“Will do.”
“How much you looking to get?”
Damon named a figure that would keep him in JB for a few weeks. Ivan nodded. “Come talk to me at the restaurant. Bring some bones. There’s a chow mix hanging around who’ll go apeshit over them.”
On a Thursday afternoon in late September, Elena peered at the green card presented to her by a dark-eyed young man from Mexico. A man she hoped would be her last hire—a dishwasher. It looked to be in order, along with everything else, but good forgeries always did, didn’t they?
What a headache.
A bubble of irritation at the absurdity of the whole game burst between her eyebrows. Without Mexican workers, the service and agricultural businesses in Colorado—maybe all of America—would collapse. Unfortunately, there were so few Mexican workers allowed in on legal green cards that millions flooded over the border to claim the jobs illegally, forcing them to present forged documents that were only uncovered if the INS staged a raid, at which point thousands of workers were deported, only to flood back in again as soon as they could raise the money.
It was fruitless, demoralizing, and hugely expensive. Better to create a system of allowing more temporary workers to enter legally—and voilà! Crime down in every quadrant.
Unfortunately, she was stuck with the system as it was. Without a doubt, there were illegals in her kitchen, alongside those who had secured proper documents by some miracle. She had to be careful—the laws were tight in Colorado, despite the tourist-and agriculture-based economy—and while fines would be annoying, the bigger worry would be losing a chunk of employees in case of a raid.
The green card and Mexican driver’s license looked to be in order. Elena stood up and held out her hand. In Spanish, she said, “You’re hired. See you at eight a.m. Monday.”
He smiled and gave her the charming little bow that always made her think of medieval manners. Old world and courtly. “Gracias.”
As he left, Julian came in through the back door. “How’s it going?”
The day was crisp, not yet full autumn, but no longer summer, and Elena could smell the sunlight on his jacket, a tweedy silk in oranges and browns. She wanted to pet it.
She straightened, tapping the stack of applications together. “Good. Finally.” She shook her head. “Staffing issues were more difficult than I anticipated.”
“Yeah, that’s always the trouble with a tourist economy…” He plucked a pitted black olive from a bowl. “…getting enough bodies to do the work.”
Elena waved the papers. “And the state has really cracked down on undocumented workers. I could have had twenty dishwashers and prep cooks by now, but their papers were not particularly believable.” As it was, half her kitchen spoke either Spanish or Vietnamese. The rest were ski bums, as were a lot of the front-of-the-house crew. “How is your end going?”
“Patrick is a gem,” he said.
“Absolutely. And you haven’t even seen him in action with customers.”
Ivan came in from smoking a cigarette. “Hey, Boss Man,” he said in his rumbling voice. “Cómo está?” Pulling a lid from the steamer, he reached in and nimbly snatched a tamale wrapped in a corn husk. “I got something for both of you to try. Check this out.”
He grabbed a plate and dropped the bundle on it, smoothly snipped the tie around the corn husk and let the tamale roll out of its covering. A heavenly scent wafted into the air.
“What is that?” Elena breathed, drawn to his magic.
He cut the tamale into slices. They held in elegant rounds, the masa firm but not dry, the color a faint pale red. A secret little smile played over his lips as he held out the plate. “Taste it.”
Elena took a fork from the basket on the pass-out bar and captured a small bite. The flavors exploded, spice and meat, filling her throat and sinuses, then sliding away to a lingering complexity that urged her to take another bite, start again.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured, obeying the urge for a second taste. She closed her eyes. Pressed her fingers over her lips as if the food might run away if she let it. A silken combination of subtle layers—earthy and gamey and dark, a thread of cinnamon and languid chiles and something she couldn’t quite capture. She looked at Julian. He was reaching for a second bite, too.
“This is fantastic,” he said. “What is it?”
Ivan shrugged, his eyes glowing turquoise with barely concealed pleasure. In his typical way, he crossed his arms, watched Elena’s mouth move, rubbed one finger on his chin. “Mole—I’ve been experimenting.”
