Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “I’ll never tell,” I said with a wink.

  Gwen rested her elbows on top of the car and stared at me expectantly. “So . . . want to tell me what brought you by on this fine Monday morning?”

  I cleared my throat. “What are you up to today?”

  “Running errands,” she said. “Farmers’ market, Target, the restaurant supply store.”

  “Want company?” I asked.

  The gaze she sent me was shrewd. I wondered if she was thinking about the article, contemplating the ramifications of allowing me to accompany her and how it could affect her career. If the risk was worth it.

  “No, I think I can handle it alone,” she said, confirming my suspicions.

  “You know everything that reporter said about you was bullshit, right?” I asked, hoping she could hear the conviction in my voice. Gwen had never been—and would never be— anything like the social-climbing leech that gossipmonger had made her out to be. And I refused to let her believe that. “Don’t grant Andrea Williams the power to hurt you.”

  “She didn’t hurt me, Wonder Bread.” Gwen coughed, probably in an attempt to conceal the lie in her voice. She slid a hair tie off her wrist and gathered her hair into a low ponytail, looking everywhere but at me. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get going.”

  “Well, as it just so happens, I also need to go to the farmers’ market. I bet pears are in peak form today.”

  “How would you know?” she asked. “You don’t cook.”

  “No, I can’t cook. There’s a difference. And besides, everyone has to eat. Might as well stock my fridge.”

  “Oh please,” she said. “I know you have a service deliver groceries to your condo.”

  She was right, of course, but I didn’t want to give her more reason to push me away. Not after I’d finally started to break down some of her walls.

  “Look, either we drive together, or I follow you to the market and walk three steps behind you the whole time, loudly asking, ‘Is that a kumquat?’ whenever you stop to inspect a piece of fruit.”

  She huffed in exasperation. “You’re insufferable.”

  “One of my many talents,” I said.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Wonder Bread.”

  “But it’s so easy,” I said with an I always get my way grin.

  Whatever she saw in my expression must have told her she wasn’t going to win this round, because after a moment she sighed and said, “Fine. Get in the car, but don’t touch anything.” She dropped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.

  I groaned as I took my place in the passenger seat. My knees pressed against the dashboard. I scooted the seat back as far as it would go, though it only marginally alleviated the strain.

  “You all right over there?” she asked.

  “Just stiff.”

  “Little early in the season for that, isn’t it?” she asked, rolling down the window and plugging her cell phone into the cassette tape adapter.

  “It’s only because I’m twisted like a pretzel in order to fit inside this old Smurf car of yours.” I extended, then retracted, then extended my leg, trying to find a comfortable position for my knee. Despite a restful night’s sleep and an early physical therapy session this morning, my whole body ached.

  “Hey, be nice to Gertrude. She’s vintage, not old.” Gwen selected a playlist and veered onto the road.

  We cruised across town in comfortable silence. Everyone seemed to be outside on this early October day. There were people walking dogs or riding bikes, men in suits rushing down the sidewalk, briefcases in hand, and women pushing strollers. A Backstreet Boys song filtered through the speakers, and I smothered a laugh.

  “Have you always had a thing for boy bands?” I asked, watching the way her ponytail blew in the breeze, struck by how well Denver suited her.

  “Only the good ones,” she said, turning and passing under a sign for the Bonnie Brae Farmers’ Market. The Sentra swayed slightly over small bumps and depressions in the road, the tires crunching on the gravel. She parked a few feet from the rows of vendor tents spread out beneath the trees, then grabbed reusable grocery bags and a large wicker basket from behind her seat.

  Gwen was about to exit the car when she hesitated, the uncertainty I’d recognized at her house returning. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, you and me being here together,” she said. “I’m not usually in the spotlight the way you are, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. If that gossip writer gets hold of even one cell phone shot of us, she could draw the wrong conclusions and blow this way out of proportion.”

  Though I didn’t like the way worry creased her forehead, it was nice to be out with a girl who didn’t have ulterior motives. Who wasn’t interested in garnering her fifteen minutes of fame. Who’d known me since I had a mouthful of braces and acne and hadn’t held it against me.

  “I take it that means crawling into the backseat and living out that high school fantasy you won’t admit to having is out of the question.” I grinned.

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “Bite me, Wonder Bread.”

