Rinse the fish, checking for loose scales, and pat dry with paper towels.
Stir together the garlic, sugar, salt and pepper in a large bowl. Coat the bottom of a 9 × 13 casserole with about a third of the mixture.
Lay the fish, skin side down, across the sugar mixture in the pan. Place one bunch of tarragon around the sides of the salmon, then pour the rest of the sugar mixture over the top of the fish, making sure to cover it completely.
Spread the rest of the tarragon over the coated fish, then pour the Pernod over all and cover with plastic wrap.
You may place a weighted 8 × 11 pan on top of the covered salmon to help the curing process and absorption of the tarragon oil into the sugar, but it’s not strictly necessary.
Put the pan in the refrigerator and allow to cure for two to three days. Check the salmon every twelve hours or so to make sure it’s still covered, adding more sugar and salt if needed.
When ready to serve, remove the gravlax from the pan and rinse well. Pat dry with paper towels and slice thinly across the grain. Great on sandwiches, in salads, with eggs—anywhere you’d use smoked salmon!
THE FAMOUS LUNDEN’S TAVERN BRUSSELS SPROUTS
3 lbs Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved lengthwise
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
12 ounces pancetta, diced
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon honey
1 tsp chopped fresh parsley
salt and pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Toss the trimmed, halved Brussels sprouts with the vegetable oil and salt and pepper to taste. Spread the sprouts, cut side down, in a single layer across two baking sheets. Don’t crowd them too much, or they’ll steam instead of roasting. Roast in the oven until tender, with crisp, browned edges, about thirty minutes. Check them at twenty—roasting times can vary depending on the size of the sprouts.
While the sprouts are in the oven, heat a large sauté pan over medium high heat. Brown the pancetta until its fat begins to render and coat the pan, about ten minutes. Remove the pancetta from the pan with a slotted spoon, and drain on paper towels.
Combine the vinegar, mustard, parsley, and honey in a small bowl. Drizzle in the olive oil, whisking vigorously until all the elements are combined into a vinaigrette. Salt and pepper to taste.
Heat the sprouts quickly in the pan coated with the rendered pancetta fat, then add them to a large serving bowl. Sprinkle with the crisp pancetta and drizzle the vinaigrette over all, then toss and serve.
The Rising Star Chef competition continues! Read on for a preview of Louisa Edwards’
Some Like
It Hot
Coming in December 2011 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
So this is what it’s like to leave home, Danny mused, narrowly avoiding a collision with a woman who seemed to have forgotten she was pulling a wheeled carry-on case behind her.
La Guardia was packed with post-holiday travelers. Every bank of waiting room benches sported at least a couple of people sleeping off their turkey and stuffing, or maybe their holiday hangovers, while the terminal seethed with chaos and confusion as flights were called, boarding was announced, and everyone rushed to find the right gate.
Danny Lunden, who’d never been out of Manhattan, soaked it all in and tried to figure out why the hell he was getting chills of excitement all down his back.
They were on their way.
A panicking voice rose above the din of bustling passengers and PA announcements about not leaving bags unattended.
“Where’s my ticket? Please tell me one of you—oh, there it is. Okay. Thanks, Danny.”
Patting his jittery friend’s shoulder was a little like grabbing hold of the business end of a hand mixer. “Winslow, cool it. We’re all good. We’re at the gate in plenty of time.”
Which had to be some sort of miracle, after the adventure of wrestling luggage and carry-ons through the New York City public transit system and pushing through airport crowds walking more slowly than the tourists in Times Square. Danny did a quick head count to make sure he hadn’t lost anyone in the subway tunnels or security lane.
Beck, their resident master of fish cookery, was always easy to spot in a crowd, since he topped the mere mortals around him by about four inches. The big guy caught Danny’s eye and gave him a silent nod of acknowledgment. Beck was solid, as always, standing like an oak planted in the middle of a rushing river, carrying everything he’d packed for this adventure in an oversized duffel bag.
Next to him was Danny’s oldest friend in the world, Jules Cavanaugh. Her dark blonde hair was caught up in a messy ponytail, and her eyes glittered with the excitement of finally embarking on this trip they’d all been anticipating ever since they won the chance to take on the Rising Star Chef competition.
She all but glowed with happiness, spilling her warm light all over the guy beside her, who was busily soaking it up like a sponge cake doused in amaretto.
Max Lunden, Danny’s brother. And wasn’t that a rolling pin upside the head, because Danny never thought he’d see the day when his wandering prodigal brother would settle down and commit to anything—much less to winning the RSC, his family, and a woman all in one fell swoop. But he had. Danny watched the way they leaned into each other, their wheeled bags bumping and threatening to trip them when they got too close, and tried to be glad the team had two such passionate, inventive chefs in charge, and leave it at that.
Winslow Jones, the fastest knife on the team—and the one who’d nearly been grounded by security for pleading to be allowed to carry his knife roll on the plane with him—was still vibrating under Danny’s palm.
And Danny was the pastry chef. So that was everyone. He relaxed slightly, a fragment of tension going out of his shoulders.
The gang’s all here.
A nasal voice over the loudspeaker broke into Danny’s thoughts.
