“No,” she said wearily, closing her eyes. That was how he seduced her, every time, making her feel as if there were not another woman in the world who understood him. Only Elena. A soul mate. The lining at the top of her stomach burned. “I’m done, Dmitri. Please don’t call me again.” She hung up.
And yet, in the silence, she felt stung and lost. For a moment, her head was filled with the memory of his mouth, of his thick, skilled tongue and elegant fingers, splaying her like a succulent fish. The man was a lover, lusty, focused, sensual. He could make sex last two hours. Three. For a time, he had been her home.
She took a long breath. Let it go.
He had been her home. And now, he was not.
At two o’clock the following afternoon, Elena met with her staff for the first time. Patrick, newly arrived and smelling of aromatic soap, walked in with her, his hand at the small of her back.
Her pinned and riddled and broken-down back.
It had been a grim morning. Maybe, she thought, it was hunching too much from turning her back on Dmitri. Maybe it was the hard work and the long drive and the stress of the past week. Maybe it was Dmitri’s call and her own expectations. Or maybe it was all of it.
Whatever. Before she awakened, she’d been dreaming of Chimayo chiles, ground to a sweet and powerful powder the color of the red earth of New Mexico, dreaming that she held a small mountain of it in the palm of her hand, and pressed one finger into it, and tasted it, and there was gold like sunlight, in her throat—
And the alarm went off. She slammed into her body, a crab-self, curled and cracked, feet and hands like claws, frozen hips, stiff spine, body heavy and misshapen. Agony to move.
Lying on her side, with her eyes closed, she said aloud, “Fuck.”
Over the years, she ordinarily hid at such times, crawling into a tub of hot water, or to a bottle of tequila. Shame burned her when anyone else saw her drawn up like this, like a very old woman, stooped and stiff.
This morning, she was at least alone to struggle with all the batteredness. Spine, hips, shoulders—all protested every slight movement, as if rust had settled into each tiny bone of her back, clogged the hips and rotator cuffs and shoulder blades. The muscles were like old rubber bands.
“Alvin,” she cried out, and he knew by the tone of her voice what she needed. He pranced over to the side of the bed and leaned against it. Very slowly, Elena put a hand out and used his strong body to brace herself so she could ease out of the envelope of covers, one inch at a time. He was patient, happy to have a job to do to serve his beloved.
It nearly always brought tears to her eyes. How had she lived so long without a dog? This dog.
Easing into a squatting position, she stretched the lower spine, not a pain-free process. She used yoga breathing to get through it, to the point where she could actually stand. From there, she hobbled into the bathroom and ran very hot water in the Jacuzzi bathtub. Alvin trotted along beside her, looking up worriedly.
“It’s all right, honey,” she said, gratefully.
The tub proved to be too tall to climb into. She tried. Up two steps, brace herself on the side, lift the leg—
No way. Feeling ninety, she pulled a big purple towel off the rack, wrapped herself in it, and sat down on the step. Alvin stuck with her, leaning on her shin.
No tears, she told herself, gritting her teeth.
Gathering resources, she ran her fingers through Alvin’s long fur, tugged on the velvety black ears, and tried to figure out what to do next. She had the meeting this afternoon, the first with her new staff, and she had to be able to put a good foot forward.
A shower. It wasn’t as therapeutic as the hot water in a bathtub, but the warmth would help a little, and this was a high-end shower with a bench and jets that came out of the wall every which way. Half bent over, unable to completely straighten, she turned it on.
There was a little plaque of instructions on the wall. To Operate Mr. Steam, it began, turn the nozzle below to the right and wait.
Steam?
Elena followed directions. From behind the walls came the gurgling sound of water boiling. After a minute, jets of steam came from the nozzles, filling the glassed-in space perfectly. A light above the stall gave it a cheery aspect, and she hobbled in, pulled the glass door closed behind her, and settled on the bench.
Nirvana.
By the time she emerged, her joints were still a bit stiff, but functional. She wanted to send Julian Liswood a love poem.