“Yeah, but what’s the meat?”
“Elk.” He looked up as Patrick came into the kitchen, neat as a pin in a crisp blue shirt and jeans. “Some buddies of mine hit one on the highway out west and they dressed it and brought it home.”
“Is that legal?” Patrick asked.
“It is.” Ivan grinned. “The state patrol issues a limited license at the scene. It’s good for like a day.”
“I see.”
“Try it,” Ivan said. “I’d be interested in your wine pairings for something like this.”
Fastidiously, Patrick came forward and accepted the fork Ivan held out, and sampled the tamale with a studied expression of boredom. Grinning over his head at Julian, Elena waited for the flavors to ambush her sommelier.
Ivan waited, too, his body taut and tuned, those intense and hooded eyes trained on Patrick’s mouth as he chewed, watching as the taste expanded, and as if against his will, he darted a glance up at Ivan’s face, his eyes widening. “Oh!” he said. “That’s marvelous!”
Though he raised his chin in an attempt to control his expression, a slow, pleased smile spread over Ivan’s lips. “What kind of wine would you put with it?”
Patrick frowned, moving his lips, and reached for another bite. “It would have to be a very bold wine. Maybe something stronger. Tequila? An ale?”
“Yeah?” Ivan reached behind himself and took out another neatly tied tamale. “Take this one and try some pairings, let me know.”
Julian watched Patrick leave, as did Elena. The thin white skin at the back of his neck was flushed red. She looked back to Rasputin with his ragged jeans and big hands, who was also watching Patrick depart. His nostrils were slightly flared.
Elena pursed her lips. Who would do the other more damage? For all that Rasputin had his rough edges, there was something broken in him somewhere. That lostness of wounded child came from him in waves, the same eternal appeal of every bad boy. He glanced at her, smirking, and tossed a tamale from hand to hand.
“Elena, do you have a moment?” Julian asked.
“Sure.” She put the fork down. Wiped her fingers. “Ivan, that is the best tamale I’ve ever tasted. Write it up and we’ll put it on the menu. If you can come up with some other combinations that are that fantastic, we might do a whole tamale list.”
He saluted her without irony. “Thank you.”
“And…” She waited until Julian went ahead, and took a step closer to Ivan, narrowing her eyes in warning. “…leave my sommelier alone.”
His eyes were mocking. “He’s not my type,” he drawled, and looked down Elena’s shirt.
“You heard me.” She shucked her apron as she headed to her office.
Julian stood in the center of the tiny room, admiring a red glass chile paperweight. He put it down as she came in.
She had not seen much of him these past few weeks, and it was hard not to notice too many things all at once—his elegant hands and the sunlight and apple scent of him and his cheekbones. A shimmer moved over her inner wrists, into her palms. “Shall I close the door?”
“Not at all. I was just wondering if you have some time to get out and do some sampling at the other restaurants in town. Time’s getting short. I’m particularly interested in getting a feel for prices in this market.”
“Good idea.” She crossed her arms, trying not to imagine how pleasant it would be to have him to herself for a couple of hours. “This is probably
the last night we’ve got before the insanity begins.”
His black eyes were direct. Businesslike. “Yeah, we should have done it sooner, but I could see you were swamped.”
“Okay.” She yawned, and covered her mouth. “Sorry. I guess I’ll go home and get a nap. What are you going to wear?”
“A disguise.”
She gave him a quizzical chuckle. “Really?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Actually, yeah. Not much of one, but enough to make people overlook me.”
Elena doubted anyone would overlook him, even in a disguise, but that was just her hormones talking. The trouble with not having sex was that she wasn’t having sex. “What kind of disguise?”
He winked. “You’ll see.”
“But I’m still not sure what I should be wearing. Dressed up or dressed down?”
“Dressed up, but not too up.”
“Done.”
“Good.” He clasped those long hands. “One more thing. How would you feel about serving my business associates at my home instead of here?”
“The tasting menu?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated. “A home kitchen is not usually the most ideal.”
