Cocky Chef

by JD Hawkins

  I nod, feeling a little swelling of pride at her growing confidence.

  “You ever made your own ravioli before?” I ask.

  Chloe looks at me a little uncertainly.

  “Kinda? I usually just use lasagna sheets.”

  “Well then you’re missing out on half the fun, and on top of that, pasta out of a box can’t hold a candle to the kind you make from scratch. Quick: Pick a color,” I say. “Green, red, black…”

  “Red,” Chloe says, responding quickly.

  “Good choice,” I say, moving to the vegetable stores to find beets.

  Over the next hour or so we work up a dough, mixing in the puréed beets so that it turns a luxurious purple-red. Though I’m not as good as Willow when it comes to pulling silly faces, the magic of the pasta machine entrances Chloe—the same way it entranced me the first time I used one—and we bond over the careful process of flattening out the red dough until it resembles a thin velvet curtain. Chloe takes the task of keeping the counter well floured as seriously as a monk’s prayers, and though I’m a little nervous those tiny hands are going to make a mess of the chore, Chloe exhibits a precision and skill that kinda shocks me.

  “What are we going to do about the filling?” she asks. “It needs to be the best, so we can’t afford to slack off.”

  I laugh, feeling in a good mood. This is the second time I’ve been compelled by somebody else, and just like the last time, I’m kinda enjoying it. “What do you want?”

  “I have some ideas. What do you got to work with?”

  I laugh again.

  “Let’s see,” I say, moving toward the industrial fridge. “Time for a crash course in ingredient combination, I think.”

  For a while I work through a number of ingredients with Chloe—many of which she never seems to have tried before. Mascarpone, gorgonzola, chèvre; butternut squash, truffles; various fresh herbs and spices. I’m impressed both by her adventurous spirit in trying different mixtures, and her honesty in calling out the ones that don’t work together. I can think of a dozen chefs I’ve worked with that had less persistence and invention than this nine-year-old.

  “So?” I ask, standing up from the counter we’ve filled with bowls of various cheeses, ingredients and chopped vegetables. “What’s it gonna be?”

  Chloe peruses the selection with the severe seriousness of a critic one more time, then points at a bowl.

  “That one.”

  “And what is that one?”

  “Taglio—”

  “Taleggio,” I correct.

  “Taleggio, rosemary, and I want to do roasted carrots with lemon.”

  “Changed your mind about the citrus, did you? I thought it wasn’t your speed.”

  She blushes. “I worked with it some more and it turned out to be a good contrast for the herbs—it keeps them from tasting too heavy. But still…” she trails off, screwing up her face as she muses. “It needs something else.”

  I look down at the ingredients, thinking for a few seconds.

  “You ever had a brown butter sauce?” I ask.

  “Yes!” Chloe says, brightening up as she points a triumphant finger at me. “That’s it!”

  “Let’s do it, then,” I say, feeling like I’m getting into it as much as she is.

  Once we’re done separating the milk, mixing in a little chopped sage as well, we move back to the pasta and I show Chloe how to cut it into the frilled squares of ravioli, though immediately Chloe shakes her head.

  “No,” she says.

  “What? These are perfect.”

  “No,” Chloe repeats, a little more adamantly. “I want to cut it into different shapes.”

  “You can’t cut it into different shapes,” I say. “I mean sure, maybe that’s good enough for a novelty restaurant, but if you want to be a serious cook then you cut ravioli the right way. You’ll risk it bursting right open if you try anything too complicated, or you might end up with some pieces where there’s too much dough and it cooks unevenly.”

  “I want to cut it into shapes,” Chloe insists, looking at me as if I’m the dissident.

  I pause for a second, once again asking myself what Willow would do.

  “Ok,” I say, giving in. “What shapes are you going to cut it into?”

  “Lemon shapes, to match the lemon flavor on the carrots in the filling. But I’m going to need your help,” Chloe says, with the lack of irony only a child can have. “So please try to do it well.”

  I nod, shrug, then say, “Sure. I guess you’re the boss now.”

