Beyond Believing

by D. D. Marx

  “Aye, man that’s just bloody awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, well I reckon we all got pieces of crazy in us, some bigger pieces than others. I’ve been tryin’ to find home ever since. What about you, partner? What’s your story?” I hesitate because I’m not sure I want to talk about Christine to anyone, but the surroundings make it feel natural, especially after what he just shared.

  “My wife Christine died of breast and uterine cancer a few weeks ago,” I respond.

  “I gotta hand it to you partner, courage is being scared to death—and saddling up anyway. It took me sixteen years to leave that ranch, and I’m still shaking in my boots. You know what John Wayne’s headstone says? Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes into us at midnight very clean. It’s perfect when it arrives and it puts itself in our hands. It hopes we’ve learnt something from yesterday. I’d say the fact that you’re here says a lot about the man that you are, and I know one thing for certain: that woman is damn proud of you. Now I’m not sayin’ I’m gonna let you win this thing, but give it your best shot.” He stands up from the bench and starts walking back toward the subway. What he said wasn’t super sappy but kind and thoughtful. In this moment, I know I’ve made a friend for life.

  #

  As the weeks went on, the challenges became more and more intense, and the weak links were weeded out one by one. Challenges included a gourmet chili cook-off for the NYC Firefighters Union, a Roaring Twenties inspired meal for all the actors on Broadway, and gourmet hors d’oeuvres for an open house of a fifteen-million-dollar property. Now we’re down to the final four with only one challenge left. Jimmy and I manage to survive and are operating on pure adrenaline.

  We are woken up at three and given our final assignment. We have to make a gourmet brunch for one hundred and sixty members of the staff at the celebrity magazine Golden. We are given ten minutes to shop, and thirty minutes to prepare. There is no trial run; they are serving all our dishes buffet-style, and the staff will vote on their favorite dish. This is anyone’s game. I decide to make crepes but with a twist. I add shrimp, scallops, and lobster in a cream sauce as the filling. I want to make it more of a meal, so it’s filling but not overly sweet. My competitors are making huevos rancheros, gourmet French toast, and some sort of a Greek-inspired quiche. Thirty minutes isn’t a lot of time to prep for this large of a crowd, but I get in my groove and am able to knock it out just in the nick of time. Now all we have to do is sit and wait. The crowd pours in, and each of the entrees get scooped up. None of us can gauge which is the hands-down favorite. Each staff member is given a ballot to vote for the favorite. We are instructed to go back to the brownstone to get cleaned up before the elimination ceremony in two hours.

  Once the judges arrive, we take our places. They provide each of us with feedback. We refer to this portion of the program as the judge “sandwich.” They always start and end on a positive note but throw a little negative comment in the middle. For example, “It was a unique take on brunch: the cream sauce was a bit on the rich side, but overall the flavors all worked very well together.” They continue to build up the palpable anticipation by stating it was an extremely close race. The winner and second place contestant are separated by only four votes.

  “The winner of the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and head chef position at Mint in Las Vegas goes to … Finn McDaniels.” After the celebrations settle down, we go back to the house for our last night. The remaining contestants have flights home tomorrow. As we are drifting off to sleep, Jimmy says, “I reckon you’re gonna need a sous-chef.”

  #

  I arrive in Vegas four days before I have to start at Mint. First on the agenda is to find somewhere to live. The show is putting me up in the Aria while I find accommodations. I know one thing for sure; I’m only interested in renting. I plan to ride out my contract but have no intention of staying here long term. I’m grateful to have won the show. It will launch my brand name and gets me that much closer to opening my own restaurant but Vegas is way too over the top for me. Way too much hustle and bustle. I check into my room, a huge two-bedroom suite overlooking the Strip. I’m greeted with a bucket of champagne and a spread of goodies, along with a note from the Delectable team congratulating me. Before I pick out which room I’ll sleep in, I hear a knock at the door.

  “Congratulations, lad,” Mac exclaims as he extends his arms out to give me a big bear hug.

