Dishing Up Romance

by Carolyn Hughey

  "You're late, Cassandra," he bellowed, using my full name to make it clear he was angry. "You will have to make up the time during your lunch hour."

  "But I have to go to the bank at lunchtime."

  "That's too bad, cherie. You'll have to go another time."

  "But I have to sign papers"

  "This is not my problem"

  I exhaled heavily and headed for the charcuterie station where I'd been working for a week. There'd be no reasoning with this man today, so keeping my mouth shut seemed to be the right thing to do. Nervous tension gathered in my shoulders. Pascal's loud voice stopped me in my tracks. "No, no, no, cherie" His finger wagged back and forth like he was chastising a child. "You must help out in pastry today."

  "Okay," I replied cordially. Chris, the executive pastry chef, had had surgery a few days earlier and wasn't due to return until next week. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Becky as she tried to sneak in through the back door without Pascal seeing her, but old hawkeye didn't miss a beat.

  "If this were my restaurant, there'd be no jeunes filles in here. In my country, we are not so casual about our employment like you American women, who take it for granted because you have someone to support you. And you"-he pointed at me-"have no respect for your boss, cherie, when you call him by his first name. He is `Chef' to you in this kitchen" His finger pounded the table. I didn't utter a word. There was no point in perpetuating his bad mood. He released a loud humpf, probably because he didn't get the reaction he was expecting, and turned on his heels, trotting back to his workstation.

  I could see Becky was seething, but she continued to ignore Pascal as she tied her apron around her waist.

  "What would you like me to do?" I asked her, to break the tension. Pascal's outbursts always made us walk on eggshells.

  "We'll be making the sorbets this morning," she said. "The recipe is in the notebook. Please start measuring out the ingredients."

  "Sure," I answered in a gloomy voice.

  "Hey," Becky said, "don't let this guy get to you"

  "I try not to, but I have an important appointment with the bank, which I thought I could do during my lunch hour, but because I was a few minutes late, Pascal said he was not giving me a lunch hour." I pouted. "I wasn't planning to be more than an hour, but I have to sign papers"

  "Go anyway. I'll cover for you. Just wait until after the lunch rush"

  "Of course, but what about Pascal?"

  She flung her hand out in disgust. "He's a jerk. Ignore him, and call Chef. He'll let you go. Chef's decision trumps this guy's anyway" She frowned. "I wish he would get rid of this little worm. Not an ounce of joy in his life. Let's not give him the satisfaction of messing with ours."

  "If you're sure, I'll go, but I don't want to get you into trouble." I opened the binder, searching for the recipe.

  "Don't worry about me. Pascal makes a ruckus every daywhy-should today be any different?"

  "Okay," I said, less than convinced, "I'll call Charlie-I mean Chef." Becky and I grinned at each other.

  After the hustle-bustle had died down somewhat, I called Charlie, who told me going to the bank was important and he would deal with Pascal. I wasn't sure how Pascal would take it, but I decided to let Charlie deal with it.

  "Okay," Becky said, once the ice cream machines were swirling with a whine to freeze the sorbets, "the next thing on our agenda is pate a choux. Have you made the paste for eclairs before?"

  "Yes. And I love piping them onto the sheet pans."

  "Okay, do that first, while I'm making an opera cake, then we'll see what else needs to be done before the lunch hour. Do you need me to show you how to do anything?"

  "No. I actually have this one down to a science. Want me to make the custard too, while these are baking?"

  "That would be a tremendous help to me," Becky said, as she hummed and continued to apply filling to the layers of cake. "I enjoy working with you, Cass," she said, without looking up. "I understand you're not staying here after your externship is over."

  "News travels fast. Yeah, I'm opening up my own business. So, if you ever get tired of the long hours here and want a job conducting cooking classes or catering, give me a call."

  Becky's eyebrows rose. "I might just take you up on that someday."

  Pascal's angry voice reverberated off the walls as I neared the open kitchen door. "Where is she?"

  My pulse quickened, and I feared walking into the storm, uncertain of what he might do.

