A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  The waiter sighed with relief. “Thank you, Chef.”

  I turned away and worked a last vegetable dish—which felt odd as well. Starters were never ordered so late in the evening. This was the pâtissier’s time, and as usual, she had just started her soft classical music and was gearing up for her grand finale. She was our own prima donna and we fed her ego—the kitchen usually grew quiet as we shut down and cleaned the main stations and constantly glanced in wonder at her delicate spun sugars and dustings of dark chocolate. But not tonight—every station was still active and bustling.

  When the last orders exited the kitchen, I wilted against the counter. It had been our biggest night in months, and for moments I’d gotten lost in the food—and that hadn’t happened in an equally long time. But rather than exhilaration, I felt pulled and displaced. Only his first night and already Trent hovered on the edge of every moment. I couldn’t lay claim to the victory.

  I looked to my knives. It was time to clean, sharpen, and lay them on my board to await tomorrow—my final ritual of the evening.

  Tabitha came over and inspected a knife. “You get them sharper than anyone I know.” She threw me a glance. “You okay?”

  “It’s all changing, Tabitha.” I pressed my lips together to shut down any emotion.

  She sighed and dropped her voice. “Maybe it’s not bad. But we have to remain vital. I am, aren’t I, Elizabeth?”

  “Of course you are. We’re in this together—always have been.”

  “Well, tonight felt good, even I can admit that.”

  “Almost like when we first opened.”

  Tabitha shrugged.

  “What?”

  “You were right before. It’s changing, but it’s not like it was.”

  “You’re not pulling any punches today, are you?”

  “You think you can control all this, but you can’t. Your dad keeps calling about Jane; you’re distracted; dishes are off, slow, whatever . . . It’s not good.”

  “It will be.”

  “Ah . . . there’s the Iron Chef I know.” Tabitha shoulder-checked me.

  “I’m working on it.”

  A waiter stepped in front of us. “Mr. Metzger is at table five.”

  “Thanks, Curt.”

  “You finish the knives. I’ll be back.” I pulled off my apron and ran my hands down the rough cotton of my jacket, straightening the wrinkles.

  Paul sat alone at his table watching the group at the bar—a sophisticated set, more Prada, black, and silk than our usual crowd. They were clearly having fun, but I couldn’t call them out of control. This type never crossed that line. They were the influencers, the movers and shakers, a restaurant’s coveted diners. They ate well, drank well, and spent lots. I took a deep breath and wondered, Are they just here for Trent? Will they come back?

  The chandeliers bounced light off the honeyed cracks and discolorations in the antique mirror, softening and warming the room. It created a flattering effect on the face of each person at the bar. I smiled. Maybe if I lived under those lights I’d get my bloom back.

  I touched the chair next to Paul before he noticed me. He jumped to attention and pulled it out, settling me at the table.

  “I ordered a bottle of Nickel and Nickel as we closed out.” He poured me a glass. “Did Murray do well tonight?”

  I took a sip and savored the wine. “You gave him a key to my kitchen and the alarm code. Do you know how I felt when he came barging through the door this morning?”

  Paul cringed. “I didn’t think of that. I wanted him to hit the weekend with a bang.” Laughter from the bar caught his attention. “They’re waiting for him.”

  “Trent?”

  “He’s been tweeting up his switch all week. Everyone’s into it.”

  “Why didn’t I know?”

  “I keep telling you to get on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram . . . something.”

  I took a sip and pondered the bar. “So all this is part of the brave new world.”

  “Not part of. It is the world. The cooking matters, sure, but so do the vibe and the chatter. You can feel it in here. Three critics tweeted their plans to come tonight—expect some rave reviews tomorrow.”

  I clenched my teeth so tight I thought I might crack a molar.

  “Paul?”

  “Hmm . . .” He pulled his attention back to me.

  I let a tear rest in my eye. “I’m a cook. I can’t be a Trent Murray. I can’t change like that.”