“This is…uh…” He touched his eyebrow, almost an apology. “…a little higher end than most home kitchens. I’d be happy to show it to you.”
“Is there a particular reason you want to do it that way?”
Julian inclined his head. Light skated over the high brow. “It’s more intimate. We’re working on a movie deal and I want it to go my way.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a big-time movie guy.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Big-time movie guy.”
“You’re the boss,” she said. “If you want to do it at your place, let’s do it there. I’ll take a look at the kitchen and figure out what we need. If the prep is done beforehand, Ivan and I should be able to handle the cooking.”
“And we need Patrick to serve. This crowd will appreciate him.”
Elena smiled. “All right. Let’s figure out a time to check out your kitchen, then.”
“How about now?”
She glanced up at the clock. “I’ve got my dog.”
“Bring him. My daughter will adore him.”
Elena had lived in other places where money was visible, or at least you knew it lurked close by. She’d worked in restaurants where a meal for two easily cost hundreds, even thousands with a few good bottles of wine. But in Aspen, luxury leaked from every detail of every shop and home, in the detailing of her condo and the mansions discreetly peeking from stands of trees or towering into the heavens from a hilltop. Aspen wasn’t just wealthy, it was stratospheric—royals and movie stars and Saudis had homes there.
Even after just a few weeks, Elena had grown somewhat accustomed to it, and she didn’t even blink when she discovered that Julian drove a Range Rover, black, which probably cost close to her annual salary. In a city, it would have been ostentatious. In the high country, the four-wheel drive and navigability would be a boon through the heavy winters. Julian let Alvin jump into the rubberized back hold, and they drove off into the hills, finally turning into a long, graveled drive that climbed through a grove of mixed aspens and lodgepole pines.
Elena commented, “The first yellow leaves I’ve seen.”
“Hard to believe winter is just around the corner.” His window was down, allowing a fresh piney breeze to blow through. He held his free hand out in the air, as if to capture the sunny day.
“Do you like the winter?” she asked.
“I do, actually. Cold invigorates me. You?”
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve lived in a place with a real winter. We’ll see.”
“You grew up with it, though, right? Did you like it when you were a kid?”
Elena said slowly, “I guess. We never had enough warm clothes, honestly. I’m not saying that in a pitiful way, but there were a lot of us and only so many dollars to go around.”
“I get that completely. New Jersey is brutal in the wintertime. I remember some relative sent me a down coat—you know the big puffy ones?—for Christmas one year and it was so warm I just wanted to cry.”
Elena laughed. “Exactly. I found some insulated gloves once, and it was the same thing. I wanted to wear them twenty-four hours a day.”
He glanced at her. “You have a great laugh.”
She paused. “Thanks.”
The house appeared, not as drastically huge as some were in the area, rambling for tens of thousands of square feet. This was big, with a round turret and several outbuildings, but it was in the human realm. Built of fieldstone and timbers, the colors blended agreeably into the landscape, with balconies and secret patios appearing here and there.
Elena liked it tremendously. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
“That’s what my daughter thought. I let her make the final choice.” He opened the back gate and let Alvin out. “Does he need to be leashed?”
“No, he should be fine. Are you sure you want to let him into your house? He sheds like crazy.”
His grin was slight and charming. “I have an army of cleaners. Dog hair wouldn’t stand a chance.” He waved her ahead on the sidewalk. “Oh, and by the way, my daughter hates it when people tell her she looks like her mother.”
“Thanks for the alert.”
A trim, well-coiffed woman in jeans opened the door. “Good morning, Mr. Liswood.” She nodded at Elena. “We’re about to finish up. Will we be in the way?”
“Not at all, Georgia. This is Elena Alvarez, the executive chef at my new restaurant. We’ve come to look at the kitchen. Maybe you want to show us around?” He smiled slightly. “Georgia is crew leader. I’m sure she knows my kitchen better than I do.”