  "She's in the restroom, Pascal," I heard Becky say.

  "You are lying, cherie. I know where she is," he growled. "She called Chef behind my back, and he went against my wishes. I cannot do my job if he interferes"

  "Oh, Pascal, you're making a big deal out of nothing," Becky reasoned.

  "That is too bad for her, because now she pays the price."

  As I leaned in closer to listen to the low voice of Pascal's assistant, Enrique, I realized he was trying to calm Pascal down. My heart was pounding. I weighed my options.

  "Cherie, she gets special treatment from Chef, like she's family. Well, she's not my family."

  I wasn't happy about the way he was bullying Becky. I walked inside to face the music. Becky gave me the eye when she saw me, and I acknowledged her with a nod. When Pascal spied me, his face turned beet red and his eyes bulged in their sockets.

  "How dare you go to Chef when I forbid you to leave?"

  "Listen, Pascal, I wasn't trying to be disrespectful to you. This was an important matter I had to handle. Charlie told me he would talk to you and everything would be fine. Besides," I said, checking my watch, "it's not as though I was gone a long time. It was just a half hour"

  My explanation only added fuel to his fire. "You disobeyed me," he ranted, pulling two trays of baked eclairs off the rack. I watched with uncertainty, wondering if he planned to fill them with the cream. It didn't take long for his warped intentions to become clear. In one swift movement, he swept both trays into the sink of dirty dishwater. Abellio took off like a shot behind the wall to avoid his wrath. The rest of us, unable to believe what he was doing, stood frozen in place. We watched as Pascal rushed back to the sink in the pastry department and lifted the stainless steel container of pastry cream out of the ice bath and headed back to the dishwater.

  Realizing now what was about happen, I tried to stop him. "No," I cried, pulling back on the container. Pascal shoved me roughly aside, and I slammed into the wall. Shaken, I didn't move. There was nothing more I could do to save the cream, but I flinched as I listened to it gurgle down into the water like a sinking ship.

  "Why are you doing this?" I gasped. "If Charlie finds out, he's going to fire you"

  "And I'm sure you will be the first to tell him. Isn't that right, cherie?!" he shouted.

  "She doesn't have to tell me, Pascal." Charlie's voice boomed from behind him. Pascal looked stunned to see him. His face paled as he stood facing Charlie. "I thought there might be problems. Now get your knives and get out of my kitchen. And don't even think of using me as a reference. I don't have anything nice to say about you."

  Charlie walked over to Becky and me. "Are you ladies okay?" Charlie asked, after Pascal had huffed out the door.

  Becky tilted her head toward me. My hands were still shaking.

  "Are you okay, Cass?" Charlie asked, as he rushed to my side. "I can't believe I let this guy stay here as long as I did."

  "Just a bruised ego. I'll be fine."

  Becky put her arm around my shoulders and looked at Charlie. "Thank God you finally got rid of him."

  "Did he hurt you too, Becky?"

  "No. He was just mean to all of us, Chef. Ask the guys. They'll tell you stories too"

  "Why didn't any of you come forward?" he asked, looking around the room.

  Becky answered first. "I can't speak for anyone else, but in my case I figured you'd think it was just me being a female. The fact that he didn't like women in the kitchen made me wonder if all of you felt that way
."

  "Are you kidding me? You got this job because you're highly skilled."

  "Thank you. I'm sorry Ididn't say something sooner."

  I looked on, feeling guilty for having provoked this fullfledged drama.

  "Charlie," I said remorsefully, "I'm also sorry this happened. I didn't mean to start trouble."

  "It's not your fault. You just happened to push him over the edge. I've been watching and wondering when he might lose it. The last thing I want is someone acting out their anger in my kitchen." He patted my back. "I'm sorry, kid, but you're going to need to make the pastries and cream all over again."

  "I don't mind." I tied the apron around my waist and began to prep the ingredients again. My heart rate had returned to normal, and the enthusiasm I'd felt earlier, after depositing the loan money into my bank account, had virtually disappeared.

  Suddenly I had the urge to have a piece of chocolate.

