Romance Impossible

by Melanie Marchande

  "For years, Chef Maxwell Dylan, one of the world's most successful restauranteurs, has been whipping aspiring cooks into shape on 'Killer Kitchen.'"

  This was interspersed with several shots of yelling, followed by him picking up a plate of food and flattening it against some poor young chef's chest.

  "Now, he's coming to America to help failing restaurants find their way."

  I got up and started searching through the mountains of magazines. There had to be a remote somewhere.

  "You're lazy," came a familiar voice through the tinny speakers. "That's your problem. You're just flat-out lazy and you have no passion for this business."

  "Excuse me," I said, softly, coming up to the counter. I'd searched everywhere, with no luck. The receptionist had the phone tucked under her ear, and she gave me the "wait a minute" finger.

  "YOU," Chef Dylan boomed, "ARE LIKE POISON TO THIS PLACE. THIS RESTAURANT WILL BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU."

  The receptionist wasn't talking. "Excuse me, I just..."

  The finger again. I sighed. The throbbing behind my eyes was getting out of control.

  "Just shut down. Shut down the restaurant today. I'm leaving. Goodbye."

  "WILL THIS FINALLY BE THE RESTAURANT THAT SENDS CHEF DYLAN PACKING?"

  Fucking hell.

  "Excuse me," I said, more loudly. "Can you just -"

  "Shhh!" the receptionist hissed, glaring me.

  "Never in my life, not once, have I EVER met someone I believe in less than you."

  "Jillian?" The nurse stuck her head into the room. "Dr. Peters is ready for you."

  ***

  "So, what'd the doctor say this time?" My friend Shelly eyed me over the rim of her margarita. She'd taken pity on me, once again, and taken me out for as much Mexican food as I could stuff into my face in a single sitting, plus a to-go box or two. At first I'd been embarrassed to take advantage of her generosity, but it's amazing what a few weeks of an empty bank account will do to change your perspective on things.

  "Same as always," I said. "Get a massage, like I can afford it. Do some yoga, as if it helps. I don't need inner peace, I need a damn job."

  "I assume you've already put in an application at Dylan's Trattoria."

  Shelly was, in her own words, a "pretty good accountant." Good enough to work at a fancy firm where she always got paid on time. Whenever she complained about the stress of her job, I tried not to go green with envy. I knew she didn't mean anything by it. But boy, wouldn't I give anything to be sweating over a hot grill, stressed out to the max, just for the guarantee of some money in the bank.

  But even I had my limits.

  "Hell no," I said, finishing my piña colada and gesturing for the server. "I won't work for Chef Dylan. No way, no how. No thank you."

  "Tell me how you really feel." Shelly smirked. "But seriously, he can't be as bad as he seems on TV. That's all an act."

  "It's not," I said. "Trust me."

  I'd never told her about the incident at Giovanni's. It was silly, I knew, that I was still so hung up on that stupid little thing. One man's opinion. And really, he wasn't wrong that the food quality was subpar. But it had felt so personal, with him sitting there, staring me down. Throughout culinary school and every other job I'd ever had, nobody had ever made me feel that small.

  "Okay, all right." Shelly raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. She knew I was serious. I'd apply anywhere. I applied at McDonald's, but was turned down for being "overqualified." There was just no way in hell that I'd ever work for a man like Maxwell Dylan.

  I didn't speak for a while, just poking at the remnants of salsa in the bowl with a broken chip.

  "I didn't know you'd met the guy," Shelly said, finally. She never was very good at leaving things alone.

  "Once," I said. "A long time ago. It was before he blew up. But he was just as self-important back then as he is now."

  "I think he's cute," said Shelly, breezily. "I mean, you know, in that sort of...'hot contractor Mom and Dad hired to build the deck one summer' way."

  "Wow," I said, grinning at her. "That was...amazingly specific."