  Somehow, the elliptical shapes aren’t too bad. Against all my suspicions, Chloe seems to have a good sense of correct proportions, covering just enough of the sheets with filling before we press the top layer of ravioli down. Forty minutes later, the pasta all boiled and drained, drizzled with just a little olive oil and fresh-cracked pepper for sampling purposes, we’re eating away, and I’m genuinely impressed.

  When Maggie comes to pick her up, even the teacher stays to eat a little, nodding in approval at the youngster’s precocious talent. We package up the leftovers into a few to-go containers, say our goodbyes, and they start to leave.

  “Hold up,” I say, as they reach the door of the kitchen. I pick up one last container that they left behind and move toward them. “You forgot one.”

  Without missing a beat, Chloe says, “That one’s for Willow. Tell her you made it for her. She likes food. So if you want her to be your girlfriend, you should do it.”

  Chloe looks at me with parental gravity, while Maggie shoots me an apologetic, slightly-embarrassed look.

  “Yeah. Sure,” I say, trying to make it sound sarcastic for Maggie’s benefit, though when they turn to leave, I look down at the red lemon-shaped pasta, and feel a strange sense of contentment. Maybe the kid is right. Maybe Willow will appreciate it.

  And judging by the way she ran off like Cinderella last night at the club, I feel like I could use all the help I can get.

  10

  Willow

  Of course the investor meeting would be a last minute thing the morning after I’ve had a night out. What did I expect? A second to breathe? Time to prepare for a massive pitch? No chance. I never should have let Asha talk me into hitting up that second club and drinking those blueberry mojitos. But damn, we had fun—even with the Cole incident fresh in my mind. Then again, maybe all the fun I had was just a futile attempt to erase the memory of what I’d done with him against the wall of that first club.

  What got me out of bed at the crack of dawn this morning was a call from Tony telling me he was already on his way to pick me up, and plenty of advice on how I should dress for the meeting. At least I’m too pumped full of anxious adrenaline to dwell on what I did with Cole last night, how badly I wanted him, how I almost lost control…

  Half-asleep, the club’s music still thumping painfully in my sinuses, I manage to get dressed and leave the house, where Tony is leaning up against his convertible with a broad smile.

  “Finally! Sleeping Beauty awakes!”

  He hugs me quickly, briefly scans my outfit with an approving nod—the way I’m getting used to people doing—then opens the car door for me to slump into the passenger seat.

  “Is this really legit?” I ask as he hops in on the other side and turns on the engine. The second half of a Rihanna record fills the air. “I mean, who arranges meetings this sudden?”

  “They’re rich, sweetheart,” Tony says as he revs the car recklessly out of the parking lot. “They jump on planes—Tokyo, Paris, New York—the way other people ride the metro. They’re only in town for today, and we’ve got to grab the opportunity while we can.”

  I try to steady my nausea as Tony weaves in between the traffic, the thumping pain behind my eyes loosening a little as the air whips against my face and hair, pressing me back into the seat.

  “Still,” I say, straining to be heard over the roar of the engine, “we didn’t have any time to prepare. Do we have a financial plan? Proje
ctions? Cost lists?”

  Tony laughs, sending the fear of God into me as he tosses his head back, removing his eyes from the blurred road.

  “Oh, honey. They’re investors—not accountants. They don’t want to have a bunch of numbers spluttered at them. They want an idea, a dream, a vision. People that they can believe in.” Tony reaches out and turns my face toward him, my chin in his palm. “And who wouldn’t believe in a face like yours?”

  “You’d be surprised,” I say, through squished cheeks.

  Tony laughs easily again and only half-concentrates as he takes a corner at car-tilting speed.

  “Look, these people are rich, and if they wanted more money they’d go to a stockbroker, or buy some real estate. But they don’t. They want a place they can call their own, something to be proud of. Something fabulous and creative that they can feel they had some part in making.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “When you have as much money as these guys do, it is.”

  Tony swings the wheel and guides the car up a small incline toward the front of a grand hotel. Tall and glass, the rails leading up to doors so polished they catch the sun like diamonds, the shrubbery around the building so perfectly manicured it’s as if the hotel management put a hairdresser on staff to trim them.

