completely covered in a mound of crusty snow. Just a few days earlier I’d purchased an ice scraper and snow brush for just such an emergency, but they were now neatly and uselessly stored inside my car. A fat lot of good they were doing me there.
“Oh shit,” I repeated, grappling through my purse for some kind of a tool. I came away with my maxed-out Visa card. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing. A good ten minutes of scraping and wiping later, I had removed enough ice to reach the handle and after another ten minutes or so of struggling with it, I finally got the door open.
I climbed in and rubbed my hands together for warmth. My card was ruined. Not that it made any difference. I wouldn’t have been able to use it until it was paid off in at least another few months. I turned on the motor and waited for the defrost button to kick in. Gradually, its warmth melted the ice on the windshield until I could use the wipers to push off the rest of it.
I slipped my hand in my pocket and felt a piece of paper. I pulled it out, recognizing it as the one Jake had given me, with that client’s name and number. I’d been so busy all day, I’d clear forgotten to give her a call. Tomorrow, I told myself.
At last, I put the car in gear and slip-slided along the icy streets until I pulled onto the parking pad behind my house.
Only then did I rea
lize how tense I’d been during that short drive. As much as I loved my smart car—lime green on a silver body and cheap on gas—it was not designed as a winter car. On the other hand, it was only November, for God’s sake. Who the hell expected Toronto to get five inches of snow at this time of year? One of the reasons I’d moved here from Montreal six years ago was because everybody knew Toronto winters were so much shorter and milder. Hah!
I lumbered through the melting snow, which was now the consistency of creamed corn, and pounded my feet on the frozen outside mat. I walked into the mudroom, closed the door and was instantly assailed by the yipping and yapping of the two puppies.
“Sit,” I ordered, and two little butts hit the floor at the same time. I punched in my alarm code and fished some doggie treats from the bowl on the parson’s table by the door. “Good doggies, yes, you are such good doggies.” I praised them, feeding them each an itty-bitty piece. “Where’s your mama? How come she’s not taking care of you?”
Jackie Chan was lazing on the oversized cushion in the corner.
“Come, Jackie.” She looked at me blearily. “What’s the matter, little girl? Are you finding it tough being a full-time mama?”
She gave me a you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it look.
“Too bad, but you’re getting no sympathy from me. You wanted to go gallivanting around? Well, now you have to pay the piper.” She buried her nose under her front paws, another attempt no doubt, to elicit sympathy. I walked right by and picked up the phone—no messages. My heart sank. The long day had left me tense, and I would have loved to hear Mitchell’s voice. I glanced at my watch and calculated. By this time tomorrow he would be in New York.
I hung up and returned to the mudroom, thinking about that crazy woman again. Perhaps because last night I’d been anxious about the upcoming television interview, I hadn’t given much thought to her threats. But tonight I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She had sounded insane, going on and on about us stealing her restaurant. I only hoped Charles was right about her not being dangerous.
Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery) Page 6