  DOIN'-THE-DIRTY-DISHWATER-BOOGIE ECLAIRS

  Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

  In a medium saucepan, bring 1 cup water and the butter to a boil, add the flour and pinch of salt and stir vigorously with a wooden spoon to incorporate. Remove from heat. There sure is something about you that fires up the men, and not always in a good way.

  Using a hand mixer, add the eggs to the saucepan, one at a time, using high speed to mix quickly. The paste will begin to pull away from the sides of the pot and feel slightly sticky to the touch.

  Fill a pastry bag fitted with a #10 tip-or, heck, just use a plastic freezer bag and cut off the corner of the bag. Squeeze with your hands, or pipe out, 20 mounds the size of a rounded tablespoon, 2 inches apart, on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper.

  Chances are, you're going to have some tiny peaks on the top of your mounds. Smooth those little babies down with the tip of your finger. If you're trying to look like a professional, burned tips have "amateur" written all over them.

  Now, depending on the size of your mounds, bake at 425 degrees for 10 minutes, and then lower the heat to 350 degrees for another 18-20 minutes. Allow the eclairs to cool out of sight of psycho chefs who just might want to slip and slide to the dirty dishwater boogie.

  Once cooled, cut the tops off. The inside will be hollow and will have just enough room for filling with custard, pudding, whipped cream, or ice cream. Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar, or top with a chocolate glaze. Serve before something else goes wrong. Makes 20 eclairs.

  I entered the apartment and plopped down onto the sofa, hoping I'd never have another day like today. I thought of calling Josh, and I wondered what he'd thought when I didn't text him earlier.

  I keyed his number, and he answered quickly.

  "Hi, Josh. Sorry we didn't connect today. I've had just an awful day." He didn't ask why, and I didn't elaborate. "If you want to come over tonight, I'll give you a check and the key to the shop" I was hoping he'd come and I could smooth things over, let him know I was sorry. I thought I'd make dinner for him, have a chance to talk, but when I heard an audible whoosh of air escape from his mouth, I wasn't sure what was happening.

  "Uh, I guess you didn't get my message."

  "What message?"

  "When I didn't hear from you today, I thought you hired someone else to do the job, so I took on another customer."

  "What do you mean you booked another job?" I screeched. "What kind of business practice is that?"

  "I'm sorry, Cass, but I figured with the way things had been going between us, you were blowing me off."

  "But I told you I was going to call." A sinking feeling took over. I tried to be cordial, but I found myself feeling resentful that he'd moved so quickly. "We have been talking about this job for weeks"

  "Look, I'm sorry," he stammered. "The fact is, you didn't call." There was a brief silence. "Okay, I'm really sorry. I'll call my customer tonight and tell him his job will be delayed. You have to understand this is my livelihood, and you can't expect me to wait around forever. I just thought you'd changed your mind, and I didn't want to come up empty-handed" I could tell he was upset with me.

  "Well, I have changed my mind about a few things, but having you work for me isn't one of them." I heaved a sigh, hoping he'd ask what those things were, but he wasn't budging. "Do you want to come over tonight for a check?"

  "I can't. I have company right now."

  "Oh. Tomorrow morning before work?" I asked.

  "Just tell me what time."

  "How about meeting me for coffee at seven o'clock at Soranno's Bakery?"

  "Fine, but I won't have time for coffee."

  "Oh," I said, and hoped my disappointment was coming through. "I'd like to discuss some additional ideas I've had," I fibbed.

  "I thought you'd approved everything already." This guy was giving me a run for my money, but I had to see him. Was he trying to teach me a lesson? "Okay, jot down the things you want to discuss, and I'll make the time."

  "They're already jotted" A bit of attitude crept into my voice. "See you tomorrow." I clicked off, annoyed at his disregard for my job. My immediate thought was to indulge in chocolate, but I'd already eaten all my truffles except for the batch I'd made for him. I searched through the cupboards, to no avail.

  When I walked into Soranno's Bakery, Josh was already waiting for me.

  "Good morning."

