What a joke. What a waste of a train ticket. I'd been hopeful when I found the door unlocked, despite the fact that the restaurant still wasn't due to open for another few weeks. Someone must be here. But I'd already circled the dining room, just in case he might be hiding under a table or something, and even poked my head into the back. There was no one here.
I was starting to think this was some kind of elaborate practical joke. Maybe it was a hidden camera prank for Chef Dylan's latest reality show. No way was I signing that release form. Not in a thousand years.
Until I'd looked it up to plan my route, I hadn't remembered where this restaurant was located. No wonder I hadn't recognized the address - it was in Beacon Hill, the most affluent neighborhood in the city, and one I'd had very few occasions to visit. Walking down the narrow cobblestone streets, past the old brick buildings that would be here long after I was gone, I felt like I'd travelled through time.
The restaurant itself maintained the old-world aesthetic on the outside, but inside it was much more cool and modern.
And empty. Very, very empty.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. I jerked my head up, just in time to see a man in a black pea-coat hurry past me, without even glancing in my direction.
"Excuse me," I said, loudly. He froze, then glanced over his shoulder at me.
"Ah," he said, turning all the way around. "Miss Brown."
His face was completely unreadable. It hadn't changed much in the last few years - he still had those stormy eyes and those rough-and-tumble good looks that the camera loved so much. I cleared my throat and stood, accepting his hand for a shake. It was warm and dry, despite the damp chill of early autumn beginning to permeate the air.
"Did I have the time wrong?" I asked politely, knowing that I didn't.
"No," he said. Then, seeming to sense that I was fishing for something else, he added: "Don't worry, this won't affect the length of the interview."
"Well, thank goodness for that." I sat down in the chair he pulled out for me, acutely aware that I had to present myself as about one-thousand-percent more confident than I felt, in this moment. Any sign of weakness, and I'd be done for.
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, smoothing it out on the table in front of him. It took me a second, reading it upside-down, to recognize it as my résumé. How had he gotten a copy?
"So," he said, holding the paper flat with his fingertips. His hand was splayed wide on the tabletop, and I found I couldn't stop staring at it. With an effort, I shook myself out of my trance and looked up at him. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were darting across the words in front of him.
"So," I replied. "Should I tell you about myself?"
"No need," he said, still looking at the paper. "Everything I could want to know is right here."
I swallowed. "Then, with all due respect..."
"Why am I interviewing you?" He looked up at me suddenly. His eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat. "Well, there are all sorts of things you can tell about a person from meeting them face to face. But it's very rarely the things they say. Most of all, I was curious to see if you'd come."
My mouth went dry. This was it - he was about to bring up our first meeting. Had he really scheduled this interview just to assert his dominance over me, to prove I'd still jump if he snapped his fingers? A sick feeling roiled in my stomach.
"Don't look so distressed," he said, mildly. He was still standing at the other side of the table, his coat unbuttoned, but hanging on his shoulders like he was on the verge of walking out the door. "I wouldn't have called you here if I didn't want to hire you. But there's plenty of people out there who would refuse to work for me, on principle."
"Principle?" I echoed. This was going very, very badly. If he was trying to set me off-balance on purpose, it was working tremendously well. And I was coming off as a tremendous ass.
"Or because they think I'd be a nightmare to work for," he said, finally shrugging out of his coat and taking it over to the rack. "But you've come this far, so obviously you're willing."
Or desperate.
"I always try to keep an open mind to new opportunities," I said, evenly.
He grinned. I'd never actually seen him smile before. I realized it in that moment, briefly seeing his face transform into something completely different. He looked...human.
With a sudden gesture, he jerked a chair out from under the table and sat down, leaning forward to look at me searchingly.
"This will probably surprise you," he said. "But on the scale of head chefs, I'm actually not that hard to work for. If you're eager, if you're passionate, and above all, if you listen to fucking directions -" Here, he briefly grinned again. "- we'll get along just fine. And you come highly recommended."
Taking a deep breath, I finally addressed the question that had been gnawing at the back of my mind all morning. "Can I ask who recommended me?"
"My friend Chef Shaw, over at the Ritz. He was really very regretful that he didn't have any room for you on his staff, so he passed your résumé on to me. He knows I've been having a hard time staffing this place. I'm a bit picky, you understand."
I would have died a thousand deaths before I applied to the Ritz, if I'd known I would get passed on to Chef Dylan, of all people.
"Well," I said. "I'm sorry to hear about your struggle."
Chef Dylan eyed me carefully, then looked back down at the paper. "Is this how you got your last few jobs?"
"No," I said. "Generally, they asked me questions in the interview."
"I just did." There was something about him. Something that didn't come across on TV, and something I hadn't noticed the last time we met. He was driven, which shouldn't have come as a surprise, but - it was almost a nervous energy. Like his motor had a few screws loose.
"Questions about my...job skills, and my strengths and weaknesses. You know." I laced my fingers together, resting my hands on the table. "Interview questions."
"I've never been a fan of the traditional interview structure," Chef Dylan said, rising and shucking off his coat. Then, he started to unbutton his shirt. I stood up so quickly I knocked into the table, stumbling over my chair as I backed up.