  “What are ye doing here?”

  “I took a couple days off to help get ye settled. I figured ye could use a wingman.”

  “Thanks, bloke. I am a bit of a deer in headlights. This place is crazy.”

  “We’ll find ye a spot off the beaten path, so when yer not working ye have somewhere to unwind. One of the producers hooked me up with a buddy of his who will show us around tomorrow. He’s got the inside scoop on some high-end rentals,” he says as he starts breaking into the cocktails.

  “Brillant.”

  “Now, let’s hit the Strip.” He holds the hotel room door open, so I don’t have a chance to sit down and refuse.

  “Just when I’m ready for some peace and quiet before the craziness ensues,” I state, rolling my eyes, giving one last attempt at rejecting our plans.

  “Wrong, laddie. The goal is to never stop moving. I made us reservations at Salt in the Bellagio. I thought it would inspire you,” he says as he shuffles me into the glass elevator.

  We have a great dinner, do some gambling, way too much drinking, and even a little dancing, but I draw the line at the strip club.

  We meet our tour guide in the lobby at ten o’clock the next morning. He picks us up in his Range Rover and off we go. He got a tip that a celebrity is off on location and is looking for a year-long renter, so we head over there first.

  The penthouse unit is in a high rise on the northwest side of the city. It’s a good distance from the Strip, in a quieter area nestled in the foothills. It doesn’t feel like Vegas at all, close to hiking trails and is somewhat tranquil, surprisingly. Not having been to the states before New York, I only know most of these cities from what I’ve seen in the movies. I start having visions of the red-light district in Amsterdam. This is quite the contrary. Now, I’m a bit more open-minded.

  We enter a code in the elevator that takes us straight to the top unit. The doors open to floor to ceiling windows as far as I can see. It’s very modern. Simple. Clean lines. All white furniture. The only color is in the giant paintings covering the interior walls. The furniture is perfectly placed so not overcrowded and allows me to take in the scenery of the desert outside. The kitchen is a chef’s dream. I have never seen anything like it, especially not in a private residence. Viking appliances, endless cabinets, a beautiful marble island with another full sink, a spacious Sub-Zero fridge, and a wine closet. I would love to host a party here; too bad I don’t know one bloke that lives in Vegas. The irony.

  It’s two levels with a giant spiral staircase, glass panels lining it all the way up. There are three bedrooms upstairs. The master bath looks like it was built for a king. Top of the line everything. The shower is nothing short of a personalized spa.

  “So, what do ye think?” Mac inquires, arms extended, spinning around in the bright, luxurious space.

  “It’s bloody fantastic, but do I really need this much space?”

  “Aye. Look at these views. It’s in a high rise so no maintenance, and it even comes with a cleaning lady,” he says as he swipes his fingers across the pristine counter tops.

  “I’m going to be at the restaurant fourteen to sixteen hours a day,” I say, trying to stall.

  “So, won’t this be the perfect retreat to come back to? Plus, ye don’t have to worry about any furnishings. It’s turn-key. Ye don’t need that headache. I say, go for it.”

  For whatever reason, having Mac’s blessing makes me feel more spontaneous. After all, it’s only a year.

  “Aye. I’ll take it.” The realtor tak
es us back to his office to write up contracts. I leave with keys after paying him the full year’s rent in cash with my recent winnings from the show. I must say it’s a huge relief to have my housing taken care of. I know once I cross the threshold of Mint, it will be a crazy whirlwind, but I’m ready for the ride.

  #

  The restaurant is impeccable. A long, narrow room donned with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. The pink and purple neon lights highlight the shadow boxes in the ceiling, adding mood lighting to the bright, white space. There are a combination of booths and free-standing tables adorned with chandeliers dripping in crystals. A modern mixology bar made of stainless steel lines the back wall with enough seating for thirty. The layout of the kitchen is perfect. Multiple prepping stations to create separation. I arrive and get acquainted with the staff. There are forty wait staff and twelve on my team in the kitchen. I get familiar with the line, the menu, and, before I know it, it’s show time. Working the line in a restaurant can be tricky. It takes time to gel and come up with a flow that works for everyone. Tex-Mex will arrive a few days from now; I offer to let him share my apartment. It’s huge, and we’ve been roommates for the last twelve weeks, so I know he’s easy to live with. We’ll probably have staggered shifts, so we won’t be in each other’s way.

