Simmer Down

by Jessica Conant-Park

  Some hermit crab owners, I concluded, were more devoted to their pets than Dora had evidently been to Oliver. He’d rated nothing better than a short obituary. Where was his wife’s loving eulogy to him?

  After learning more than anyone should want to know about the hermit crab world, I took a quick look at the Full Moon’s locations. Lunar, Eclipse, and the Big Dipper all had Web sites boasting the best evening entertainment Boston had to offer. Eclipse’s site showed a calendar of guest DJs, theme nights, and drink specials, and a link to the menu, which had wings, potato skins, and nachos: bar food and nothing else. I knew from Josh that food like that was all purchased frozen and in bulk, tossed in a Frialator or oven, and plated to serve. Nothing challenging here for a chef, that was for sure, and I could see why Barry might have the itch to do something more creative. Lunar’s food was slightly more upscale and pricey than Eclipse’s. Its Web site showed pictures of young, drunk women with overly waxed eyebrows and spray tans hovering above elaborate appetizers and clutching colorful cocktails in their French-manicured hands. Yawn. This place was a meat market for the young and wealthy. I was ashamed to remember that in the days before Josh and Owen, I’d been in Lunar a few times with Adrianna and that we’d gone there to toss ourselves into the singles scene. Worse, I had to admit to myself that I’d had a pretty good time knocking back grapefruit cosmopolitans and Long Island iced teas. Would I go there for dinner? No. But for a good time with friends? Maybe. But I realized that I’d love to go poke around Full Moon’s so-called restaurants with Josh to check out the employees and see whether they knew anything about Hannah the Horrible. But I’d never get Josh into one of these places. And I didn’t think he’d be overly supportive of my desire to prove his ex-girlfriend guilty of murder. Maybe I could get Adrianna to go with me.

  I checked my e-mail, deleted four messages suggesting that I enlarge my penis, and shut down the computer. It was already eleven. I couldn’t believe how much time I’d spent reading about Ken. I wanted to see Josh at Simmer before I met Adrianna at Moving On. I threw on my coat and was locking the door to the office when Naomi’s voice rang down the corridor.

  “I’m back! Just leave it open,” she called breathlessly. “Sorry I took so long. I wanted to catch you before you left for Moving On. I’m really proud of you for spending the afternoon there. I know you’ll do great work today!” I had a feeling she was going to lean in for a hug, so I busied myself with the buttons on my coat. Naomi was the most touchy-feely person I’d ever known. She attributed the need to hug all the time to the emotional heaviness of our work. She was forever spouting positive messages of empowerment (“We are strong enough to give ourselves to others!” and “Reach beyond your self-imposed limits!”) while gripping me in a tight embrace. Although I really did like Naomi and was learning a lot from her, there were only so many times a day I wanted her arms flung around me.

  “I’ll call you later,” I promised her as I headed off to Simmer.

  One smelly T ride later, I exited the subway at Newbury Street. Outside Simmer, a man on a ladder was putting the finishing touches on a glass panel with the restaurant’s name etched through the opaque sign. I walked through an area with a low wrought-iron fence—the outdoor patio for use in warm weather—and entered through the unlocked front door. When I’d been here two weeks earlier, I’d been alarmed to see the unfinished state of the restaurant. The unpainted drywall, the cords dangling from the ceiling, and the concrete floors had worried me. On New Year’s Eve, would the customers be eating off paper plates while perching on folding chairs? Now I could finally see what the finished Simmer would look like. For a start, there was an actual floor. Better yet, it was beautifully tiled in rich browns with thick grout lines between each tile. The grout would be hard to clean, but the rustic style gave the restaurant a homey feel. The plaster walls had been textured using brushes swept vertically and horizontally to suggest linen, then painted a warm beige and framed with dark wood molding. Wall vases, paintings, and mosaic panels decorated the large room. As I watched, a man was installing dramatic, ultramodern light fixtures. Except for calculating that the expensive remodeling was contributing to Josh’s low salary, I felt relieved to see that Simmer was coming together. Josh had told me that Gavin wanted the restaurant to have a “worldly” feel in its decor and its food rather than to have a single ethnic theme.