"I..." My voice shut down, somewhere about the time I saw his chest muscles tensing and stretching while he pulled off the shirt and tossed it aside. His torso was long and tan, with a dusting of golden hair. A tattoo snaked around his upper arm, but I didn't look long enough to tell what it was. A light scent of something sharp and masculine wafted through the air. Sandalwood? Something?
"Oh, relax," he called over his shoulder as he headed towards the kitchen. "I'm just changing. You should do the same. I'll be at the prep table when you're ready."
And with that, he snatched a white chef's coat off of a hanger by the door, slipped it on, and disappeared through the "STAFF ONLY" door.
I stood flabbergasted for a moment. There was another coat left hanging. Obviously, I was supposed to put it on and join him for some kind of cooking audition.
Just walk out. Just walk out now, before he has a chance to toy with you anymore.
But that was unfair. I had no reason not to believe him, when he said he was interested in hiring me. He seemed to have genuinely forgotten the incident at Giovanni's, and knowing me by reputation only, he considered me to be a viable candidate for...whatever position he was trying to fill.
"Excuse me," I called after him, walking to the door and pushing it open slightly. "Chef?"
He poked his head up, looking at me over the heat shelf. "You're not dressed for cooking."
"I have to ask you something," I said. "You never told me what position you have available."
Chef Dylan tossed a ball of dough down on the counter. "That depends."
Oh, this was just too much.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. "Excuse me," I said, letting him think I was going back out to change, or...whatever. I took in a long breath and let it ou
t slowly as I pulled out my phone to look.
This is an account alert from Bank of Southsea. You have exceeded your maximum overdraft protection for your checking account ending in 5308. Please visit -
I squeezed my eyes shut for a long moment.
Chef Dylan had me between a rock and a hard place, whether he knew it or not. It was my pride - my stupid, ridiculous pride that was keeping me from groveling at his feet, no matter how badly I needed this job. Any job. Even if it meant working for a tyrant. And if it were just about me, I'd be willing to die on that hill. I guess that's why my mother always called me "stubborn like a mule." But I had to be able to take care of Heidi, too. I'd be happy to live off of free deli crackers and McDonalds ketchup packets, but it wasn't fair for her to suffer.
I was going to have to do the unthinkable - swallow my pride.
Hope I don't choke on it.
I pulled off my blouse and wrapped myself up in the other chef's coat. It was about five sizes too big, and as the collar brushed against my face, my nose was filled with that sharp, distinctive scent of Chef Dylan's cologne. It hadn't been overwhelming before, but now that my nose was practically buried in one of his backup coats, it was pretty hard to ignore.
My pulse hammered in my throat. What on earth was I doing?
I took a deep breath and thought of Heidi, snoozing back home, and her rapidly dwindling bag of food. And with that, I turned down the collar, rolled up my sleeves, and walked into the kitchen.
It was massive. On a busy night, every line cook would have their own prep area, bigger than the entire kitchen at most places I'd worked. And with Head Chef Dylan's reputation, every night would be a busy night. The main prep table in the center of the room was filled with mouth-watering ingredients. Big, juicy scallops, vibrant greens, bright purple fingerling potatoes, a wheel of cheese that looked like it had been shipped straight from the old country...
Forgetting where I was for a moment, I lifted the plate of scallops to my face and inhaled their scent. Mild and sweet - they were as fresh as fresh gets.
"I got them from a fisherman just this morning," Chef Dylan said, snapping me back to reality. "Lovely, aren't they?"
Nodding, I set them back down. "What are they for?"
"Whatever you like," he said. "I want you to create a special. A main dish. Something worthy of this neighborhood, this restaurant. I want you to make me something I'd be proud to serve here."
I surveyed the table again, feeling slightly light-headed. Now that I'd fully admitted to myself that I needed this job, the nervousness was setting in. And I hadn't even let myself think about the fact that I'd cooked for him once already, and been weighed, measured and found wanting.
This was different. I had the best possible ingredients at my disposal. Nothing was holding me back.
My eyes darted across the table. There was a nice spring salad mix, yes, good. Some angel hair pasta. Lemons. I picked one up, weighed it in my hand, lifted it to my nose. The sharp, fresh scent made my mouth water.
A plan was forming in my head. I filled a large pot in the sink and set it on to boil. Moving quickly now, I took a lemon and scrubbed it clean. After patting it dry with a paper towel, I chose a microplane grater and quickly worked it over, until I had a few tablespoons of bright yellow zest. I set it by the stove, along with some fresh herbs and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and some butter, making a little mise en place. I forced myself not to turn around and look at Chef Dylan.
After I had rinsed the scallops and patted them dry, I melted some butter in a sauté pan until it started to bubble. Once it was ready, I placed the scallops carefully, mindful not to crowd them. My biggest problem as a culinary student was my impatience. Especially in the hectic environment of a commercial kitchen, it was always tempting to rush things or cut corners, but it never turned out well.