Patrick arrived just before lunch, driving a black BMW convertible he’d rented in Denver. “It suits you,” Elena said, capturing her hair in her fist so it wouldn’t end up with a thousand tiny knots.
He tipped his head without an ounce of deference. “I know.”
She laughed softly. The wayward child of American Irish Catholic royalty, Patrick’s breeding showed in his meticulous grooming. His blond hair was mussed and gelled exactly, his skin as clean and poreless as a child’s, his nose always just a little in the air. He made Elena think of the prized cocks she used to see at the county fair, spoiled and beautifully feathered. Boston raised, Paris trained, New York tested—he was the best of the best when it came to creating the atmosphere and a dining experience for a customer. Elena trusted him implicitly.
He didn’t much care for her exuberant displays of physical affection, so instead of a big hug, she gave his arm a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here. Mia will arrive this weekend—it’ll be like old times.”
“I found an apartment, a two-bedroom place over the carriage house at the back of some estate. She can rent with me if she likes.”
In the blazing blue and yellow summer day, they drove the short distance to the restaurant. A knot of tourists were examining the menu. “Sorry, folks,” Elena said, getting out of the car. “It’s closed for now. Come back in November.”
Patrick paused on the sidewalk, surveying the property. She stood beside him, giving the computer in his brain time to gather elements, get a reading on the place. His face showed no reaction as they climbed the steps to the front doors. Wordlessly, he pointed out a loose board on the step, a dead pine tree branch hanging over the porch.
On the step, she paused to put on her game face. She remembered she was a tough girl from a tough town with too many brothers and mean cousins, that she’d been trained by some of the best in the business. She’d worked her way up through the ranks, from private in the scullery to captain of the line. Now general. Jefa.
Patrick pulled open the door, gestured her to lead, and came behind her. Two fingers lightly fell on her spine—I’ve got your back.
And there they were, her troops. All men, which she’d expected. Ivan, the sous chef, with his Rasputin face and burning blue eyes, leaned insolently against the wall, one foot braced behind him, his arms folded over his lean belly.
“Hey, Chef,” he said. Next to Elena, Patrick vibrated, tuning into the sound of that bearish voice, the voice of an orator, a serial killer. “Who’s your pretty sidekick?”
Elena took off her sunglasses, not speaking as she took the case out of her purse and put the glasses away.
Ivan was dressed in a more elegant way than she would have expected, in a long-sleeved silk T-shirt and low-slung jeans.
Next to him was a dashingly handsome Mexican in his late twenties, with soft dark eyes. “Cómo está?” he said, dipping his head politely. North Mexico, his accent said.
“Bueno, gracias.” Northern New Mexico, said Elena’s. “Cómo se llama?”
He stepped forward politely, his dark hand splaying over his chest. “Me llamo Juan Diego Vialpando Garcia.”
Elena smiled. A good omen that a man should have the name of the Indian peasant to whom the Virgin Mary had appeared in Mexico, where she was known as the Virgin of Guadalupe. “Me gusto mucho.”
He gave a charming little half-bow. “It is an honor to meet you, Chef.”
“Thank you.”
A stocky, balding man with shrewd eyes and
very expensively cut trousers stepped forward. “Chef, I’m Alan Cody, the house manager.”
“Good to meet you. I’ve already met Rasputin there,” she said, gesturing to Ivan. “Tell me about the rest of our staff.”
“I’m happy to do that.”
Patrick took a step closer, an elegant bodyguard.
“Everyone,” Alan said, “this is Elena Alvarez. She’s most recently been sous chef at the Blue Turtle in Vancouver, which is where we found her and seduced her away.” He gave Elena a grin.
“I heard she was fired,” Rasputin said in his dark voice.
“I was,” Elena said. “A reporter did a story on my food style and Chef didn’t like being upstaged. I suggest you remember that.”
He raised an eyebrow but said no more.
Alan wrung his hands, but when war didn’t break out, he said, “Well, of course, this is Ivan Santino. You may not know that he studied at Le Cuisine in New York, and won a James Beard award for best new chef six years ago.”
“I did not know. Well done.”