  She flushed a little. "Whoo, they're not messing around with these margaritas, are they? Hey! Can we get another round over here?"

  I let the server replace my empty glass with a fresh drink, even though I knew I should slow down. The last thing I needed while I was job-hunting was a hangover - and a sugar-laden one, at that. But now, it just felt nice to get a buzz going and forget, even for a second, how dire my situation was.

  We didn't leave until a few drinks later, swaying back to South Station to catch our respective rides home. By the time my train got there, I was confident that Shelly had sobered up enough to get home safely, and I had, too. She hugged me tightly before we parted.

  "Everything's gonna be okay," she said, still a little bit slurred around the edges. "I promise, you're gonna do great."

  "Thanks," I said, my head swimming too much to come up with anything more coherent than that.

  I actually fell asleep on the ride home, the gentle rocking of the train lulling me into a dreamless slumber. Thankfully, the conductor knew me well enough to wake me up for my stop.

  It took me an embarrassingly long time to unlock the door. Once it was done, I fended off Heidi's excited jumping for long enough to hook up her leash and take her outside one last time for the night. Staggering back inside, I managed to pull off my heels and unclip my hair before collapsing on the sofa and falling back into a deep, dark sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Charcuterie

  Charcuterie is the branch of cooking that has to do with meats - a crucial part of any chef's menu, in my opinion. Despite what some may think, I have the deepest respect for anyone who chooses self-imposed dietary restrictions, but for a chef? I don't believe we have that luxury. It is important for us to experience everything fully - in the kitchen, and in life.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Max

  ***

  When I finally came back to Boston, the trees were just starting to change their colors.

  I beat the leaf peepers by a day, at most. My planned trip to Ikea to stave off the jetlag and get something relatively disposable to sleep and eat on soon became nothing but a distant dream, as I watched the cars crawl their way down 93 on the news. I ended up sleeping through most of the usable hours that week, waking up too late to unpack without disturbing my neighbors.

  Look, I'm rude - but I'm not that rude.

  I've relocated enough times in my life that I know how it goes. For a week or two after moving, you've got momentum. You're unpacking and organizing every day, breaking down boxes and planning out layouts and sweeping up stray peanuts before you go to bed. But it fades quickly. Anything that's not unpacked by the end of Week Two is staying packed forever.

  And no matter how many times you move, you'll still end up packing things you never need.

  By the time I was back on a non-vampiric schedule, the "digging around in boxes every time you need something" lifestyle had become my new normal. And I was busy - the final stage of renovations was wrapping up at the Trattoria, and the decorators were milling about, and I had to make sure they didn't wreck everything. That was considerably more important than my own personal comfort.

  "Love what you've done with the place," was my brother Beckett's comment, when he first set foot in my apartment.

  "I'm sure yours looks like the cover of Architectural Digest," I muttered, going to the fridge for a beer.

  "I've only been here for three days," Beckett pointed out. "I'll never understand why you don't just rent out pre-furnished."

  "That doesn't really solve the problem. I'd just have a couch piled with boxes," I said, popping the lid on my lager. "Anyway, we've been over this. I don't want to think about what the last person was doing on the furniture in my own place."

  "It's all rental," he replied, with a shrug.

  "Yo
u think that makes it better?" I took a swig. "You're mental."

  "But you stay in hotels. That furniture's much worse."

  "Yes, but that's not the furniture in my home. It's a completely different thing. Why do you always fight me on this? You know I'll never change."

  "Because." Beckett went to the fridge and stuck his head in. "You're going to bring a woman back here, and she's going to tell the gossip rags that you're a slob, and you're going to ring me in the middle of the night to complain about it. I'm just trying to head this off at the pass."

  "Not a chance," I said, sitting down on an empty plastic tote. "None of that, not while I'm here. For the entirety of my tenure in Boston, I'll essentially be a priest."

  He gave me a look. "I can only assume this is some previously unknown meaning of the word 'priest.'"