  Gavin was clear that he wanted the menu to reflect many different culinary influences; what mattered to the owner was the quality and variety of the dishes. There would be Asian-style sashimi plates as well as Southwestern-influenced soups and gourmet Italian pasta dishes. Josh loved the freedom. The challenge, Josh had told me, was to avoid dishes that couldn’t be paired with any others and to make sure that there was some sort of cohesive quality to the menu as a whole.

  The square tables and high-backed chairs were in place, and the bar at the front of the room was well-stocked with high-end liquor. Matt, the bartender Gavin had lured away from a South End restaurant, was behind the stone counter feeding glasses into racks suspended from a high shelf.

  “Chloe?”

  Gavin walked toward me, all smiles. “So, what do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful. It really is. Congratulations.”

  “You here to see Josh?” he asked.

  I nodded, and he pointed to the back of the restaurant.

  “He’s in the kitchen with Snacker. Make yourself at home. I’ve got to make some calls, if you’ll excuse me. We’re missing half of our goddamn bowls that were left out of our dishware order. They charged us for them but forgot to deliver them, so now I have to yell at some poor schmuck and make sure they get overnighted to us. Ah, the joys of being a business owner.” Even with last-minute problems, Gavin couldn’t conceal his excitement about Simmer’s impending opening; he was practically glowing. “But there’s nothing like Newbury Street. I can’t wait until that patio opens up. The people watching, the atmosphere, the food…I can’t wait! We’ve already had a bunch of curious neighbors pop in to check us out. Hair stylists, store owners, they’ve been stopping by wanting to see what kind of food we’ll be doing. Everybody wants to get an in with us before we open. So, anyway, I’ve got make this call, but I’ll walk you back to the kitchen.”

  I followed Gavin to the back and then through the large wooden doors that swung into the kitchen.

  “I’ll see you at the opening, right, Chloe?”

  I nodded, and Gavin headed off to the left to his office.

  Josh and Snacker were hovering over one of the gigantic gas stoves. “Perfect, perfect, perfect,” Josh was saying happily. Both chefs were wearing their spotless new white coats, baggy black pants, and shiny black leather kitchen clogs. Give it a couple of days, and those sparkling outfits would be saturated with odors and marred by splotches that no detergent could remove.

  When Gavin had started construction on Simmer, I’d hoped that Josh would have a magnificently generous workspace. Giving the chef a big kitchen, however, would have meant reducing the amount of space at the front of the house and consequently decreasing the number of tables available to paying customers. Not that this kitchen was cramped, but on a busy night with a full staff, things might get tight. Three huge tiers of stainless-steel shelves held sauté pans, stockpots, and roasting pans. The stoves, ovens, and other major pieces of equipment hogged space, of course, and small appliances were everywhere: blenders, food processors, stick blenders, and a giant mixer.

  “Hello, Miss Chloe,” Snacker greeted me, shaking a skillet hard and tossing its aromatic contents.

  Oh, he was still adorable! Again, not that I was looking. Well, not looking for me, but I could admire, right?

  “Hi, babe!” Josh stopped stirring a bubbling pot and waved me over. “Come taste this stock.” He held out a teaspoon and fed me the most unbelievably delicious beef stock. At that moment, right there in my mouth, the whole concept of bouillon cubes met its dried-up, prepackaged maker.

  A man said,
“If that’s what they do to stock, I can’t wait to try an entire meal.”

  I spun around to see Barry in the corner of the kitchen. He was leaning so comfortably against one of the stainless counters that he looked almost at home. I hadn’t even noticed that anyone else was here. Why? I had eyes only for Josh.

  “Chloe, you remember Barry Fields? From the other night?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry about your partner.”

  Barry’s brown curls had been severely gelled against his skull to create the effect of a shellacked swim cap, and his rumpled sport coat was, I thought, the same one he’d been wearing the other night.