He inclined his head.
“Next to Ivan is Juan, whom you’ve just met. He’s been with us for three years, and he’s a master saucier.”
“Among other things,” Ivan said.
Alan introduced a trio of others, all young men with the look of restlessness that told her they’d not yet found their kitchens. Maybe they were ski bums, here for the access to the slopes. It was standard to offer season passes to employees, and Julian also preferred to help find housing.
These boys were exploring and gaining experience, and Aspen wasn’t a bad place to do it. The youngest of the group was a pale blond with dark brown eyes who said his name, Peter, in a cheery voice. He couldn’t yet be twenty-one.
“Thank you, Alan,” Elena said. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you.” The twinges in her lower spine started up again, and she wanted to lean or sit, but straightened the tiniest bit instead, remembering to pull her shoulder blades down her back.
Show no weakness.
Lifting her chin, she met the eyes of each man in turn. “As Alan just said, I am Elena Alvarez. I originally studied in Santa Fe, then moved to San Francisco, then spent three years in Paris, at Le Cordon Bleu. I did stints in London and New York before I returned to San Francisco, where I eventually worked my way up to a sous chef position at the Yellow Dolphin, which is one of Julian Liswood’s most successful restaurants. I believe it was his first?” Elena looked to Patrick for confirmation, and caught him glaring at Ivan. He felt her gaze, recovered, and nodded.
“His first,” she confirmed. “Three years ago, Chef Dmitri Nadirov and I were hired to develop the menu and open the kitchen of the Blue Turtle in Vancouver.”
“What’s ours going to be called?” the young Peter asked.
Elena grinned. “The Orange Bear.”
“Cool,” said one of the boys.
“I like it, too.” She let a puddle of silence build. Establishing command. “You must have questions.”
“Are we creating an entirely new menu?” Ivan asked.
“We are.”
“Are you going to fire all of us?” one of the young ones asked.
“No. I’m actually only bringing in two of my own people. One is Mia Grange, a pastry chef from London, and this is Patrick Nolan, sommelier and maître d’. We studied together in Paris and worked together at the Yellow Dolphin.”
“Hel-lo, Patrick,” Ivan said, and managed to make it into a slur. Something sharp arced between them. If Patrick was a prized cock, what animal was Ivan? Slouched there against the wall, too thin and hungry, he made her think of a blue-eyed coyote.
God, he was going to be so much trouble! She hoped he would be worth it. “We have a lot of work to do before we reopen. Let’s get started, shall we? You boys pull some tables together. Patrick, will you get the supplies out of the car?”
Juan stepped forward. “I will make coffee, Jefa.”
An ally. She nodded. “Thank you.”
They moved. “Ivan, will you go down the street and get some snack food? I’m sure you know the best place to get something.”
“Did you really call me Rasputin?”
It bugged him and pleased him. Elena smiled. “Have you ever seen a picture of him?”
“No. History wasn’t my thing in school.” He stood too close, deliberately crowding her, an intimidation move that often worried women in a busy kitchen. He smelled of soap, not tequila. An improvement.
Elena took several twenties from her wallet without moving away. She leveled a gaze at him. “Get a selection of sandwiches and sweets and chips, just whatever.”
“The grocery store will be cheaper and faster than any of the sandwich joints.”
She glanced around the room, noted the studiously not-listening minions. “Whatever you think is best.”
“Ah, hell, let’s just go with something decent.” He took the money. “Back in twenty.”
Out in the blue day, Ivan lit a cigarette as he headed for the sandwich shop. A woman with her hair swinging in a ponytail glared at him and he blew the smoke skyward. Ordinarily, he might have goaded her. He was the native here, after all, and he’d bet she wasn’t. Natives were as scarce as hen’s teeth, and there was a huge gulf between them and the obscenely wealthy Others, who thought it all belonged to them.
But today, his mind was on the new guy.
Chef had come in, bringing with her that air of a snow queen from some old fairy tale, with her pale hair and exotic face and the air of the tragic about her that took the heat from Ivan’s anger. Behind her, taking the position of a bodyguard, protective and fierce, was a young man. The sun from the door was on him at first, blotting out details, so Ivan couldn’t really see him until he moved out of the light into the room.