  He leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “Elizabeth, no one is asking you to change. That’s why Murray’s here. It’s not a weakness to bring in experts. You’re an amazing, determined, and gifted chef.”

  “But not right now . . . It’s all I have, but it’s not working.”

  “It will. Murray can help us recapture the momentum and give you time to focus on what you do best. This is meant to help, not add more pressure.”

  We chatted a few moments more before Paul stood to leave and I returned to the kitchen, now equally annoyed that I needed a Trent Murray and that I’d deliberately manipulated Paul for time, sympathy . . . my job.

  I pushed the door to the kitchen so forcefully it banged against the wall. Every eye turned to me. Tabitha hurried over.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Can you lock up?”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Her visible distress annoyed me further. “I need to get out of here. See you tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter 3

  I TURNED THE KEY AND UNLOCKED MY APARTMENT door. It was dark and silent. I dropped my bag and headed to the kitchen, pleased that my roommate was still out for the evening.

  I reached for my spice box and the eggs. The perfect egg. In school, Chef Palmer made us cook eggs a hundred different ways, believing that if you mastered the egg, nothing was beyond you. I always returned to it as a touch point.

  I cracked two, whipped them with a touch of milk, and threw in dill, chives, and a few spices. Flipping and folding them in the pan, I then added a touch of Gruyère. Done.

  I brought the dish over to the couch and sat eating in the dark. It had worked; it was good . . . but it wasn’t enough.

  A key turned in the lock.

  “Elizabeth? That’s freaky. Why no lights?” Suzanne, my roommate, flipped on the light and ambled into the room, dropping her bag near the couch.

  “That new chef started tonight.”

  “That’s fast.” She plopped next to me and grabbed a throw pillow, crushing it in her arms. I took it as a sign of solidarity. Kill the pillow.

  “What’s worse, he did well. The waitstaff went gaga over Chef Dimples all night.”

  “Chef Dimples?”

  “I overheard a couple servers call him that. And he can cook. No wonder they love him on TV.” I groaned. “I don’t have dimples and I can’t cook.” I held up my plate. “I also bought two new face creams on the way to work this morning.”

  Suzanne reached an arm around my shoulder and laughed. She knew but was willing to play along. “Do they smell good?”

  “Heavenly.”

  “Eggs and lovely smelling creams? You are scared.” She chuckled.

  “What if I lose Feast?”

  “It hasn’t come to that.” Suzanne captured my gaze. “What did Tabitha say?”

  There was no way I was going to tell her what Tabitha said. “She’s scared too. Feast can’t afford two sous chefs, and we both know it. And because I’m close to Paul, Tabitha’s sure she’ll lose her job. And she may be right. Or we could both be gone tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you be gone tomorrow?”

  “What?”

  “Go see your dad. See Jane. Cook some meals in someone else’s kitchen. Change things up a bit.”

  “Now is probably not the best time for a vacation.”

  Suzanne snuggled deeper into the cushions. “You can’t do the same things and expect different results. You’ve been struggling for months,
and if Feast is struggling, isn’t it your job to find new solutions?”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  “Then do something new—even ruthless dictators take time off.”

  “Hey—” I stopped. Going home hadn’t occurred to me, but now I wondered if it was just the thing. Suzanne was right; Jane’s cancer played constantly in my mind—consumed it really. And maybe going back to the very kitchen in which I learned to cook would inspire me. It could work. “Okay.”

  “Excellent.” Suzanne added a perky note to her voice. “Now that that’s settled, let’s watch a movie. I left Grant and his friends at Blondie’s Sports. I couldn’t watch another basketball game. March Madness has got to end.”

  “Movie sounds great, but I need to blow my nose.” I headed to our bathroom as Suzanne uncurled from the couch.

  “Popcorn?” she called.

  “Of course.”

  “I downloaded the PBS 2009 Emma last night. That guy who plays Sherlock on Elementary, Jonny Lee Miller—he’s Mr. Knightley.”

  “I’m not really an Austen fan,” I said. “Let’s—”

  “You always say that, but you know more about her than anyone I know.”