  "Same to you" He watched me sit down. "Okay, I don't have much time, so what changes do you want to the floor plan?"

  "I'm sorry. I looked the plans over again and decided they were fine just the way they were"

  "But you said you were making changes and wanted to discuss them"

  "Right, I did, but it wasn't to any of the work you're doing-at least not yet"

  "Then what is it?"

  I handed him the box with the truffles I'd made for him. "Here, I made these for you. Keep them refrigerated."

  "Why? You don't even like me," he said gruffly.

  "That's not true. I like you very much. In fact, I thought I might cook for you over the weekend." My heart skipped a beat. "Are you free Sunday night?"

  "No, I'm not. I have a date"

  "Oh" His message stung, but I deserved it. "Well, then, maybe another time."

  "Why the sudden interest?" He stared at me. "Oh, never mind," he said, standing up suddenly. "I have to get to work"

  I handed him the money and the key to the shop, but I felt like I was drowning.

  "I'll see you on Monday," I managed to say. "Thanks for stopping"

  He rushed out of the bakery. I sat for a while trying hard not to cry. Then anger took over. I thought of firing him, but that would be cutting off my nose to spite my face, wouldn't it? If I didn't care about him, I would have fired him on the spot. But the truth was, I wanted him around, and I was going to win his heart-no matter what. The thought of munching a chocolate croissant entered my mind, but I ignored it by telling myself dieting was for the greater good. Yeah, right. Like being practical was what I wanted at a time like this.

  WISHIN'-AND-HOPIN' PESTO PRIMAVERA

  PESTO SAUCE

  For the pesto sauce, using a high-powered blender or food processor, add the oil, garlic, basil, parsley, and roasted nuts. Puree all ingredients on high. Add the parmesan cheese and a 1/2 cup of water, and blend on slow speed to mix thoroughly. Yields 2 V2 cups.

  This pesto can be stored in the refrigerator for about three months if you coat the top with olive oil to form a seal. Or you can freeze it in an ice cube tray and, once frozen, place the cubes in a freezer bag-ready to be used as needed for tomato sauce, grilled or roasted vegetables, and pasta dishes, or any other creative idea you come up with.

  Cook the ziti according to the package directions, drain, and save 1 cup of the pasta water if needed. Set aside. Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the mushrooms and saute until cooked. Add tomatoes and olives and combine. Finally, add the pesto sauce and the pasta and toss to coat evenly. Serve immediately, sprinkling parmesan cheese over top and garnishing with strips of bas
il.

  Now, if you can get him over to your place for dinner, make sure he knows you used the basil plant he gave you to make the pesto, then fluff up your hair before you see him. Dangle a curl on your forehead, and you'll have him eating out of your hand. You know, throw on the charm and smile a lot when he's around, like you're butter melting on a hot bun, and he'll be oozing with love to squeeze you in his arms. Reversing the damage you've already done is the key ingredient.

  He's looking to be nurtured, so go for it. You know romance and good food is the way to this man's heart. Couple the two together and you have a nice pair-pun intended. Makes 4-6 servings.

  I was mentally exhausted after a weekend of trying to find ways to win Josh's heart. I was anxious to see him on Monday but not quite ready for the cold shoulder. Getting through the days had not been easy, but I was proud of myself for not weakening and calling him with some made-up excuse like needing to discuss the floor plan. Allie had been right. I was being stupid and crazy dumb.

  I had two weeks until my externship was over, and then I'd be able to remain at the shop all day, planning my strategy.

  I could hear the sound of hammering when I neared the building. Once I entered, the noise from his equipment filled the room, as he pulled long shelves away from the wall. I coughed from the dust in the air. Josh didn't hear me come inside, but as I looked around at the half-empty room, I could see he'd been busy. Then a woman's voice yelled above the sound of his equipment. It was Allie, who had suddenly appeared from the back, eating a truffle.

  "Allie, what are you doing here?"

  "Oh. Hi, Cass. These truffles are sure amazin'," she said, wide-eyed.

  "Thank you," I muttered, wondering why he was sharing the truffles I'd made specifically for him.