Guilty Pleasures

by Cathy Yardley

  The crew, he noticed, were also standing straighter…and several of them were grinning. Nick was grinning, too, until the man stepped into the kitchen. Then, abruptly, all of his emotion drained in an icy wash.

  “Phillip Marceau,” Nick said, his voice toneless. “Glad to see you’re enjoying my work.”

  Phillip didn’t look a bit different. Hair a shade too pale for his tanned skin, blue eyes sharp as ever, and an air of superiority that only years of the finest schools and expensive locales could instill. His dove gray suit was expensive—Nick had bought one like it himself in charcoal, back in his first days as a well-paid head chef. Phillip looked around the kitchen with an air of supercilious disdain. “I was so charmed by the menu, I wanted to compliment you in person, Nick.”

  Nick hadn’t realized his hands had bunched into fists until they tightened with menace. “Must be a nice change from the tired foie gras you’re plating up over at Chapeau,” Nick replied.

  “Especially the…what was it? Oh, yes. The Mélange-à-trois.” Phillip’s voice held a hint of cruel laughter. “I’ve half a mind to contact Bon Appetit and tell them to get the recipe.”

  “Why? So you can change the name and add it to Chapeau’s menu?” Nick replied pleasantly. “If you need new ideas so badly, I could probably pencil it down for you.”

  Phillip’s face soured. Nick knew that Phillip was an excellent manager, but creativity had never been his strong suit, and they both knew it.

  “You haven’t changed, I see. Still making juvenile jokes.”

  Nick grinned. “I see you still haven’t developed a sense of humor.”

  Phillip’s smile was sharp. “Au contraire. I find the world infinitely more amusing since you’ve moved on from my restaurant. Especially now that you’re here…and producing such, ah, quality work.”

  Should’a done something about you when you fired me. Nick smiled at Phillip, picturing that angelic face sporting a black eye and a fat lip.

  “Hey, Nick,” Paulo said, his arms crossed, with Tiny standing threateningly behind him. “Who’s the pendejo?”

  Nick grinned at the insult, knowing that Phillip always relied on translators and really didn’t know much Spanish, much less swearing in Spanish. “Nobody important,” Nick answered. “Just somebody who likes to think he’s a chef.”

  He saw that both the original insult and the casual response had the desired effect. Phillip’s thin lips drew into a tight line.

  “Well, after August, I guess I won’t be the only one who thinks I’m a chef,” he replied, his tone oily and lethal. “Le Chapeau Noir is going to be entered in the Internationale Culinary Competition. It’s over in Union Square this year, did you know?” His smile suggested that Nick didn’t…that he was so far out of the culinary world, he didn’t even know the location of one of their largest events. “So while you’re serving up penis-shaped pasta here in the slums, spare me a thought, won’t you?”

  “Hey, Fifth Avenue.” Tiny’s voice was low, and his upper arms flexed with menace. “I don’t care who you are. Take a walk, or take a beating.”

  “You don’t know who I am,” Phillip said with a sneer…but Nick noticed him take a step back, nonetheless. “And apparently, you don’t even know who he is.”

  “Sure we do,” Zooey piped in, to Nick’s surprise. “He’s Nick!”

  “He’s our sous-chef,” Paulo added. “The best.”

  Before Nick could feel warmed by their show of support, Phillip went and ruined it. “Sous-chef?” His voice was gleeful. “Can’t even manage head chef anymore, huh, Nick? Even in a dump like this.”

  “The head chef’s the owner,” Nick said. “Not that I owe you an explanation.”

  “Ah. The owner. Mari Salazar…or should I say, Marion Worthington?” Phillip must have noticed Nick’s shock, because his smile was evil-looking. “Thought I wouldn’t know, hmm? I was having a long talk with David from Saveur yesterday…. He’s writing up Le Chapeau Noir. He just happened to have a few choice things to say about your new boss, Nick. Especially about her spectacular failures. You two must be a match made in heaven.”

  “Right.” Nick felt a safety valve inside him snap. “Now you’re going to get yours.”