  “Sir?”

  The red-suited valet steps toward us as soon as we exit the car, and Tony hands him the keys with a regal smile before we huddle up at the foot of the stairs.

  “Tits and teeth, honey,” Tony says. He puts a hand on the small of my back and one on my shoulder to fix my posture, then taps under my chin to get it a little higher.

  “Why do I feel like I’m being entered into a beauty pageant?”

  “Now,” Tony says breezily, as we start up the stairs to the revolving glass doors, “the pretty boy is Andre, and the cute, chubby guy’s named Lou.”

  “What are their last names? Shouldn’t we use those?”

  Tony stops for a moment to think.

  “You know, I’m sure they told me, but the music was too loud. Anyway—”

  “Wait—” I say, grabbing Tony’s arm to stop him from carrying on. “Music? What do you mean? Where did you meet these guys?”

  “Foam Night at The Male Room,” Tony says nonchalantly.

  I stop in mid-stride. “That gay bar you go to?! You’re telling me you met these investors at a gay bar? And you’re taking them seriously?”

  It takes only a second for the mock-offense to spread over Tony’s face as he crosses his arms dramatically.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot that homosexuals weren’t allowed to be incredibly wealthy.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, at all. It’s just…I thought they were legitimate investors looking to conduct some professional business. Not a couple of random hot dudes you partied with.”

  “They are. I mean, they’re both of those things. Trust me, Spud.” Tony stands back and gestures up at the tall building in front of us. “Do you know how much the cheapest suite in this place costs? One night could pay your rent for a month. And it’s not like I didn’t do a background check on these guys. My friend—one of the bartenders—told me they splash cash around like they’re filming a rap video.”

  I take a moment to consider, then shake my head and smile.

  “You know what? I trust you, Tony. Let’s do this.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  We move up the steps, through the doors, past expensively dressed old couples, and into the gigantic, air conditioned lobby. So big it’s as if somebody decorated an aircraft hangar with mahogany and velvet. I follow Tony as he heads off to the side, down some steps into the lavish bar.

  “There they are,” Tony says, flashing a wave at two men in nice suits sipping cocktails around a table.

  We greet them with handshakes and air kisses, introduce ourselves briefly, and order green juices when they offer us something. After only a little small talk about the loveliness of the hotel, it’s time for business.

  “So,” Andre says, his blue eyes twinkling beneath immaculate hair, “tell us all about yourselves.”

  “Well,” Tony says, leaning forward as if he was waiting for the question, “as I said, we’re two chefs who’ve been building up our culinary experience, working here and there in Los Angeles. We met while studying in France under Guillhaume de Lacompte several years ago.” Lou and Andre glance at each other with raised eyebrows and appreciative nods when Tony mentions the Frenchman’s name so casually. “So far we’ve been learning in the best kitchens, building up a wealth of proficiency and know-how, seeing what works—what doesn’t work—and we’ve got a ton of ideas that we feel ready to implement now. Ideas that could really make a restaurant that is next level.”

  “Ideas, huh?” Lou says. “What kind of ideas?”

  Tony looks at me, a cue for me to take over.

  “Um…yeah. Ideas,” I babble, nodding emphatically for a few seconds while I think of what to say. “Well…L.A. is a great place for food. I mean, everything grows in California pretty much, fruit, vegetables—and what doesn’t grow here is only a short stop away. We’re by the coast, obviously, so we get great fresh seafood. I mean, there’s really no excuse for a restaurant in Los Angeles to not take advantage of all the local abundance with a menu that’s fresh and seasonal and creates something genuinely unique, stylish, but still fundamentally what people want. Which is to feel good about what they’re eating. Passionate, even.”

  “Right…” Lou says, screwing his eyes up skeptically. “But you want to build a restaurant, not just sell local fruits and vegetables. You can do that at a farmers’ market.”

