Romance Impossible

by Melanie Marchande

  I kept walking, my hands in my pockets and my eyes fixed on the T station directly ahead of me.

  "HEY! CHEF! CHEF DYLAN!"

  I stopped and turned on my heel. In any other city, at any other time, it would be a paparazzo with a five-hundred-pound camera around his neck. But today, it was just a big, broad-shouldered bulldog of a man in an ill-fitting Patriots jersey.

  "HEY!" he shouted, his face red with the exertion of trying to catch up to me. He lifted his arm in a vague gesture of condemnation. "FUCK YOU!"

  I grinned, and gave him a small wave. There was no malice behind his words. He was smiling back.

  God, but I love this fucking city.

  We came here when I was eight. My Italian mother and my very English father didn't agree on many things, but they were both sick of living in the suburbs of London. When a job opened up for my father in the "City on a Hill," he didn't even hesitate - we were packed up and moved within a month, cramming into a two-bedroom apartment in Cambridge. We never owned a car. No place to keep it, anyway. Some of my brothers and sisters were upset to leave their school friends behind, but I had a good feeling about this place.

  My feelings are seldom wrong.

  I watched the city grow around me, changing every year, but never losing its soul. I had been away for such a long time. I couldn't let that happen again.

  The streets beneath my feet were cleaner than I remembered. It put a little bounce in my step, seeing the old place looking so good.

  A few blocks down, I spotted a little wine shop that I'd never seen before. With so much to do at the restaurant, I hadn't put any effort into stocking my personal wine fridge. My apartment was still bare and full of boxes, but this seemed as good a place to start as any. What was I going to do, furnish the place sober?

  The woman behind the counter smiled and greeted me as I walked in, introducing herself as the owner. I thought she half-recognized me, but wasn't sure enough to say anything. That was fine by me. Whenever possible, I preferred to be treated like a normal person.

  She asked me if I wanted any recommendations, but I didn't. Not today. I did, however, ask for an empty box.

  The bell on the door jangled merrily, startling me out of my trance as I studied labels. And who should walk in, but little Jillian Brown. My newest hire.

  I smiled and nodded at her; her eyes grew wide, then she did the same. She was startled to see me, but she had no right to be, really. I had as much reason to be in this wine shop as anybody else.

  Immediately, I found myself completely distracted from my mission. She was standing a few feet away, staring at the Italian section, her fingers resting lightly on the label of a Moscato. Of course, she would drink something so pedestrian.

  "Really?" I heard myself mutter.

  That's one rumor about me that's completely true - I don't know when the fuck to bite my tongue. That's probably why I love this fucking city so much.

  Jillian cleared her throat. "Excuse me?" she said, her eyes fixed on me. A pink blush was spreading across her cheeks, and I immediately felt a little pang of guilt. But I had to stand by my guns now.

  "That's the 7-Up of wines," I said, taking a step towards her. "Surely, you must know that."

  "Well, I like it," she said, looking back at the bottle. "And I like 7-Up too. So what?"

  "If you want to get smashed on something that tastes like Jolly Ranchers, why don't you just stop at the corner store for some Four Loko?" I'd dug myself deep, but there was nowhere to go but further down. "Here. Try this."

  I handed her a bottle of Gewürztraminer. She took it, but didn't look down.

  "What I drink in my spare time is none of your business," she said. Her mouth had thinned in irritation, but she didn't look nearly as angry as she had a right to be. She held the wine back out to me. "I think you'd better keep this. I don't have any pairing ideas, but I have a few suggestions of where you can put it."

  I let out a bark of laughter. "Goodness - don't be offended, I'm just having a laugh."

  "I'm not offended," she said. And, hell - I almost believed her. "Are you?" There was an undertone of real concern in her voice, like she regretted implying that I should shove the bottle where the sun didn't shine.

  God. What kind of person did she think I was? I'd never dare punish someone for giving me what I deserved.