  Phillip’s eyes widened, and he took another step toward the door. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, but his voice wasn’t so sure of it.

  “But I would,” Tiny said, cracking his knuckles. “Nobody talks shit about Mari.”

  The rest of the crew advanced on Phillip, right down to Zooey, who was brandishing a marble rolling pin like she meant business.

  “Fine.” Phillip shot one last glare at Nick. “I see you’ve finally found your niche, Nick. You never were cut out for a four-star, anyway. Enjoy working as a sous-chef next door to an adult theater then. You’re never going to earn the money or the rep to open your own restaurant. And you’re never going to be in my league.”

  “I never was in your league, Phillip,” Nick said. “I was better.”

  With that, Phillip turned and left, a scowl on his face.

  “Who was that guy?” Zooey said, peering out the window at Phillip’s retreating form.

  “Whatever you did, he probably deserved it,” Paulo observed with a shrug.

  “Watch the grill,” Tiny said with a growl, handing a metal spatula to Xavier. “I’m still going to kick that guy’s—”

  “Easy,” Nick said, putting a hand up. “He’s not worth it. He’s rich and he’s got a team of blood-sucking lawyers, and he’s vindictive as hell.” Nick paused. “That’s why I haven’t gone after him. You don’t want to be cooking in jail.”

  Tiny shrugged. “Like it’d be the first time.” Still, he turned back to his grill.

  Nick took a deep breath. “Okay, orders are up, we’re still busy. We’ve still got a few hours left before the next shift comes on. Don’t worry about that jerk. Let’s just focus.”

  Thankfully, the crew did as instructed, although he felt a grim mood replace the earlier joking.

  Nick tried to follow his own advice, but he kept getting sidetracked by Phillip’s one, poisonous comment.

  Enjoy working as a sous-chef next door to an adult theater then. You’re never going to earn the money or the rep to open your own restaurant. And you’re never going to be in my league.

  Nick growled as he plated up a few pear-and-gorgonzola salads and tried Zooey’s new dessert. He had been happy, thinking of Mari, thinking of how much she was beginning to mean to him. Now, he had this to think about.

  It would hurt less, Nick thought, if Phillip hadn’t been so close to being right. Guilty Pleasures was a great place, and Mari beyond a great woman. But if he stayed, he wouldn’t be a four-star chef. He wouldn’t make enough money, and the only way he could accomplish his old dream would be to leave.

  I promise I won’t hurt you again.

  He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. “Ready on five,” he said.

  He wouldn’t hurt her. He meant that.

  He just wondered how badly he’d be hurting himself if he stayed.

  MARI WAITED NERVOUSLY in the lobby of her landlord’s rental property office, which was a run-down old stucco building that always looked in need of repair. Not a promising sight for people looking to rent, Mari thought, clutching her purse. But then, beggars can’t be choosers.

  Her landlord, Jack MacDonald, preferred beggars for tenants. And Mari had been one when she’d come looking for a cheap property for Guilty Pleasures.

  Jack came out of the closed door of his office, smiling like a used-car salesman as he showed out a young couple who looked happy. Mari got the feeling that Jack had promised them the moon, and they’d signed something.

  Still, she thought as she stood up, they looked young and in love. Whatever they got probably would seem like a palace, from that viewpoint. It might not be much, but it would be theirs.

  Mari felt a momentary pang, and she wasn’t sure if it was sadness at their naiveté…or envy for their h
appiness.

  “Mari! Come on in.” Jack ushered her into his cheaply decorated office, with its peeling desktop and ugly taupe file cabinets. “So…lease is coming up.”

  “If we’re going to be talking lease renegotiation, I have to insist that my business partner Lindsay be here,” Mari said, in her most businesslike voice. “Unless you’re willing to have another year on the same terms. Anything longer or any change in the rent, and we’ll definitely need to reschedule, so Lindsay can be involved.”

  “No, no, nothing that formal,” Jack said, his laugh friendly. Mari’s guard immediately went up. “I’m just notifying tenants in that block of some new information.”

  Mari went still. “What new information?”