For a long second, between standing on the stoop and stepping over the threshold, Elena tried to decide how to play her dazzlement. As her foot landed inside, and the sweep of light and design drew her eyes upward, she knew. “Wow.”
The entryway was three stories tall and bright, with a window at the top. Galleries ran around the opening, and a waterfall fell in tiny ribbons from the roof to a floor below.
“Like it?”
“Very cool,” Elena commented, pointing at the neat strings of water.
“The guy who designed it has a great sense of play.” He tossed his keys into a dish on a table. “He’s won awards.”
“This way,” Georgia said, leading them along a hallway made of stones. They passed the staircase, which curved behind the waterfall and up to the floor with the galleries. On the other side of it was an office area to the left, with a two-sided fireplace that also heated an outdoor patio, and to the right, a great room.
Which fronted a gigantic gourmet kitchen furnished with gleaming stainless steel appliances—a six-burner gas stove, two ovens, a microwave, and two fridges. Elena opened a silver hooded appliance. “Aha! A steamer. Wow.”
Julian said nothing. Elena made her rounds, checking the area for workability. The counters were black granite speckled with gold. Problematic for serving, since granite cooled things so fast, but they could cover the stone. One sink was nestled in an island; the other—by a dual set of dishwashers—looked out to a dazzling view of craggy mountaintops and vivid blue sky. There was a wine cooler, a butler’s pantry filled with glassware, china, chargers, and table linens of several matching varieties. “Patrick will be pleased,” Elena remarked.
“And the chef?”
“The chef could happily die in this kitchen.”
The woman chuckled.
“And do you think the service will work all right from here?” Julian gestured toward the great room, with its shoulder-high hearth against one wall, and glass doors on either side, one set opening to an enclosed patio, the other to vast, multilayered wooden decks. The dining area was huge, with an enormous oak table. The passages were clean and wide. Alvin wandered the edges of the room, curiously sniffing at corners, at vases, p
ausing to look into the distance.
“How many people?”
“Between fifteen and twenty, depending on who brings a partner.”
“We can accommodate that easily from here. You could probably manage a hundred, honestly.” She pressed her hands against the cold, cold counter, admiring the wide decks, the views, the serenity of so much available, uncluttered space.
“Good.”
“It’s great, Julian. Excellent design.” Elena turned in a slow circle, lust rising in her. “It will be a delight to work here.”
“Oh. My. Gosh!” came a high girly voice. “Dad! This is the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen!” A blonde teenager collapsed on her knees in front of Alvin. He puffed up his chest and licked his lips, waiting to be adored.
She obliged, raising both hands to his head, to his back, moving with the firm strokes of a genuine dog lover. “Ooooh,” she squealed, “he’s so soft!” She kissed his big velvet nose, and he groaned in exaltation.
“Told you,” Julian said with a wink. “Portia, this is Elena, and that’s her dog, Alvin.”
The girl paused momentarily to look at Elena. Her eyes were enormous and startling, the pale, unbroken blue of a delphinium in a face that was a porcelain oval, absolutely flawless, with a rosy plump mouth. Her pale silky hair tumbled around slim shoulders.
She looked exactly like her mother, Ricki Alsatian. Elena said, “Hello, Portia. I hear you’re quite a skier.”
She shot a look at her dad. “I guess. What kind of dog is he?”
“Chow and nobody knows what.”
“I’d say Newfoundland,” Portia said, “that big head. But he has some golden retriever aspects, too, doesn’t he? Those fronds on his legs? Are his paws webbed?” She lifted one and looked. “Yep. I’d say chow, Newfoundland, and retriever.” She kissed his nose again. “You are the most beautiful dog ever—yes, you are.”
Alvin shot Elena a sideways look that said, Are you registering how to do this? She laughed. “He’s your slave for life. Do you have a dog of your own?”
“No. I’ve moved too much. It’s not fair to them. I am doing community service at a rescue center here, though. It’s great, I love it. And there’s a doggie day care here that lets me volunteer sometimes, too.”
The Lost Recipe for Happiness Page 10