  I paused in the bathroom, tissue in hand. I worked hard to keep Austen quotes and references out of my communication—even though they still popped into my head as often as words like salt, pepper, and sauté. Clearly, I’d failed.

  I yelled back, pretending not to have heard. “How about that new thriller? We saw the ad for it last night?”

  “Okay. You do that and I’ll make the popcorn.”

  “Forget that. You find the movie and I’ll make the popcorn.”

  “Food snob.”

  “Tech geek.”

  As I turned the grinder on the stove popper, I thought about my last conversation with Dad just four nights ago.

  “Jane didn’t think I should tell you, but I think it’s important.”

  “What? I’m not strong enough to take it?” Thirty-three years old, and I had gone right back to tweendom with a single comment.

  “Elizabeth.” Dad had sounded weary.

  “Sorry, Dad. What’s up?”

  “She started chemotherapy.”

  “Why wouldn’t she tell me? I knew she had to start sometime.”

  He paused for a moment while I regretted my harsh words. “She didn’t want you to worry. She’s afraid you’re not handling this well.”

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry she’s going through this, but you said it wasn’t like Mom. You said Jane’s prognosis is good.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s not scared.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts, Elizabeth. I wanted you to know. She goes in on Tuesdays, okay? It would be nice if you at least called your sister.”

  “I will.”

  But I hadn’t. Every moment I wondered how she was doing, but I hadn’t called.

  I carried the bowls into the living room and handed one to Suzanne.

  “What’s that face?”

  “Nothing.” I nodded to the bowl. “You’ll like that. Truffle salt and pasture butter.” I curled up at the other end of the couch and reached for the remote. “But I don’t think I should go home. I need to stay here and dig in.” I grabbed a handful of popcorn and pressed Play.

  Chapter 4

  THE NEXT SATURDAY MORNING FOUND ME STANDING IN the dining room at Feast, but this time I wasn’t watching the light play across the wood or absorbing the peace of my usually quiet moment. I was staring at Jane. I couldn’t pull my eyes from the photograph behind the hostess stand. We were laughing, her arms encircling me. To feel that young, that happy, that connected . . . It felt as far from my world as Seattle was from New York. I shrugged the memories away and headed to the kitchen, turning my thoughts to the night ahead.

  Trent’s aura had increased and mine had diminished in my own kitchen over the past week. His tastes had dictated the coming week’s menu, and they were good—I hadn’t fought a single one. He and Tabitha and I had reworked the menu Thursday, and the weekend offerings were edgy and vibrant, bursting with the new vegetables coming into season and offering a chance to showcase fresh flavors and innovative techniques.

  My eyes caught the mortar and pestle sitting on the shelf above my knife rack. Jane gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. My parents had laughed at what a strange gift it seemed for a teenager, but Jane had understood.

  I pulled it down, relishing the smooth, cold marble beneath my hands. I set the mortar on the counter and pulled out my “secret stash” of spices—special ones I’d found at the smaller markets or that had been given to me by friends. I tried to clear my mind and breathe in the scents. I could feel my heartbeat—loud, staccato—in the gray quiet kitchen.

  I reached for turmeric, soft and yellow, rich but not spicy—Paul. Trent, cumin seeds—fresh, ready to be crushed. But I knew. Mashing would not crush them, it would only soften their edges, crack their husks. Cumin was strong. It endured. Next I added coriander, which seemed to balance the mixture, then paprika, ginger, and a touch of cayenne. I picked up the pestle and ground the spices. The cumin seeds rolled over the others as I ground them against the stone. Scent wafted up. It was a very Moroccan mixture, and it fit my mood—spicy and aggressive, underpinned by subtle questions and hesitancy. That was the problem. It was holding back. Something wasn’t right. What to add? Subtract? I smelled it and knew the proportions were skewed; it had lost balance.

  I felt tears prick my eyes. I was tempted to hurl the heavy bowl, but that much marble would cause serious damage and require explanations. In my impotent anger, I brushed the mixture away, and as the last bit floated into the trash, I felt a tear follow.