“We are now boarding flight number fourteen twenty-two to Chicago O’Hare International. First class passengers only, please.”
“Well, that ain’t us,” Beck said, settling onto his heels with the look of a man accustomed to waiting.
“Have you ever flown first class?” Jules asked, staring up into Max’s eyes.
He laughed. “Hell no. An airplane with toilets on it is a luxury to me. I did most of my traveling through Asia on crowded buses or in the back of a truck transporting live goats or something.”
“Sounds smelly.” Winslow wrinkled his nose, making the dark freckles stand out on his latte-colored skin.
“You have no idea,” Max told him. “But this.” He gazed around the busy airport. “It’s something else.”
Danny looked around, too, at the walls all glass and metal, at the reasonably clean floor and the people chatting as they rode the moving walkways, and figured he knew what Max meant.
This was something outside of all their experiences. Because they weren’t just embarking on some little pleasure jaunt to see the sights in the Windy City.
They were headed to meet the teams they’d be up against in the Rising Star Chef competition, the other chefs who’d be cooking their hearts out and giving it their all in the hopes of coming out on top.
The significant cash prize didn’t hurt anything, either.
The newly minted East Coast team stood in loose huddle staring at each other nervously. Someone ought to say something, Danny realized, with a visceral pang of yearning for his dad’s gift of effortless inspiration, or his mom’s serene calm in the face of any crisis.
“I wish Gus and Nina were here,” Jules said, in one of those weird moments of reading Danny’s brain like an open cookbook. She’d been doing it since they were in elementary school together, and it still freaked him out.
Shaking off the emotion as if he were flicking whipped cream off the end of a whisk, Danny did what he did best.
“Mom and Dad wish
they could be here,” he soothed. “But somebody’s got to stay home and run Lunden’s while we’re off winning the Rising Star Chef and bringing glory to our restaurant. I know this is kind of a crazy situation, and we’re all a little worked up, but we just have to stay focused on bringing home the prize. For Lunden’s. For my parents. For all of us.”
As Danny glanced around the team, making sure to lock eyes with each person in turn, he could see them all shedding their nerves and standing up a little taller. And a bit more of the tension rolled off his back, because if he could keep them all together and zeroed in on the goal, they were going to be okay.
Danny knew he’d have to work hard to take his own advice.
Stay focused. This is for the family, for the restaurant, for the future.
To Danny, they were interchangeable.
When it was their turn to board, he herded his group over to the flight attendant, produced all five tickets, and got all of them and their assorted carry-ons down the gangplank and onto the plane.
After some confusion over the seating arrangements—Max and Jules weren’t technically seated together, but were still in that phase of the relationship where they couldn’t bear to be parted for the hour and a half it would take them to fly from their home base of New York City to the unknown wilds of Chicago—Danny had everyone situated.
Max, Jules, and Winslow were clustered on one side of the plane, so Max could talk Win through his first takeoff and landing, while Beck and Danny were in the slightly more spacious pair of seats on the other side of the aisle, although Beck had asked to sit by the window.
Danny readily agreed, buckled himself in, stowed his satchel holding the precious tools of his trade under the seat in front of him, and was ready to go by the time the rest of the passengers finished boarding.
But they didn’t go anywhere. The plane just sat there. And sat there. And sat there.
Danny craned his neck out into the aisle to get a better view of the front of the plane. What was the problem? Were there electrical issues?
Finally one of the flight attendants, a skinny young dude with unlikely yellow hair and an earring, grabbed the handheld microphone and stood in the aisle to make an announcement.
“Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen,” the male attendant said smoothly, “we’re just waiting on one passenger, then we can get underway.”
Blithely ignoring the ripple of exasperated sighs and groans, the flight attendant hung up the mic and went back to passing out blankets and pillows.
“Well, this sucks,” Danny said, impatience simmering under his skin. “Let’s get the hell off the ground, already.”
“If they’re lying about waiting for a passenger, and there’s actually some kind of systems failure, I’d personally rather they figure that shit out while we’re still on the ground.”
Blinking, Danny turned to study his seat partner, taking in Beck’s rigid posture, the cold sweat dotting his hairline.
Crapsticks, how did I miss this?
“You’re afraid of flying,” Danny said, disbelief sharpening his tone.
Beck stiffened even further. Danny experienced a moment of fear that the big guy might Hulk out and break the arm right off the seat between them.
“I’m not afraid of flying,” Beck grated out. “I’m not even afraid of falling—that would at least be quick and relatively painless.”
Danny went into caretaker mode. “Okay, you’re a tough guy, everyone knows that. I didn’t mean anything by saying you were afraid.”
Beck shook his head, the loose waves of his longish dark hair hiding his face for a second. “It’s not that I don’t—look. Everyone’s afraid, sometimes. I’m no exception. Fear is a survival response; it’s healthy. It can keep you alive. I just meant, it’s not the flying that wigs me out so much as it’s…” He swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple moving in the thick column of his throat. “It’s kind of cramped in here. Not a lot of air movement. I don’t like that.”