  “That you’re not going to be renting from me anymore.” Jack’s smile was wide enough to split his face in half. “I finally got somebody to buy those buildings.”

  Mari’s stomach clenched into a frozen ball. New owner. That could mean anything. Rent increased at a huge rate. Everybody evicted. Or the buildings torn down…

  Stay calm, Mari said. “Oh? Who is this new owner?”

  “It’s part of a conglomerate,” Jack said, waving his hand. “Something about renovating the neighborhood, and I think it’s great that somebody’s doing it.”

  “Somebody other than you, you mean,” Mari muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. So when does the new owner take over?”

  “Two months,” Jack said. He was downright ebullient. This conglomerate must be coughing up some hefty cash to make the man this chipper. “I’m sure he’ll want to keep you on. I hear you’re making some really nice money these days…and if the place gets renovated, you’ll probably get even more business.”

  And get charged even higher rent. Mari stood up. “I’ll pass this on to Lindsay.”

  “I’ll send out something official-looking,” Jack said, standing up also. “I’m sure Lindsay will want something on paper and all.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Mari echoed.

  “Don’t be a stranger, now!” Jack said, waving Mari out of the office.

  Mari walked back to her car, numb. Lindsay had warned her about the possibility of her rent being raised, but there were legal limits to how much a landlord could raise in a year. Besides, business had been better…she felt like she had some breathing room.

  Who would have thought her place would get bought out?

  She got in her car, started the engine. Now, she was facing possible eviction…or at the very least, a lot steeper rent. Which was almost the same thing, considering the huge rents anywhere else in San Francisco. She certainly couldn’t afford to buy her own space.

  Do not panic, she told herself sternly as she zipped her way back to her loft. Things will turn around.

  Look at what happened just a few months ago, after all. She’d hired Nick, which had been a gamble…she’d tried a new menu, which was a big risk, especially with its chancy theme and questionable-sounding content. Now, she was finally creeping in the black and happier than she’d been since she opened.

  So why not take another risk?

  She found a parking spot on the street—a good omen, she thought, considering the near-impossible parking conditions in the city—and went back to her apartment to change into her work clothes. The thought of taking a risk would not leave her mind.

  She called up Lindsay, leaving a message that they’d need to talk, not wanting to break the potentially bad news to her over the phone. As she hung up, her gaze caught on one of the flyers Lindsay had left in a bundle of paperwork on Mari’s desk.

  Internationale Culinary Competition. Grand prize: one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  That wasn’t much, relatively speaking, Mari thought. She’d sunk half a million in Guilty Pleasures. But it would be a cushion until they found a new place…or maybe a down payment for a new place. And the promotional benefits would be enormous.

  And maybe, just maybe, there would be a financier who was interested in their unusual style…interested enough to invest.

  So why not? The entry fee was a little steep, but as her father used to say, you have to spend money to make money. It was one of the few bits of advice that had stuck with her.

  Are you crazy? Her subconscious nagged at her. The people who entered Internationale were all four-star types…internationally known. They were stars of the culinary scene. The competition was about two months away. They’d probably be preparing for this for a year, at least. And they would have top-ranked chefs working on it.

  Nick’s a top-ranked chef. And before Le Pome, I wasn’t a slouch, either. Before her confidence had been so badly shaken, she had been convinced that she could have entered the lofty echelon of top-ranked chefs. Then she’d convinced herself she didn’t need the approval of the culinary world.

  She still didn’t need their approval, she thought. But she’d take their money…and make her name doing it. She knew her crew, and she knew Nick. She’d been around restaurants all her life, had been working in them since she graduated from the Culinary.

  They were good enough. Good enough to take the added pressure of a short deadline, and run with it.

  Good enough to win, if they only tried….

  She picked up the phone, suppressing the jumble of nerves that pulled at her in favor of the excitement that was rushing through her veins. “Hello? Yes. Is this the main office for the Internationale competition?” she asked. “Is it too late to enter? Could you fax me an entry form?”

