by Jessica
“I didn’t know you went to a moms’ group,” I said. How could I not know? I knew everything about Adrianna!
“It’s an online group. A discussion board, really, and we just post messages back and forth about what life is like with a new baby. I thought I’d told you. There are some really nice people on there, except that we are all so deliriously tired that our typing tends to be filled with typos and made-up abbreviations. Anyhow, Kyle, this really is a treat, so thank you again for letting me impose.”
Kyle smiled kindly at her. “The more people we have to taste the food at Oracle, the better the book will be.”
The server returned to take our orders, and Ade and I insisted that Kyle choose for the table. The fall season meant that delicious upscale comfort food dominated the menu. I was looking forward to the pumpkin and apple bisque that came with caramelized apples and croutons, and there was a watermelon antipasto with prosciutto and fresh mozzarella that sounded unusual and fabulous. No one but a chef could get good watermelon in November. Especially in my all-but-bankrupt state, I envied chefs for being able to order any ingredients they wanted and charge everything to their restaurants.
Kyle reached under the table and retrieved a thick accordion folder that he passed to me. “I . . . um, well, this is what I have. I’m mortified that I have to show this to you, but I suppose you’d figure out how disorganized I am on your own anyhow.” He shrugged. “You’ll see why I’m in need of help.”
I removed the elastic from the folder and found that it was jammed with scraps of paper, notes scrawled on the backs of old envelopes, and the occasional full-sized sheet of paper with handwritten recipes. Oh my. I took out a piece of yellow paper and saw a list of ingredients followed by illegible notes.
“Is that the one from Chez Marc?” Kyle peered at the paper. “Yes. At least I think it is. It’s his recipe for roast chicken with something on the side. What does that say? Rots manageable? That can’t be right.”
“Root vegetables, maybe,” I suggested.
“Yes!” Kyle said enthusiastically. “Root vegetables! The chef does the most amazing root vegetable puree that he flavors with cardamom.”
“See?” Ade said. “Chloe is a natural.”
Kyle smiled at her. “I think you’re right. I better hire her, don’t you think?” He turned to me. “What do you say? Has this folder of chaos scared you off?”
I laughed. “Not at all. I can get in touch with these chefs and have them clarify any confusion we have, and then I’ll type everything up. Maybe we could get a little background on each chef? And have a short bio or an introduction of some sort for the recipe?”
“Perfect! I’ll pay you by the hour, so just keep track of your time and give me a total at the end of each week.” Kyle quoted me an hourly sum that was twice what I’d hoped for.
When our appetizers arrived, Adrianna practically inhaled her plate. “I had no idea how much I missed real food,” she said with a sigh. “This lobster mac and cheese is unbelievable. Owen refuses to eat seafood at home since he’s around it all day. Not that we can afford to be buying expensive fish fillets right now anyhow, but I’m pretty damn sick of eating plain chicken and pork chops, so this is such a luxury, Kyle.”
Kyle laughed and smiled at my pal. “Please, it’s nothing. So his work isn’t going well? I’m sorry to hear that. And you at home with a young child? It sounds like things are tough right now.”
Ade stuffed her mouth and nodded. God, she was really packing it in. Admittedly the food was excellent. My braised short ribs with hoisin sauce and wasabi mashed potatoes were outstanding. So was the watermelon appetizer. Who would’ve thought of this combination? But the sweet vinegar dressing went perfectly with the fruit, cheese, and meat. I was in heaven. But it seemed that Adrianna’s ravenous appetite had erased her memory of table manners. I signaled to her to wipe her mouth.
She paused for air. “Yeah, he works hard as a seafood salesman, believe me, but I wouldn’t complain if his paycheck was double what it is. At least he’s had the same job for longer than a month. Progress, I suppose.”
“Owen has a history of trying his hand at a . . . well, a varied set of careers,” I explained.