  I flicked my beer cap at his head.

  ***

  I really meant it - the priest thing, that is.

  Celibacy is the only way for me to stay focused. I have one speed when it comes to relationships - and it's the kind that usually ends in a fiery crash, twisted metal strewn across the pavement, road closures...

  You know, just general disaster and ruin.

  "But Max," someone like my brother might say, "Max, why don't you just keep things casual? There's no need to get attached to someone just because you're having sex with them."

  Yes, yes. It sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?

  And then you meet her.

  You meet the one who changes everything. Instantly, you're addicted. You're either screaming at each other or she's screaming your name, but either way it gratifies something in you, and you just can't give it up. It's like a drug.

  Until everything inevitably comes crashing down.

  Who has the time for that? Who has the energy? I'm trying to open a damn restaurant.

  ***

  "Look, I understand it's got to be a special order - I get it - you've told me a thousand times, my point is, I don't care. Find a way to get it done. I'm not slapping that hideous knockoff color on the walls, so figure it the fuck out."

  The designer was shooting daggers with her eyes, but I was already halfway to the kitchen.

  I simply refused to cut corners. If every aspect of this restaurant wasn't exactly perfect, exactly the way I wanted it, what was the point?

  "It's beautiful, isn't it?" came a deep, booming voice from somewhere in my kitchen. I rounded the corner, a grin spreading across my face.

  "Jimmy," I exclaimed, as the massive, rotund man pulled me into a crushing hug. I hadn't seen Chef Jimmy Shaw in years, not since the last time I was in New England. His schedule running the Ritz was punishing, so he rarely got away anymore. But he'd managed to find the time to sneak his way in here.

  "Look at them," said Jimmy, clapping me on the back and gesturing at the pair of massive, stainless steel ranges that had just been installed. "There's nothing more gorgeous in the world, is there?" His accent made it sound like gawgeous, and my smile just grew bigger.

  "We live very different lives, if you really think that," I said. "What have you got for me, Chef?"

  He waved a sheaf of papers. "Where's your office? There's a few I think you'll be interested to go over."

  Staffing, for me, was always a struggle. Every time I opened a new place, I swore I saw my assistant Lydia close her eyes and do the sign of the cross before she started looking over applications. And she wasn't even Catholic. I'm picky, I admit - but look where it's gotten me.

  Anyway, Jimmy was doing me a favor by letting me look over the best of his reject pile. In fairness, his reject pile is better than most restaurant's entire payroll. He has a terribly low turnover and everybody wants to work for him. I was prepared for disappointment, but if I was being perfectly honest with myself, I was also a little excited about the possibilities.

  I headed towards the back, gesturing for him to follow me. My desk was still piled with boxes, but it wasn't quite as bad as my apartment. The desk, at least, was empty.

  "All right," said Jimmy, settling down in a folding chair. He spread the papers out on my desk. "I weeded through them personally - I mean, my HR girl throws away anything that's filled out in crayon, but I figured you'd appreciate some more rigorous quality control."

  "I do," I said, picking up one of the small piles at random and flipping through it. "Have any of these been interviewed?"

  Jimmy shook his head. "No time. But they look good on paper, eh?"

  Scanning over the resumes quickly, I looked for key words that would stand out. Most of these people would probably jump at the chance to work for me. A few of them would probably rather die, but would do it anyway. I could have my pick of them. Andrew. Gavin. Akira. Lana. Jillian. Muhammed. Troy -

  Wait. Wait.

  Jillian. Jillian Brown.

  It couldn't be. It was too much of a coincidence.

  I scanned down her job history. And there it was.

  Line Cook - Giovanni's.

  As I made my way back from that item to the top of her resume, I couldn't help but notice the improbably long list for three years' worth of work experience.

  "Found one you like?" Jimmy peered over the desk.

  "Hmm." I was trying to keep things noncommittal. "Jillian Brown seems a bit unstable with the career history in the past few years, don't you think?"