  BY THE END OF THE evening shift, Nick was exhausted. He’d been there for hours. There hadn’t been any major hitches, granted, but he had to admit…Phillip’s conversation had really thrown him for a loop.

  He felt the dull throb of a headache, just behind his temples. Closing wasn’t too far off now. He was surprised he hadn’t seen Mari yet, though. He was looking forward to seeing her later…and spending some time with her. At this point, he didn’t even need the oblivion of sex. He would be more than happy with just breathing in her floral-spicy scent and feeling her arms around him.

  Well, the sex would be nice, too, he thought with a small grin. But that could wait for later.

  Mari bounced in, and the first thing he noticed was her energy. She seemed to be suffused with it, moving with frenetic little bursts. She was smiling widely.

  “So. I guess things with the landlord went well?” he said, basking in the warmth of her smile.

  “Huh? Oh. No. Actually they went really…” She glanced around, seeing the crew staring at her. He could tell that she edited her response. “You guys know how Jack is.”

  Again, a rumble of commentary, just like the morning shift. This landlord must be some kind of jerk to be this widely known, Nick thought. He wondered what had occurred, but realized Mari would probably tell him later, when they were alone. Still, it couldn’t have been that bad—she was practically dancing with happiness.

  “But I got an idea,” she said, “and I really think we can do a lot with it.”

  “Really?” Her enthusiasm was infectious. “So. What’s your idea?”

  “I’m entering us in a competition!”

  “A competition?” Tiny asked. Tiny was working a double shift, as was Zooey—we’re really going to need to think of bringing on some more employees, Nick thought. Then grinned, as he realized he was thinking like one of the owners. “What’s the big deal about that?”

  “Competitions are good,” Nick replied. “They help get your name out, they give you a chance to show your stuff. Good publicity. Some of them have cash prizes.”

  “Whoo-hoo!” Tiny yelled, and the rest of the crew laughed.

  “Yeah, I figure…those high-brow society kitchens haven’t seen a fight till they compete with our crew,” Mari said. He knew she was right. They were scrappers, every one of them—unorthodox, but definitely gifted, both with persistence and a keen sense of team-work. They’d probably do very well, especially in one of the smaller c
ompetitions…something local, or out in one of the smaller towns. There probably wouldn’t be a cash prize involved, but they were just starting out.

  “When is it?” Antonio, their night runner, asked.

  “Not for two months,” Mari said.

  “Two months?” Zooey wailed. “That’s not a lot of time to prep!”

  Nick interrupted again. “It’s not so bad. It’s sort of like Iron Chef…you know, you get an ingredient—or they say ‘you have to have a fish meal, a meat meal, and a dessert’ or something. You have all your stuff there at the beginning of the competition, you’ve got a set number of hours. Then there’s judging, and you’re all set.”

  “Doesn’t sound that bad,” Tiny said, nudging Zooey. “We could do that, easy.”

  “Competitions can be fun,” Nick said, remembering his own experiences in competition…back in the day, as Tiny would say. “I think you guys could be pretty good at them.”

  “Regardless, this one will be worth it,” Mari said, and her eyes shone. “And we’re going to bust our butts until competition day, to win. Right?”

  “Right!” The crew yelled as one, and Nick smiled again. They were now chattering excitedly to themselves.

  “Orders are up, people,” Nick said, wishing he could kiss Mari’s full, smiling mouth. He felt better than he had in hours. They grumbled good-naturedly and went back to work, and he tugged Mari into the back room, doing what he’d wanted to before…pressing a kiss against her pliant lips. She parted them willingly, kissing him with enough force to make him hard. He pulled away, his breathing harsh.

  “Well. I guess you had a good afternoon,” he said, allowing himself one squeeze before stepping away from her and trying to force his body back to some semblance of calm. “So. What competition are we entering, anyway? Gilroy? Something in the East Bay?”

  “No,” she said, and hugged him. “We’re going to enter in Internationale!”

  Her words stunned him. “What?”

  She blinked. “Internationale. You know the competition… I understand you were on Blackstone’s team, the year they ranked fourth.”