When I turned around to get the pasta, I saw Chef Dylan standing in the corner with his arms crossed, watching. His eyes followed me from the prep table back to the stove, as I dumped the pasta and stirred it gently. It was time to turn the scallops. Their savory-sweet aroma was just starting to fill the air.
I could feel Chef Dylan's eyes on me, still, as I minced some garlic and dropped it into a cruet. Some fresh juice from the lemon, a little of the zest, olive oil, salt and pepper completed my fresh dressing for the salad greens. I transferred the scallops to a plate and moved the pan off the hot burner for a moment, taking a deep breath.
I allowed myself another glance at Chef Dylan. His face betrayed nothing, but he was chewing lightly on the side of his thumb. He was watching me like I was a championship tennis match. Quiet, unnervingly so, and riveted. Suddenly, I was acutely aware that I must look a mess. I'd always envied those female cooks who could keep themselves looking fresh and glamorous in the heat and stress of the kitchen. Me, I started melting as soon as I switched on a stove. Typically I'd wear minimal makeup to work, but today I was in interview mode, and I probably had mascara dripping down my face.
But that didn't matter right now. I pulled out a strand of pasta and tested it - almost done. It was time to put the pan back on the heat and make the sauce. A generous splash of wine, the rest of the garlic and lemon zest, a handful of herbs and another knob of butter, then all I had to do was let it reduce while I drained the pasta. Once I got back from the sink, I tasted the sauce and added a little salt.
I felt a premature sense of accomplishment as I tossed the scallops in the pan with the sauce, then added the pasta and let it all soak up for a moment while I plated the salad. It was way too soon to be proud of myself. Chef Dylan was getting a fork. My fate was not yet sealed.
I drizzled the salad greens with dressing and plated the pasta with some scallops. Chef Dylan was hovering. I spooned some of the pan sauce over the pasta, then wiped the edge of the plate with a linen napkin. The smell of his cologne filled my nostrils again, mixed with the warm scent of his skin.
"Hm," was all he said, as I stepped back and let him close in on the plate. After staring at it for a moment, he speared one of the golden-brown scallops on his fork and raised it to his mouth.
My heart pounded in my ears.
He chewed for a moment, swallowed, then went back to twirl some pasta onto his fork. That had to be a good sign, right? After he'd finished that mouthful, he went back for another scallop or two, then dug into the salad. I stood there watching him eat, for what felt like an eternity.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, wiping his mouth on the edge of his sleeve and setting the fork down. "I forgot where I was for a moment there. Haven't eaten since breakfast."
I ventured a smile.
"The pasta's a little anemic," he said, picking up the fork again to prod at it. "If your sauce were a little thicker, it would adhere better, give it a little more flavor. But the texture is good. I was worried for a moment there. Seemed like you'd forgotten it."
He paused, looking up at me. I wasn't sure whether I should be smiling, or crying.
"Relax," he said. "I'm offering you a job. Sauté chef, if you'll take it."
It was a step down from my previous job, but considering this was Chef Dylan's restaurant, I was surprised he wasn't making me start out as a dishwasher. After a moment, I realized I was nodding.
Chef Dylan speared another scallop and held it out to me. I stared at him blankly for a moment.
"Don't tell me you don't eat seafood," he said, frowning. "It'll break my heart."
"No, no, I mean, yes. Of course." I giggled nervously, unsure if I was supposed to take the fork from him, or...? My awkwardness had already dragged this out long enough. I ducked my head down and bit the scallop right off the fork, as he held it.
He blinked a few times, but didn't seem overly taken aback. The scallop was delicious.
"Thank you," I said.
"You made them." He was smiling.
"No, I mean, for the job."
"Of course." He stuck out his hand. "Shake on it?"
We did.
"See, there," he said, turning back to the plate and twirling up some more pasta. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
I shook my head as he continued to eat.
"Reputations," he went on, chewing. "They're like assholes, right?"
There was nothing to do but laugh in response to that.
"I don't think that's how the saying goes," I said.
"That's how it goes for me," he said. "At any rate, my point is, I'm not as bad as everyone thinks."
Except when you are.
"Go home and get some rest," he said, gesturing towards the door. "Leave the coat. I'm assuming you have several of your own. I want you back here tomorrow at nine o'clock."
"Oh," I said. "I, uh..."
"You'll be training with me all week. Learning the menu. If you're going to work in my restaurant, you're going to be upholding my reputation each and every day. I want to make sure you're up to the task well before we open our doors."
Starting salary? Benefits? Employee handbook? I worked my mouth open and closed a few times, but couldn't quite articulate what I was trying to ask him. He started eating again, seeming surprised when he looked up and saw me still standing there.
"My assistant will you call you with all the boring details," he said, finally. "Rest assured the compensation is competitive for the industry."
"I'm sure it is," I said, quickly. "I was just..."
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, firmly, returning to his plate.
Quietly, I turned and slipped out the door.
I expected the headache to come, but it never did.
CHAPTER FOUR
Frappé
A frappé, in classic cooking, is something on a bed of ice. In Boston, it's an ice cream shake. My dual heritage often creates these strange dichotomies, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
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Max
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"Hey! Chef!"
Romance Impossible Page 3