  “Darn it.” I swiped it away with one finger, and the cayenne, and everything else, lit my eyes on fire. “Of course.” I felt my way to the sink and rinsed out my eyes, then stood there with a towel pressed against them, wondering what else could go wrong.

  I heard voices.

  “Are you serious? I’d heard he has a nasty temper.” Tabitha laughed, with something extra layered in the high notes. The last week had also created a new feeling in the kitchen, a camaraderie in which I was not included.

  “That’s not even the worst of it. One poor guy—”

  Of course, it was Trent.

  Tabitha pushed open the door and stopped when she noticed me. Trent bumped into her back. “Elizabeth?”

  I lowered the towel and cleared my face of expression, though there was no getting rid of the red, blotchy eyes. “I got spices in my eyes.”

  Tabitha’s gaze captured the mortar on the counter near me. She gave me a look I interpreted as pity, and that made everything worse. I felt angry, betrayed—my heart pounded in my ears.

  “You two having fun?” My voice cut the air.

  “I was just telling Tabitha about Chef Dugar’s temper. He can . . .” Trent’s voice dwindled as he made eye contact. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I am. It’s just the spices.”

  “Great. Say, Tabitha and I were talking last night about a few final tweaks to the menu. We wanted to see what you thought.”

  Trent reached into his satchel and pulled out his iPad.

  “Tweaks? Without me?”

  “We grabbed a drink on our way to the subway. You walk the other direction,” Trent said by way of apology. He tapped on his screen.

  I shifted my gaze to Tabitha, whose eyes held an expectant, almost challenging look.

  She’s chosen her side. As soon as the thought entered my head, I knew it was unfair. She was scared. And Trent certainly seemed the stronger champion.

  “You know, I can’t do this right now.” I swiped the back of my hand across my eyes to clear them. “Can you two hold Feast down for a few days?”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “No, it’s good. There’s some stuff I need to take care of.” I nodded. “You’ve got this.” I pulled off my apron and grabbed my coat and bag.


  Trent stood with his mouth slightly open, the iPad hanging from his hand. Tabitha ran after me into the alley. “Elizabeth! Wait!”

  I took a deep breath and turned. “Don’t say anything. Let me do this. That kitchen is not big enough for three chefs. And I don’t want to go out like this. This is my restaurant.” The tears filled my eyes again. “And I love it, and if I want to keep it, I have to change the losing game.”

  “What?”

  “I’m taking some time off. Keep things running—because after I roam the food markets, get some rest, and clear my head, I’ll be back and Feast will be mine.” Without another word, I turned and walked away.

  I LEVERAGED THE BAGS IN ONE ARM, UNLOCKED MY apartment door, and hip-checked it open. It slammed against the wall before I could catch it.

  Suzanne, who was watching TV, jumped toward me to catch the falling groceries. “What are you doing here on a Saturday?”

  “Taking your advice and a little vacation.”

  “You are? Why? What happened? I thought you said no.”

  “I decided you were right. So I’m changing a losing game.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’ve been shopping. I’ve got a great dinner planned.”

  “Oh. I was about to go meet Grant.” Suzanne hesitated. “Do you want me to cancel? Or you can join us?”

  “No, you go.” I smiled because, loyal friend that she was, I knew she’d do either if I asked. “I’m going to turn on some music, cook, and love every moment of it. You can have leftovers tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. What did Paul say?” Suzanne was collecting her keys and phone.

  “I don’t know yet. I left him a voice mail.”

  She squeezed my arm to say good-bye and walked out the door.

  Silence filled our small apartment.

  “Time to cook.”

  I finished prepping the navarin of lamb, suddenly overcome by the scents, the flavors . . . It was one of Mom’s favorite dishes her final year. I hadn’t even thought about it consciously as I shopped; I’d simply grabbed what spoke to me. Now memories wafted with the steam.

  As it simmered, I called my dad.