“He’s worked on a blimp, assisted a puppeteer, sold insurance,” Adrianna said as she counted on her fingers. “You get the idea. So we’re all pleased that he’s trying to stick this one out and build up a solid set of customers. But you know how tough the restaurant business is. The restaurants struggle just like everyone else does. Sometimes they don’t want to pay much above cost, so Owen ends up making pennies off of the product he sells. Plus, that damn refrigerated truck pisses through gas, and he’s got to cover that himself.”
I glared at Adrianna. How could she dare to say pisses during my interview?
“Would you like to work on the cookbook, too? You could make some extra money,” Kyle offered.
“God no! I mean, thank you and all, but organizational skills are not my thing right now. I can barely keep my eyes open most of the time. I’m so tired that I’m putting dishes away in the freezer and ice cream in the cabinet. I throw clothes in the dryer and forget to turn it on, and then I can’t figure out why they’re still wet two hours later. Besides, Chloe will be really good for you, and I wouldn’t want to mess that up.”
“Let me know if you change your mind. I’m sure there’ll be enough to do. So, Chloe, maybe you can start by seeing what you can make out of the mess in the folder. There’s a list in there of restaurants my father wants me to approach, but the one we really have to deal with immediately is a place called Simmer. Do you know anything about that place?”
My stomach dropped. Simmer was Josh’s restaurant, or rather, his former restaurant. He had slaved over helping to open Simmer last New Year’s Eve and had routinely worked twelve-hour or even fourteen-hour days, often six days a week. He had given his all to that damn restaurant until the pressure and unreasonable demands from his cokehead boss, Gavin, had nearly made Josh crack. When the owner’s drug problem hit an all-time high, pardon the pun, Gavin had been shipped off to rehab and had temporarily closed the restaurant. Josh’s friend Digger took over as the executive chef for roughly two weeks before the owner closed the doors permanently and sold the place to a buyer who turned it into a high-end bakery. Josh’s experience at Simmer was, I thought, the main reason that he’d run off to Hawaii.
My face must have turned ashen, because Adrianna nudged me under the table. Finally, she spoke. “Chloe knows all about Simmer. It was a wonderful restaurant that served some of the best food in Boston, but it closed a few months ago.”
Kyle’s face lit up. “Oh, Chloe, do you know the chef? Josh something, right? Do you know where he is now?”
I cleared my throat. “Um, I think he’s in Hawaii.”
“Damn.” Kyle sighed. “My father ate at Simmer once last spring. He said that the food was outstanding. He had a fresh vegetable spring roll with mango sauce that he still talks about. It’s the one restaurant that he insisted on. He said that it had to be in the book.” Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really needed the chef for this project. My father is going to kill me. I probably shouldn’t even be trying to make this whole thing happen.” Kyle looked at us. “Sorry, I’m just really stressed out about my father’s visit, as you can tell. He’s not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type.”
I did have Josh’s e-mail address, so technically I could get in touch with him. But it didn’t seem right to have ignored all of his attempts to contact me and then suddenly write him a note to beg for a recipe. What could I say? You broke my heart, and I’ve had to force myself out of bed every day, and I’m so mad at you and so hurt, and why did you leave me? And by the way, I need to know how to make your spring rolls. Fat chance.
“A guy named Digger replaced Josh briefly before they closed, but I’m sure we can do something with the material you already have, Kyle.” I tried to sound reassuring. “There’s probably a lot more here in your f
older than you think, and we’ll get some more recipes before your father comes. He won’t even notice that Josh’s recipe isn’t included.”
Kyle managed a smile. “Believe me, he’ll notice. He notices everything. Well, what about this Digger person that you said took over after Josh left? Do you know where he is?”
Ade shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Digger might have been and maybe still was Josh’s good friend, but the details of how he’d taken over Josh’s job had been a little sketchy. The sequence of his accepting the job and Josh’s quitting was open to question, and even if Josh had resigned first, there was an unwritten rule in the restaurant world that banned moving in on another chef’s territory the way Digger had. Josh had spent months complaining about how he was being treated at Simmer, and for Digger to move there with no hesitation suggested callousness about how beaten up Josh had been. But Josh had let it go. He and Digger had gone to culinary school together and had been close friends ever since. I was much more bothered by Digger’s behavior than Josh was.