  "Of course not," I said. "But please, let me get this for you." I raised the bottle of Gewürz. "A peace offering. You don't even have to try it."

  "No thank you, Chef," she said, picking up a few bottles of Moscato. "That's perfectly all right."

  She paid quickly, and I went back to my browsing. I tried to ignore the owner's stares, but I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my skull. She was wondering what the hell was wrong with me. And she was right to do so.

  Me, I'd given up wondering long ago.

  Four hundred dollars later, my barren studio was beginning to feel much more like a home. The place was ridiculous, really - too much empty space for far too much money. But the kitchen was too small. Kitchens were always too small.

  I lined up my bottles on the counter and thought about the restaurant. I thought about printing menus and folding napkins and screwing in lightbulbs.

  But mostly, I thought about Jillian Brown.

  The thing about Jillian was that she deserved better. Better than her circumstances. Better than whatever she'd stumble into, if left to her own devices. I realized I was being horribly arrogant, even for me - and arrogance is my trademark. But I couldn't stand idly by. She needed me.

  That was the thing about it. About all of this. I refuse to apologize for who I am, because in the end, people always thank me. Maybe not in a few days, or a few months, or even a few years. But one day, they wake up and realize: I wouldn't be here without him.

  Nobody likes the person who makes them better. The one who pushes them, and won't stop pushing, and won't let them make excuses. Tough teachers, tough coaches, tough bosses. It's the same story every time. You hate them, and then you respect them. And then you're the better for it. People so often choose what's comfortable, instead of what's really best. Sometimes they need to be led.

  I popped open my own bottle of Gewürz and dusted off a glass. I'd managed to get the majority of my stemware here without breaking it, though God knows why I didn't just buy a new set. I wasn't planning on staying longer than a year or so, just long enough to get the restaurant on its feet - but I might as well keep the place. It would be nice to stay somewhere that wasn't a hotel when I came to check up on things. My filming schedule never seemed to bring me back to the northeast often enough. I'd have to do something about that.

  My phone was buzzing insistently in my pocket. I plucked it out, frowning at the screen.

  "Lydia," I said. "Was just about to phone you."

  "I got your text," she said, sounding flummoxed. It wasn't an uncommon mood for her. "Are you...sure? Is that a typo?"

  "No, I'm sure. And you can tell the payroll people I said so."

  "All right." My assistant was clearly chewing on the end of her pen, something that I'd told her a thousand times not to do. It was a losing battle. In her defense, if chewing pens was the worst habit she picked up while working for me, that was pretty impressive.

  "We can't let this one slip through our fingers," I said.

  "Is that the royal 'we?' Because I have a feeling I'm not going to be the one to scare her away."

  Normally I would have jabbed right back, but I wasn't in the mood. "I'm a right bastard, Lydia - you know that?"

  "Well aware," she said, dryly. "But what'd you do this time? You haven't sounded this regretful in years."

  "The interview went okay," I said. "She was a little taken aback by my style, but they always are - you know? It was afterwards. We ran into each other at a wine shop. I shot my mouth off. The usual. I upset her. Over something incredibly stupid."

  "Let me guess - her taste in wine."

  "Moscato, Lydia!" I almost s
houted. I could almost hear her wince. "I just - I couldn't take it. I had to say something."

  "You chose to say something," Lydia retorted, gently. "Why can't you just leave well enough alone?"

  "She needs guidance, Lydia. She's like a lost puppy. And yes, I realize how awful that sounds."

  "I don't know if you do." The pen-chewing had paused, momentarily. "What's your investment in this? Also, I like Moscato - should I be offended?"

  "No," I said. "You've got your life sorted, haven't you? Jillian needs my help. And that includes wine guidance. Once she's my head chef, she can drink whatever she wants."

  Dead silence on the line. I pulled my mobile away from my ear to check that we hadn't been disconnected.