Danny processed that quickly. There was a lot they didn’t know about Beck, the taciturn chef who’d joined the Lunden’s kitchen crew only a few months before Max came home. There had been rumors—mostly started by Winslow and his overactive imagination—that ranged from ex-con just out of prison to foreign prince in exile. Danny had never paid much attention to them. So long as Beck did his job, banged out the straightforward, excellent fish dishes on the Lunden’s menu, and got along with the rest of the crew, Danny didn’t much care where he came from.
The claustrophobia, though, was starting to lend a little credence to Win’s jailbird theory.
Setting that aside for the moment, Danny said, “Would it be better if you were on the aisle? Might give you a little more room to stretch out.”
Gratitude flashed in Beck’s hooded eyes, but it must’ve been for the lack of further interrogation on his issues, because he said, “Nah, that just puts me in the middle of the big metal tube with no escape hatch. At least here, I can look out and see the open air, even if I can’t touch it. I’ll be fine, man. As soon as we take off and get on our way, and I can start counting down the minutes until we’re in Chicago.”
Danny returned the tense smile with the most reassuring expression he could manage—and when it came to reassurance, Danny was the ninja master. Usually he’d start with a pep talk, but from the way Beck was white-knuckling it, the guy needed action more than words.
Unbuckling his seat belt, Danny stood up, the familiar comfort of a sense of purpose filling him with determination.
“Where are you going?” Beck asked.
Danny straightened and stepped into the aisle. “To get some answers.”
The blond flight attendant with the earring was fooling around with the coffee maker when Danny marched up the aisle to the front of the plane, but when he saw one of his passengers bearing down on him, his eyes widened.
“Sir, you need to sit down.”
Danny had a couple inches on the kid, but he did his best not to loom in the cramped confines of the airplane’s prep area. “Look. My friend’s not a great flyer and he’s starting to get anxious. Is there anything I can tell him about when we might be taking off?”
“We’re nearly finished with the boarding process, and we can’t push back from the gate until all passengers are seated, with their seat belts securely fastened,” the attendant parroted.
“Yeah, but see, we’ve all been doing exactly that for the last twenty minutes, and the plane’s still parked at the gate. What, exactly, are we waiting for? I mean, you’ve already made, like, four pots of coffee. I bet you’re getting sick of the smell of burnt coffee beans.”
The flight attendant’s gaze flickered, and Danny pressed his advantage with a smile.
“I don’t really know,” the kid finally said. “I got a call from ground control to hold the plane for a late passenger; she’s supposed to be on her way.”
Danny stared. “You’re serious. You weren’t lying, trying to keep us calm while we waited to find out there’s a pigeon in the engine or something?”
“We’re pigeon free, as far as I know.”
It obviously wasn’t this kid’s fault, but Danny was starting to get pissed. One of his guys was stuck feeling like shit for an extra half-hour, and as far as Danny could tell, there was no legitimate reason for it. “Is this standard practice, holding up a whole plane full of people for one single passenger?”
Earring glinting as he shook his head, the kid shrugged helplessly.
“It is when the passenger is me,” purred a low voice from behind them.
Danny whirled, nearly clocking himself on the jutting refrigerator cabinet, to see a svelte woman dressed in something complicated and elegant that wrapped around her stunning body like some sort of chic lady mummy costume, only in dark blue. The color set off her pearly smooth skin, making her a study in rich jewel tones, from the sPatricket curve of her smirking mouth to the shiny brown hair angling bluntly down to her chin. She looked as if s
he were on her way to opening night at the Met or something, not a commuter flight to Chicago.
Recognition fired one instant after the instinctual spark of visceral desire in the pit of Danny’s stomach, and he clamped down on the dizzying combination.
Clenching his teeth, Danny faced the woman whose billionaire restaurateur father had founded the Rising Star Chef competition twenty years ago.
“Thanks for waiting,” she was saying to the flight attendant. “I had to avert a professional disaster, then there was a mix-up with the car service and I had to take a taxi. My assistant is so fired. Well, not really, I’d be a mess without him, but I’m cutting his chocolate budget. No more candy on his desk until he figures out how to get me to the airport on time!”
She smiled, perfect white teeth flashing. Before the dazzled flight attendant could gather his wits off the floor, Danny had stepped between them.
At a deep gut level, all he could think was mine.
And, close on the heels of that thought, Uh oh.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
LOUISA EDWARDS
Can’t Stand the Heat
On the Steamy Side
Just One Taste
Too Hot to Touch
Red-Hot Raves for Louisa Edwards’ Recipe for Love series
JUST ONE TASTE
“The third addition to Edwards’ contemporary, culinary-based love stories is a rare treat that is certain to satisfy readers with its delectable combination of lusciously sensuous romance and irresistibly clever writing.”
—Booklist
“Laugh-out-loud funny, Just One Taste is a surprisingly tasty story of two unlikely people meeting and falling in love … A fun, light read with plenty of humor and passion, Just One Taste makes it to my keeper shelf and has me searching for the book preceding this one.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Awesome characters, delicious food and even more fabulous sex makes for a super-sexy and fun read! Edwards does it again. Her stories are fun but so meaningful, and I will definitely be reading her next book!”
Too Hot to Touch Page 30