  What could Barry be doing here? Josh had told him to stop in, but I thought that he’d been issuing the chef’s version of “Let’s get together for lunch sometime.” Barry, however, had taken Josh literally. I peeked at my boyfriend and raised an eyebrow.

  “Thank you.” Barry nodded. “It’s a rough time right now. Thought I’d stop in here for some comfort food, as they say.”

  “Yup,” Josh agreed. “We just whipped up something for him.”

  Oh, I got it. Josh was being cocky; he was showing off for the guy who’d lost this location. He might as well have stuck out his tongue and yelled, “Ha-ha!” Or maybe his tactic was to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. As Josh had pointed out, this “enemy,” Barry, could one day be a good connection. Or maybe Josh and Barry were just two food afficionados sharing their common interest?

  “Snack, how’s the veg doin’?” Josh asked his sous chef.

  “Just done now, Chef.” Snacker pulled the skillet off the heat and poured what Josh loosely referred to as a “hash” onto a plate. When Josh said hash, he didn’t mean some unidentifiable mess you’d find next to two fried eggs with a side of bacon. He meant a delicious combination of vegetables he’d pulled together, sautéed over high heat, and seasoned with a rich broth, a sauce, or just salt, pepper, olive oil, and maybe fresh thyme.

  Josh reached into an oven and, using only a thin dish towel, pulled out a tray to reveal a gorgeously browned game hen. He picked it up bare-handed, gently placed it on a cutting board, sliced off a beautiful portion, and added it to the plate with the hash.

  “Here you go, sir.” He carried the dish over to Barry. “And fresh rosemary bread, too,” he added, turning to another counter to cut a thick wedge from one of four loaves. “You’re next, Chloe,” he promised me with a wink, having probably seen the drool dripping down my chin.

  Barry took a mouthful from his plate and, when he finally swallowed, put down his plate and fork. “Superb. Really, Josh. Losing Oliver is miserable, and this is just what I needed.” Was he going to cry? “No wonder Gavin won’t part with even a share of this place. With you two here, Simmer is going to do well. It’s a dream.”

  Barry had come here to attempt the impossible feat of convincing Gavin Seymour to let him in on a restaurant that Gavin had just put oodles of money into? A restaurant on the verge of opening? And, more than everything else combined, a restaurant that he loved? What an idiot Barry was.

  “It’s just been a terrible few days. I’ve known Oliver most of my life, and to have him suddenly gone…well, it’s just unimaginable. We grew up together and started Full Moon together. Even with the disagreements we had, he was one of my best friends. Practically family.” He rested his head in one hand, but with the other hand, he kept eating. Barry looked positively heartbroken. I hoped that Josh’s comfort food fulfilled its mission by soothing some of Barry’s sadness.

  We’d just met Barry. Josh could at least offer the condolence of a delicious meal. I racked my brain to come up with something to say to a stranger who’d lost a best friend, but Barry was now focused on his food. Besides, he did have a wife and, presumably, friends who could help him deal with this loss, so I tried not to feel horribly inadequate. I have to admit that I was aching to ask him about Hannah, but it seemed cruel to push him to discuss Oliver’s death.

  Josh and Snacker looked as uncomfortable as I was with the silence that had now fallen, so I changed the subject. “So, tell me what’s been going on here today,” I said to the two chefs as I dug into the plate Josh had made up for me. It was identical to Barry’s: game hen with glorious hash and fresh rosemary bread.

  “Josh has been running me through the menu,” said Snacker, “and we’ve been cooking up some of the more complicated dishes so he can show me how he wants them plated. And, more importantly, I’ve been asking Josh if you have any single friends in need of some male companionship.”

  I laughed. I’d be surprised if Snacker didn’t get clubbed over the head and dragged back to some woman’s house by the end of the day. “I’ll work on it for you. I promise.”

  Josh groaned. “Hey, hey. Snacker’s got plenty to do around here to keep him busy, so don’t get him all distracted with one of your friends this early in the game.”