  "All those places closed." He shrugged, a big gesture that nearly dislodged some of the boxes nearby. "This economy, Max, what are you gonna do?"

  "I suppose," I replied, slowly - trying to downplay my interest for no logical reason whatsoever. "Have you ever met her?"

  "Once or twice," he said. "She seems like a very nice girl."

  "Woman," I said, absently, my eyes running down the page again. "You wouldn't call me a boy, would you?"

  Jimmy let out a huge guffaw. "Not unless I wanted to end up on my back on the pavement, no sir."

  Jillian. Is there a chance in hell?

  I looked more closely at her most recent job. Nine months ago. Not quite long enough to be desperate, necessarily, but at least long enough to consider an offer from me.

  That was, if she remembered me at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hors D'oeuvre

  The hors d'oeuvre should never be an afterthought. First impressions, after all, are lasting. Consider your appetizers an opportunity to impress, not simply something to fill the guest's stomach while you prepare their "real" food.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Jill

  ***

  The chirping of my phone woke me up, bright and early the next morning. I squinted at the screen uncomprehendingly for a while. Heidi was curled up, still snoring at my feet.

  Making a valiant effort to clear my throat, I hit the "talk" button.

  "Hello?" My voice still sounded incredibly raspy, but at least it was working.

  "Jillian Brown?" It was a man's voice, deep and commanding. I didn't think I recognized it, but my heart clenched anyway.

  "Yes," I said. "Can I help you?"

  "Is this a bad time?"

  I must have sounded as bad as I felt. "No, it's fine. What do you need?"

  "I was hoping to discuss an employment opportunity with you."

  "Oh." God damn, if there was a worse time to get a callback...oh well, I had to make the best of it. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, and tried to focus. "Where did you say you were calling from?"

  "I didn't," he replied. "Would you be able to come into the city for an interview later this afternoon?"

  "Where?"

  He started rattling off an address. Was I losing my mind, or had he still not said the name of the place?

  "Hang on, just -" I hauled myself off the sofa and stumbled over to the junk pile that might have once been my dining room table, searching for a pen. "I need something to write with."

  "Sorry," he replied, not sounding particularly sorry.

  I finally f
ound a half-dead ballpoint under a pile of "URGENT NOTICES" from the cable company. "Who are you with?"

  "Dylan's Trattoria," he said.

  My heart stopped for a moment.

  "Chef Dylan?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  "Yes?" His tone suggested that there was absolutely nothing unusual about him cold-calling prospective employees.

  My voice wouldn't cooperate with my desire to respond to him, even though I had no idea what I was going to say. Do you know who you're calling? Do you remember me? Why the hell would you ever want me to work for you?

  And more importantly, why would you ever think I would want to work for you?

  "Are you ready?" he said, impatiently, after a few moments of silence. I realized he was still waiting to give me the address again. I wanted to hang up the phone, but for some incomprehensible reason, I didn't.

  "Yes," I said, numbly.

  Dutifully, I scrawled down what he told me on the back of an envelope from the electric company, which I hadn't yet dared to open.

  After we hung up, I went around my morning routine like a zombie - shower, clean clothes, brushing some of the nastiness out of my mouth - and didn't even let myself think about the interview until I'd dragged Heidi outside. She loved being there, but getting her going in the morning was like starting an old lawn mower.

  While she sniffed the same sign post for twenty minutes, I considered my predicament. At this point, I basically had to at least attend the interview. Word got around in the culinary industry. Turning down a job with Maxwell Dylan was one thing, and an understandable decision, but a no-show to an interview? That could get me blacklisted from every decent restaurant in the city.

  So, I'd have to sit through the stupid thing. That was okay. If nothing else, it would make for a good story.

  ***

  After I'd been sitting in the lobby of Dylan's Trattoria for twenty minutes, without a sign of life, I was starting to reconsider my decision.