  I feel the void of Christine more and more every single day. I now reside in the biggest, craziest city in the world but never felt lonelier. I haven’t gone back to our place in Paris because I can’t face the memories. I know I need to start fresh, but nothing will ever feel like home without her. During my off time, I try to take hikes to relax and unwind, but she is still all-consuming. She is all I think about. Some days I can’t even believe I’m functioning. Other days, I go through the motions. I get into the zone and work like a machine. I need to figure out a way to channel this energy into something that will help me move forward but also keep Christine’s memory very much alive.

  #

  I’m six months into my Mint contract, and my only focus is on researching locations to open a restaurant. I’ve taken several day trips to check out locations. I’ve been to Sedona, San Diego, and Los Angeles. I’ve decided on California for sure, but Los Angeles is too celebrity infested and that’s not my scene. I really like San Diego but it’s too beachy for my taste. I’m not going to lie; the desert has grown on me so I decide to put roots down in Palm Springs. It’s a quiet, upscale community with lots of retirees and gays with money, the perfect combination. A happy medium. Bigger towns only a couple hours out, but it’s more secluded and quiet. I’ve scheduled time with a realtor. It’s time to start building the dream. Having something to look forward to will help my spirits and help me concentrate on the next step.

  #

  Today, Mac, Tex-Mex, and I are looking at commercial locations for the restaurant. Tomorrow we will look at homes. The first space we check out seems far too cold. It’s an old converted warehouse, but I think it’s too far on the outskirts of Palm Springs. I want a space that has a cool but homey vibe where people want to stay and lounge. I also want a large outdoor space.

  We stop at two more properties before we hit the jackpot. It’s a restaurant that went out of business a few years ago. An old diner in a terrific location, it has beautiful views of the mountains and plenty of space to add on. We spend a couple hours walking through the floor plan, so I can envision the layout. It will take a few months of construction and a couple hundred thousand dollars in renovations but then I can make it my own. I still have a big chunk left from the show, and Christine’s life insurance policy paid out another two hundred and fifty thousand. The view and location cannot be beat.

  The realtor recommends a great commercial architect, and I have him draw up some plans. I want indoor/outdoor seating for one hundred and twenty people comfortably, along with a large, outdoor lounge surrounding a fire pit. I want it to feel like a giant living room with comfortable seating. The overall theme of the restaurant will be a combination between old world Scotland, and a tribute to Chicago’s Al Capone Prohibition era and the Roaring Twenties. Specialty drinks will be made with scotch and bourbon. And the restaurant will, of course, be named after my only love. It will be called Christine’s.

  I realize quickly that I’m also in desperate need of a designer to obtain the look and feel I am going for. My architect recommends a guy out of Dana Point, California named Garrett Stanford. He’s top notch and has several celebrity clients. I invite Garrett and his partner Tristan up for the day to tour the space and to share my vision and can tell he has exquisite taste. He will be opening a new store where he will feature his new furniture line. We discuss dates and costs, and he is off to create the design plan.

  #

  The showcase he comes back with is mind blowing, from the furniture to the lighting to the detailed art work. He captured the essence of what I’m going for. His grand opening is about nine months after mine, so he returns the favor, hiring me to cater his event.