  After Barry and I had finished our food, he thanked Josh and Snacker and promised to return on New Year’s Eve. “I know how much you two have to get done, so I’ll leave you to your work. Thanks again for everything. This really did cheer me up a bit.”

  We waved good-bye, and I was ashamed of how relieved I was to have him gone. It’s awful, but there is something intolerable about being around someone else’s pain when you can’t do anything to help. Maybe next semester I could sign up for a class on coping with grief?

  I watched Josh while he worked in the kitchen. He was looking particularly sexy today, what with the sparkling white coat and all, and I was hoping for some alone time in one of the storage rooms, even though it was probably some enormous health code violation to fornicate near the dry goods. Besides, I really had to get going if I was going to make it to Moving On to meet Adrianna.

  I did manage to pin Josh against a wall for a few minutes of groping while Snacker stepped into the office to make some phone calls and confirm orders with purveyors. “Am I going to see you tonight?” I asked in between kisses.

  He sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He slid both his hands into my back pockets and pulled me in close. “I’ve got too much to do, and I’ll probably be busy all night. I’ll call you later, though, okay?”

  What Josh meant, I knew, was that he wouldn’t have even one day off for the next two weeks. I already missed him.

  I dragged myself out of his arms. “Okay, I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

  Just one more kiss—

  I heard the kitchen doors swing open and shut.

  “Oh, excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”

  I pulled away from Josh to see Eliot Davis standing by the door looking embarrassed to have caught us glued to each other. “I just wanted to see how the restaurant was coming along.” His physical features, especially his peculiar eyes, were unattractive, but he wore a boxy, trendy-looking sport jacket and somehow exuded an air of sophistication appropriate to the owner of a Newbury Street gallery. I hoped that Naomi’s thank-you present hadn’t been some god-awful macramé wall hanging or the stinky handmade candles or pop psych book I’d imagined.

  “It’s okay.” I laughed. “I’m on my way out anyhow. Nice to see you. And thanks again for your hospitality the other night at the gallery.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Chloe. Bye.”

  Josh squeezed my hand, and I left for another dreaded T ride, this one to Cambridge.

  TEN

  MOVING On was located in an adorable yellow house on a quiet street off Mass. Ave. outside Harvard Square. Adrianna’s car was parked out front, and I hoped she wasn’t going to kill me for being a few minutes late. The program director, Kayla, let me in and showed me into the combined kitchen and dining room. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Moving On looked like a normal house, with real furniture, hardwood floors, pale green walls, and white trim. Three windows in the kitchen gave a view of a back patio with a grill, covered for the winter to protect it from the snow. After working at the Organization, I’d assumed every nonprofit would be barr
en and depressing. This was a cheery, comfortable environment; it was a home. Adrianna stood in the kitchen, wrapping a nylon cape around a young woman seated in a chair.

  Adrianna greeted me by saying, “Hi, Chloe. This is Isabelle, and she’s ready to chop off this mane of hair.”

  “Hi, Chloe.” Isabelle spoke in a whisper. She looked about twenty years old and probably weighed all of one hundred pounds, not including the ten pounds of frizzy black curls that overwhelmed her tiny frame. She was either frozen in her seat or ready to fly off it; either way, here was a young woman terrified of what was about to happen to her hair. And to make matters worse, Ade looked even more beautiful than ever with her artistically colored blonde hair blown out to its fullest in an homage to early nineties’ supermodels. She looked so glamorous that poor Isabelle must have felt dowdy by comparison. Anyone would have. I did.

  “Hi, Isabelle. Don’t worry about anything. Let me just talk to Adrianna for a second before we get started.” I grabbed my stylist friend by the elbow and led her off to the side for a moment.

  “Ade, what did you say to her? She looks petrified!”

  “Nothing, I swear. I just suggested that we cut off all of her damaged hair, try a more flattering cut, and get her using better products. What’s the problem?”

  “The women here do not exactly have piles of money floating around with which to maintain highlights and dye jobs, okay? And I can guarantee you that Isabelle isn’t in a position to buy high-priced shampoo! The point of being here is to make her feel good about herself, not make her feel inadequate, okay?”