  "Did you just say what I think you said?" Lydia was chewing on the pen again. "Max, she's never even been a head chef before. Let alone at a place with expectations this high. No offense to the girl, I'm sure she's more than capable, but aren't you throwing her in over her head?"

  "I'll promote her gradually. Obviously," I said, irritated. "Everybody has to start somewhere."

  "I..." She clicked her tongue. "Well, I suppose that's true." It was her this isn't worth arguing about tone of voice. I knew it well.

  That's the thing about people - everybody thinks they know best, all the time. The difference with me is that I'm honest about it.

  "Is that all?" I asked, feeling caged by the conversation.

  "Sure," said Lydia, not sounding sure at all. "I think so. I'll let you know if there's anything else."

  I hung up without saying goodbye.

  ***

  Growing up in a family like mine, you learn to own what's yours.

  Every family has a pecking order. Sometimes it's based on age or gender, and sometimes it's based on personality. Other times it's based on nothing at all. But every group of people needs a designated scapegoat, and families are no different.

  You have to own what's yours. And that includes your mistakes. Otherwise, people use them as weapons against you. If you're "the one who can't do anything right," it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. But who can criticize you when you say "yes, that's right, I made a mistake. I fucked up, I learned from it, and I'm moving on?"

  That's entirely different.

  I learned to chase after my instincts like a bull terrier, and never let go. People looked askance - as I worked my way through a prestigious culinary academy washing dishes, hitchhiked my way through France until I found a restaurant that would hire me under the table, finally got my work visa, and just kept on climbing up - from dishwasher to waiter to line cook to chef, until I was suddenly the one barking orders at wide-eyed, sweating teenagers.

  Once I had my reputation, I came back to the States for a while. My parents smiled politely when I told them about what I'd done. One of my sisters, you see, was studying to be a neurosurgeon - and my mother simply didn't understand why I needed to "show off" by cooking for someone other than family. I should get a nice stable job and find a nice girl, and cook for her. And of course, our children.

  I stayed for as long as I could stand it. There were a few good jobs in Boston, and a few bad ones, but it was one of the bad ones where I met someone with deep enough pockets to finance my first restaurant, back in London.

  Much as I loved the city where I grew up, it was time to return to my roots.

  I missed my father's funeral while I was opening my third restaurant, this one in Paris. My mother didn't bother telling me until afterwards, and it took me years to forgive her. By the time Beckett called me to tell me that she was in the hospital, I had six Michelin stars, and - if you believe the industry articles - the world on a silver platter.

  I got back to Boston in time to say goodbye, but barely.

  After that, I spent some time drifting in the city, visiting some of the famous restaurants and some of the not-so-famous ones. The first time I met Jillian I was angry, not at her, but at her circumstances. I was angry at her boss and angry at the fact that he had no choice but to cut corners in order to survive. I was angry at my mother. I was angry at myself.

  It wasn't my best moment, but as always - I'll stand by what I said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nouvelle Cuisine

  While I don't favor slavish devotion to any one philosophy of food, the ideals of nouvelle cuisine appeal to my sensibilities. Fresh, light, and simple, with an emphasis on attractive presentation and letting the food be its own advocate. But at the same time, sometimes you simply need a good cuisine classique staple. What would a lasagne be without béchamel? Innovation, however, is always welcome in my kitchen.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Jill

  ***

  Unbelievable.

  What an insane, arrogant psycho jerk. No, that didn't even cover it. I didn't even have words in my vocabulary to describe the kind of man that Chef Dylan was.

  And now you're working for him.

  I fumed the whole ride home, but by the time I got there, either the passage of time or the slow rocking of the train had lulled me into complacency.

  I'd just walked in the door from walking Heidi, barely kicking the door closed, when my phone rang.

  "Ms. Brown? This is Lydia Allbright, I'm handling the hiring paperwork for Chef Dylan's Trattoria. How are you doing this evening?"

  "I'm great. Thank you." For some reason, I hadn't actually expected Chef to move this quickly. "How are you?"