  “Yes,” I say, still grasping at straws as my nerves go into overdrive. “But those are just the ingredients, the foundation for the menu. See, the problem is that most restaurants here don’t celebrate what’s great about this place. If you walk into any nice restaurant in the city you’ll find caviar from Iran, imported stracchino, kobe beef from Japan—all prepared according to recipes the French and Italian invented.”

  “I don’t know,” Andre says, laughing. “Caviar and Italian cheese sounds pretty good to me!”

  “Wait,” Lou interrupts, even more concerned now, “is this going to be some kind of farm-to-table, organic food thing then? Because that doesn’t sound very exciting. We’ve seen plenty of that around here.”

  “No,” Tony says quickly. “This is nothing like those quasi-healthy fast food quinoa joints.”

  “Actually, the local organic thing isn’t too far from it,” I say, ignoring the look of panic now on Tony’s face. “I only cook with ingredients I like. And that means stuff that’s sustainable, fresh. Not frozen in the back of a truck for a two thousand mile trip.”

  Tony shakes his head at me, then quickly turns his attention back to the investors.

  “The organic food thing is just a base-level thing. It’s not the selling point! The selling point is the fact that we’re the best chefs in the state. Our menu’s gonna be…innovative.”

  Andre and Lou look at each other and laugh as if we’re putting on entertainment.

  “Really now?” Lou says.

  “Yeah,” I say, getting a little irritated and somehow gaining confidence in the process. “It is. And we are.”

  Seeing the sincerity in my face, and hearing the firm confidence in my voice, both of their smiles fade immediately.

  “I’ve worked in the best places in the city,” Tony says. “I’m not some naïve debutante—I know exactly what our competition is because I’ve cooked with most of them. And I’m telling you we can blow them out of the water. You’ve heard of Knife, yes?”

  “Sure,” Lou says. “Cole Chambers, right? We’ve been there a couple of times. The place is flawless.”

  “Then you’ve already tried Willow’s food, probably,” Tony says with a poker hand smile. “She’s one of the best chefs there. Sure, Cole Chambers is the pretty face at the front, the guy who takes the credit, b
ut who do you think is actually cooking the food in the back?” Tony points a sly finger in my direction. “And let me tell you, she’s given him more than a few ideas, too.”

  Now I’m the one looking at Tony like he’s crazy. What is he talking about? I didn’t even tell him about the Basque burgers…

  His bluff seems to work though, as Andre and Lou exchange a glance, uncertain of how to take us, no more entertained laughs now. Lou clears his throat, wringing his hands.

  “I’m not really seeing it still. It’s gonna be high-class like Knife, but it’s gonna have organic, local food? It’s gonna compete with Michelin starred restaurants but it’s not gonna have things like caviar on the menu?”

  “Fine,” I say, smiling as if I care much less than I really do. “If you wanna do the whole ‘bourgeois, faux-European dining experience’ thing then there are a thousand chefs that could do that for you. You wanna make a restaurant that’s just like Knife? Just like a dozen other places in the city? Go ahead. But don’t be surprised if people still choose to eat at Knife.”

  “Right,” Tony says, pointing at me, strength in his voice now as he finds his angle. “We’re gonna do something totally unique, totally different. And we’re gonna do it so well that you’ll never want to eat caviar again.”

  “Imagine this,” I cut in. “You go to dinner at Knife, where you stand in line for forty minutes before getting seated at a cramped corner table where you spend the next two hours in the dark just so you can have the ‘privilege’ of eating a teaspoon of overpriced imported caviar and a miniature steak drowning in heavy sauce, with—of all things—fried potatoes on the side. You go home, you feel heavy. You feel like you overpaid. And the worst thing is: You’re still hungry.”

  Lou nods gravely and Andre rubs his chin thoughtfully. I feel like a total jerk throwing Cole’s restaurant under the bus like this, but sometimes you have to exaggerate things to get your point across.

  “Now imagine this. You walk into our restaurant—it’s a bright space filled with natural light, exposed wood beams overhead and potted succulents on the walls. You’re seated immediately, and the rotating menu tonight offers a carefully curated selection of west coast comfort food prepared with the freshest organic ingredients and cooked by some of the best chefs in the country.”