  The next few months are nothing short of exhausting as I wrap up my contract in Vegas and move my life to Palm Springs. It’s a one hundred and eighty-degree change from Vegas, which is what I’m looking for. Tex-Mex and I are now partners, equals. The restaurant comes together, and the opening goes off without a hitch. We have a waiting list of almost a year. I guess the celebrity status helps. In my off time, which isn’t very often, I enjoy spending time fixing up the house I bought. It’s an older ranch style home but has an amazing outdoor space which you can see when you walk in the front door. I always manage to conjure up a project here and there. The peace and serenity I need to get away to reconnect with Christine. I search to feel her presence every day. I still don’t have it in me to plan past tomorrow. I still cannot visualize a future without her so I live in the moment, one day at a time.

  I’ve started to get to know some of my neighbors but many of them don’t live here year round. For many, Palm Springs is a weekend home so I decide what I really need is a companion. I rescue a dog from the Humane Society. He is the sweetest one-year-old golden retriever. How someone gave this guy up blows my mind. He’s the cutest thing and overjoyed to be my new best friend. I named him Frank, which was Christine’s nickname in college. He goes with me everywhere, even to the restaurant. I make sure to keep him hidden, so people don’t feel it’s unsanitary. I hire a dog walker to come in on my long days to keep him company. He loves to hike with me but nothing beats the pool. He could swim out there for days on end if I’d let him. I need him far more than he needs me.

  Tex-Mex and I have been putting in crazy hours, which isn’t unusual for a startup. A fantastic problem to have. Fortunately, we are closed on Mondays. We will open for groups that want to rent out the restaurant. We hired an event coordinator early on because we do a lot of catering and private parties. Tex-Mex and I use that day to meet and go over reservations, staff schedules, and menu specials for the week. We do all our ordering and planning together. It keeps it easy in the event one of us isn’t there; we are always in sync.

  In today’s meeting, Tex informs me that we have a group renting out the restaurant next Monday. The coordinator works with him or me on the menu for these special groups. She must have worked with him on this one because I hadn’t noticed it on the books until now. It’s with a company called Hellyxia. As soon as I see the name, my heart sinks. Hellyxia is the company that had the clinical trial for Brcaxia that Christine did not qualify for. What are the chances they would come to Palm Spring and to my restaurant, of all places? I don’t want to host them, knowing they had the tools to help extend my wife’s life but since she was too far along, they turned her away. They only take patients that meet very specific criteria. Imagine, these bloody suits have the ability to play God. To pick and choose whomever they want to help. Sickening, really, and now I have to play nice and cater to them. I don’t want to mention it to Tex because I don’t want him to feel bad. How would he have any way of knowing?

  #<
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  There are only twenty-five of them, but I bring in extra staff just to make sure we provide a high level of service. You never know with these groups. Most of them are high-rollers and expect impeccable service. Tex and I both attend these events just to avoid any emergencies. One of us works the front of the house and the other in the back. We provide a pre-set menu served family style. This way the food comes out hot for everyone and it’s easier to replenish.

  I offer to handle the kitchen since I’m not at all interested in looking any of these guys in the eye. God only knows what would come out of my mouth. They are in town for the product launch of a new drug. There is a big pharmaceutical convention going on down in Los Angeles, but these guys hired limos to bring them up to Palm Springs for the night. They have a golf outing nearby tomorrow.

  They arrive at six-thirty. We start out with a cocktail hour out on the patio, so they can take in the views. We have bars set up inside and outside, and the wait staff is passing appetizers—goat cheese truffles rolled in pistachios with a fig preserve, mini-crab cakes, lamb meatballs with mint, and a variety of tapas on a stick. Everyone is mingling and so far, it’s off to a good start.

  Around eight-thirty, we invite them in to be seated. We have three courses: a salad, entrée, and dessert. We have two options for each course to provide variety. The wait staff’s sole job is to continue filling wine glasses and running mixed drinks to the table. Tex is directing, and I am busy in the back serving up each course. We are down to the last course, and the group is starting to get a little rowdier and loud, which is to be expected since they have been drinking for several hours. Then, suddenly, I hear yelling from the back. I rush out to assess the situation. Tex is trying to restrain one of the guests.

  “What in the bloody hell is going on?” I ask in a raised but stern tone as I see one of the waitresses in tears.