  "Good, good." Her keyboard clacked in the background. "I just want to go over a few preliminary things with you, and then I'll email you a few things to fill out and sign. This would be a little easier in person, but I'm not going to be in the area for a few more weeks, and Chef made it very clear that he wanted to fast-track you."

  I wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "That's fine," I said. "I, uh, I don't have a scanner, though."

  "Oh, it's all electronic signatures. Don't worry about it." She made a few soft tsking noises. "It'll just be a few minutes, this thing's still trying to load. Congratulations on the new job, by the way. We were so close to opening I was starting to worry he wouldn't find anyone."

  Flipping a pen around in my fingers, I tried to picture how some of the failed interviews might have gone. Those poor people. Or maybe they were the lucky ones. "Were there a lot of applicants to go through?"

  "Oh, you have no idea." Lydia laughed. "I had to do the first round of screenings. I thought it would never end. After he got ahold of your application, I don't know who was more excited - me, or him. It was just one more position off the checklist, but it felt like a minor victory. I don't think I have to explain why the positions working most closely with Chef can be the most difficult to fill."

  "Sure, sure," I said. "Speaking of, do you have any idea what's going on with the sous chef position? He didn't mention anything about it."

  Lydia clicked her tongue. "I wish I could tell you - but he hasn't mentioned it to me, either. I've learned by now not to question the way Chef Dylan goes about things, even if it doesn't seem to make any sense."

  I had a feeling that I was going to be following that principle quite a bit, whether I liked it or not.

  When she finally managed to pull up the files on her computer and started rattling off numbers to me, my jaw dropped. Chef Dylan hadn't been kidding about his salaries being competitive. My heart started beating faster at the mere thought of having a decent paycheck again. And really, this was beyond decent. I'd be able to pay off those credit card bills. Get my cable turned back on. Maybe even buy a TV that didn't have so many dead pixels that it looked like a half-finished jigsaw puzzle...

  Assuming I survived my first week, of course.

  "...and you should get your new ID cards and benefits booklet in the mail within a few weeks." Lydia was still talking. I forced myself to pay attention, until she was done going through all the important information. But my head was swimming. By the time we'd gone through it, all I wanted
to do was curl up into a ball, preferably in a hot bath.

  "Anyway," said Lydia finally, "I think that's about the worst of it. Just get the forms emailed back to me as soon as you can. And about your new position - let me just say, I've worked for Chef for a very, very long time. I know you've probably got your concerns. Most people do, when they first start. But Chef's not that difficult to work for, if you just pay attention. Keep your eyes open, and your wits about you. You've already got past the hardest part. He liked you enough to hire you, now it's just a matter of keeping it going."

  "Uh huh," I said. Between the interview and this conversation, my brain was leaking out of my ears. I had no idea what she was talking about. How was I supposed to stay in Chef Dylan's good graces when his whims made about as much sense as Heidi chasing her own tail?

  "And if you ever need anything, just call."

  "Sure," I said. "Thank you."

  I didn't really know what that meant either.

  ***

  "So," said Shelly, popping the cork on my seven dollar bottle of sparkling wine. "Is he as hot in real life as he is on TV?"

  She'd insisted on celebrating, and I wasn't really in the mood to go out. Instead, we sat on my sofa with some Thai takeout and turned on the American Horror Story marathon. But of course, she wanted to know all the gory details about the interview. I normally told her everything, but for some reason, I didn't really feel like rehashing the whole experience.

  I shrugged. "Not really my type," I said. "But, I guess, no...he looks different."

  "How does he compare to before, when you met him? Different worse?"

  Different better. Much, much better.

  Outwardly, I just shrugged again. "He wears cologne," I said. "Smells expensive."

  "Of course it's expensive. The guy must be a billionaire."

  "I don't know about that." I downed half my glass in one swallow.

  "We'll see about that!" Shelly picked up her phone. "Siri, what is Maxwell Dylan's net worth?"