I hadn’t seen Digger since Josh had taken off, but I had his phone number. As reluctant as I was to contact someone so close to Josh, I desperately needed a job, and this one was really perfect for me. “Yes, I know Digger. I’m sure he’d contribute some recipes for the cookbook. I’m not sure what restaurant he’s at now, but he’s a very skilled chef—excellent—so it’s probably someplace you’ll be glad to include.”
Kyle brightened. “Do you think he’d have any recipes from Simmer?”
I shrugged. “Possibly. He wasn’t there that long, but he might.” As pissed as I was at Josh, I would never ask Digger for Josh’s recipes, which belonged to Josh and not to Digger. Besides, chefs kept some recipes secret, so Josh might not have told even his good friend how to make some of his specialties. There was also Digger’s pride to consider: although I hadn’t quite forgiven him for taking Josh’s job, I could hardly show more eagerness for Josh’s recipes than for his own. When I talked to him, I’d need to be tactful.
“That would be fantastic! I’ll e-mail my father and let him know that we’re working on a lead. It’ll be better if he thinks this book is well underway, and I ought to be able to catch up before he gets to Boston.”
“What’s he doing in France?” I asked.
“Oh, supposedly he’s traveling the country for research purposes. Learning new regional cuisines and all that. But mostly he’s just showing off his latest trophy wife, Miranda. This is his fourth wife in the past eleven years. Once this most recent young wife shows the first sign of losing her looks, my father will drop her and move on. But for now, Dad is enjoying showing Miranda off, and I’m sure she’s been paraded around at every possible European event.” Kyle shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you anything about this wife. I’ve given up trying to get to know any of them. They come and go so quickly that they’ve all blurred into one image for me. He’s got a prototype that he fills every few years, so there’s no point in my learning who’s who. I don’t know why he doesn’t just pick one and stick with her.”
When our entrées arrived, my mouth watered at the sight of my lamb. It smelled heavenly! The grilled lamb was served with cannellini beans and a rich salsa verde. The server who’d brought our main courses had pushed a rolling cart with preparations for Kyle’s steak au poivre near our table. A sous-chef appeared and set a pan over an open flame. He then dropped a thick pepper- covered steak into the pan, causing billows of smoke to erupt.
“I love anything prepared tableside, don’t you?” Kyle asked us as he stared happily at the sous-chef. “Wait until he lights the pan on fire. It’s gorgeous!”
When the steak was done, the sous-chef removed it and poured in a generous amount of pungent cognac. He tilted the pan and lit the cognac on fire, and the three of us almost involuntarily clapped our hands. It was like watching a show! When the fire subsided, the sous-chef added heavy cream to the sauce and then poured the rich concoction over Kyle’s steak.
“That’s great, isn’t it? I go to those Japanese restaurants sometimes, the ones with the group tables where they do the hibachi cooking. I love it when the chefs make the onion volcanoes and fire shoots up from the onion rings. My father would probably faint if he knew I went to those kinds of restaurants, but I enjoy them.” He sounded like an excited child talking about Disney World.
Ade nearly choked on her food, and I laughed. “We shouldn’t talk about hibachis in front of her right now. Her husband is at home grilling on a small hibachi on their wooden fire escape.”
“Yes, my idiot husband is probably going to burn our apartment down tonight. We don’t have the money to buy a new grill, never mind to pay for rebuilding our apartment!” Ade flipped her blonde hair behind her shoulder and took a deep breath. “What am I going to do with him, huh?”
“Aw, it could be worse,” I said. “Besides grilling outside, he could be trying to flambé things in the kitchen. Could you imagine him igniting cognac in the apartment?”
“Don’t even suggest that!” she said. “If he hears about this steak tonight, then you know he’ll want to replicate it at home. I’ll have to keep the details of this delicious dinner a secret.” She winked conspiratorially at us.