Something stirred, hot and orange, at the base of Ivan’s spine. The queen had brought a prince with her, a prince who carried with him a fragrance of wealth and privilege, an aura of the way things should be done. Ivan, cynic of the highest measure, knew a long moment of airless surprise, stunned by his reaction. Patrick was not his type.
And yet.
Fuck, he thought, exhaling. He bent and stubbed out the cigarette in a pot filled with sand. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Life was hard enough these days. He didn’t need another challenge. Another fall. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead already. One more would probably kill him.
He would have to be careful with that one. Careful, careful, careful. He went inside the shop.
When they were all assembled around two tables shoved together, with sandwiches and coffee and soft drinks in big glasses from the bar, Elena outlined her vision of the structure of the restaurant. Alan and Patrick in charge of the front of the house, Alan as general liaison between front and back, Patrick manager of the floor staff and service questions. “I would like consultation in final decisions,” Alan said.
“Consultation,” she agreed, “but Patrick has final decision.”
He shot a sullen look toward Ivan. “Fine.”
“Ivan,” she said, “tell me about the two kitchens. How does that work? What would you change?”
“I’d have to give it some thought,” he said, layering tomatoes and cucumbers, goat cheese and olives on a croissant. His fingers were deft, his arrangements unstudied and beautiful, a fact she tucked away. “We’ve used the lower level as a restaurant, the upper as a pub, so the food choices were a little different.”
Elena made notes. She wanted to have cohesiveness through both floors. The upstairs would be the pastry kitchen; downstairs, the main. Upstairs could be a warming and assembly kitchen. “How well does the dumbwaiter work?”
“Fine.”
“We need a list of anything that’s not working or inefficient in the kitchen as it is.” She waved the pen at the trio of boys, too. “Everybody. Anything you can think of that’s a pain. Obviously, we’re not moving the major equipment, but what else could be better?”
They look
ed at each other for a while, then tentatively offered suggestions. She wrote them down. “By next week, I want everything you’ve thought of, all right?”
Nods.
“What’s the menu?” Peter asked.
“That’s what we’re going to do here, brainstorm.” She patted a folder filled with copies of the list of possible ingredients that she’d assembled, and a paragraph about her philosophy. “First, I’d like to get a feeling for where you all are with your own flavors. Take a second and think about the best food you’ve ever eaten. Alan, you want to go first?”
He narrowed his small eyes even more. “That’s hard.”
Elena speared a forkful of fresh spinach and tomato. “Take your time.”
“Can we narrow it down? Best meat dish, maybe?”
“Sure.” She wanted a feeling for what each one felt toward food. Was it a job or a passion? “But not everybody has to pick the same category.”
He stared into middle space. “One thing was a trout cooked over a campfire.”
Rasputin groaned, and Alan looked abashed, like a dog reprimanded by a beloved master. His eyes even looked a little moist.
Elena held up a hand. “Best is best. Go ahead, Alan.”
“The other was a lobster bisque in a San Francisco diner. So creamy and rich you had to eat it in tiny, tiny bites.”
Around the table they went. Barbecued pork, a chicken masala eaten late on a foggy London night, a piece of pecan pie at a diner in Georgia.
When his turn came up, Rasputin put his sandwich down and delicately wiped his fingers. “There are three,” he said. Immediately the air in the room shifted subtly, his voice filling the space like a strummed cello, priming them all for his revelation. The young cooks leaned forward. Alan took a bite of his sandwich as if he were watching a movie. Next to Elena, Patrick sat utterly still, a ripe plum in his hand, washed but not eaten.
“The first,” said Rasputin, “was a duck breast roasted with wine and cherries. Those plump, hot cherries with shreds of slow-roasted, tender meat and just a hint of nutmeg…” He swallowed in memory, and everyone swallowed with him, mouths watering. “…spectacular.
The Lost Recipe for Happiness Page 8