I worked my way through a plate of succulent lamb, and by the time dessert arrived, Kyle and I had agreed that I’d keep his folder of notes so that his father, the famous Hank Boucher, wouldn’t have the opportunity to see the mess of recipes and crumpled papers. Chef Boucher wouldn’t see anything about the book until I had at least turned Kyle’s notes into neat, tidy pages. Boy, did I have work ahead of me. I felt less guilty about accepting such a generous hourly rate now that I knew about the late nights that lay ahead of me.
I sampled the tiramisu and smiled. “Maybe we should get this recipe.” I groaned. “It’s sinful!” Tiramisu was one of those desserts that could be either outstanding or totally mediocre. This one, with its layers of mascarpone, liquor-soaked ladyfingers, and cocoa, was rich and decadent.
“So, Chloe, not to rush you too much, but do you think you could contact this Digger character tomorrow and see what Simmer recipes you can get your hands on?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“It’s just that with my father coming into town tomorrow, I’d really like to do what I can to avoid a fight. I know I can get this book together and really impress him, but I think it’d be best to make a strong first presentation.”
“Absolutely. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I speak to Digger,” I assured my new boss.
After we had thoroughly gorged ourselves on dinner, Kyle paid the bill and left a substantial cash tip. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to ingratiate myself with the chef and see if I can finagle a recipe or two and an interview from him. Thank you so much, Chloe, for taking this on. And, Adrianna, it was a delight to meet you. I hope to see you both again soon.” He shook our hands and headed off toward the rear of the restaurant.
Ade helped herself to the last bite of my dessert. “So, Chloe,” she said, “good work. Not only did you find yourself a great job, you also just found a potential husband.”
“What?” I said with irritation. “That man is not husband material. He’s my employer. We are going to have a strictly professional relationship.”
“We’ll see,” she said in a singsong voice. “I think he is adorable and charming and sweet. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time to move on?”
Move on. I’d love to move on, except that I was about to dig myself back into Josh’s culinary world by calling Digger and asking for Simmer recipes. My new job was going to make it harder than ever to shake Josh out of my system.
FOUR
I spent Thursday at my internship, or “field placement” as my graduate school referred to it, at a community mental health center where I provided counseling services to an array of clients. Draining though those days were, they kept my mind from wandering to my romantic troubles. When I returned home, my car slid on wet leaves as
I pulled into my parking spot by my condo. November weather stank. It was freezing, with bitter winds and gray skies dominating the forecast for the next ten days. Now, at four fifteen or so, it was already as black as midnight, and I was missing spring terribly. I walked up to my third-floor condo and immediately turned on all the lights and lit a few sugar-scented candles. I was fighting the urge to get into bed and hide, but I was determined to beat this endless Josh hangover. Last night’s conversation about Simmer had stirred up memories of my frequent visits to see Josh at work, the way he looked after a long night in the kitchen, how his once- white chef’s coat would be all dirty and smelly but somehow comforting. His hair would be mussed up and adorable, and his blue eyes were always filled with exhaustion. . . . I had to stop! I refused to let this gloomy day bring me down. My interesting new job would eat up a lot of the time that I’d otherwise have spent lolling around, pining over my chef. No, I corrected myself, not my chef. A chef. Just one more chef. No one special.
I scooped up one of my cats, Inga, and nuzzled her white fur. She’d been terribly scrawny when I’d first taken her in, but she’d gained weight. I was, however, still struggling to keep up with her constant need for thorough grooming. These days, she got the occasional knot and was nowhere close to the matted mess she’d been when Josh had rescued her. I loved having her and loved what a snuggler she’d become. Gato, my shorthaired black cat, was still pissed off that he was no longer an only feline. I frequently came home to rolls of shredded toilet paper that he’d left for me in the bathroom. Gato didn’t fight with Inga, but he clearly had no interest in becoming kitty pals with her, either.
I had no idea what days Digger was off work, or even where he worked, but I decided to give him a call and at least leave him a message. I still had his cell number programmed into my phone, so I flopped onto my bed and dialed.