  “Only if you ask nicely.” I stole the wicker basket from her grasp and opened my door. “But in all seriousness, in public most people leave me alone, and for anyone who does approach me, remember that we’re just two old friends running errands. Now show me what makes this farmers’ market so special,” I said, hauling myself out of the car.

  I followed Gwen to the entrance, shocked at how busy it was for midmorning on a Monday, though I noticed it was an older, more polished crowd. Not surprising, since Bonnie Brae was one of Denver’s most historic and expensive neighborhoods. It was also one of my favorites with its winding streets that surrounded an elliptical-shaped park and business district that still maintained the flavor of its 1920s heritage. I remembered how Mom would treat me to a slice of pizza at the tavern and a root beer float at the ice-cream shop after peewee football games growing up.

  “This way,” Gwen said, pointing to the first row of tents. “I like to start with the produce, then work my way around to the meat and end with the gourmet foods.” She shook out the reusable bags, then pushed up her sleeves as though she were gearing up for a competition rather than procuring groceries. “You capable of carrying that basket? It’s going to get heavy, and I wouldn’t want you to strain those bulging biceps you need for passing.”

  Oh, Gwen. Always such a smartass.

  “I think I can manage,” I said. “So, want to tell me why we’re at the farmers’ market instead of a grocery store like normal people?”

  “I’m a chef,” she said, as if that explained it. “And most restaurants don’t order from farmers’ markets, though they should.” Her eyes darted around the space for onlookers. Seemingly satisfied by the lack of attention, she leaned over a colorful batch of bell peppers. She held an orange one up to the sunlight, scrutinizing the hard, waxy skin—it appeared edible and blemish-free to me, so who knew what she was searching for.

  “No, restaurants use distributors,” I grumbled. “Like the one I hired for Stonestreet’s, on your recommendation, I might add.”

  “Sure, and that’s necessary for the staples.” Gwen moved on to a sort of broccoli-cauliflower hybrid that was light green with a fractal pattern on each floret. “But for inspired cooking, I need locally sourced ingredients and flavors, and there’s no better place to get those than here.”

  “What’s to inspire? The restaurant has a set menu.” I meandered along behind her, watching as she lifted, inspected, and smelled each vegetable that struck her fancy. There was something alluring about witnessing her in an element outside of the kitchen, but one that invigorated her just the same.

  “Don’t remind me,” she said with a glance over her shoulder. “I’m hoping to convince the owner to let me prepare a nightly specials menu featuring all these local ingredients.”

  “
Yeah? Think he’ll go for it?” I asked with a smirk.

  “I don’t know,” she said as we rounded the corner to the next row of vendors selling mostly fruit. “He’s not really the creative sort. Likes things controlled. Predictable. Stable.”

  Gwen stopped at a tent that was overflowing with berries and greeted the woman standing behind the table. They chatted a few moments, Gwen purchasing pints of raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries while I wandered around. Most people ignored me, but the few who recognized me simply smiled and kept shopping, not the least bit interested as to why I was here or who I was with.

  “Okay, Lalonde. Tell you what.” I chucked a Granny Smith apple in the air as we strolled along, Gwen adding every fruit imaginable—cantaloupe, rhubarb, grapes—to our stash. “I’ll pick five ingredients now, and next Monday night, you make a meal for me.” I nudged her side with my elbow. “Seems only fair. I cooked for you.”

  “And why would I agree to this on my one day off?” she asked, placing cartons of cherry tomatoes into my basket.

  “You make a delicious dinner out of those five ingredients, and I’ll give you creative control over a specials board,” I said. “Two main dishes and an appetizer a night.”

  She peered at me, surprise quickly smothered by a sharp, determined expression. “Five mains, three apps.”

  “Three mains, three apps. Final offer,” I said. “I’ll even give you the benefit of home-field advantage.”

  “You just want a glimpse inside my bedroom, which is not happening.” Even as she said it, a flush spread across her cheeks. She visibly swallowed, eyes raking over me. Oh yeah, Gwen wanted me there as much as I wanted to be there. And this dinner gave me the perfect excuse.

  “You afraid of the challenge or of my superior skills?” I asked.

  Her nostrils flared. “Just choose your damn ingredients, Wonder Bread.” She snatched the apple in midair, right before it landed in my palm, and added it to the bag with the others. “But I draw the line at Spam.”

  “Come on, give me a little credit, Gwen—”

  “And I get to use fridge and pantry staples if necessary,” she said, cutting me off.

  I nodded. If using some olive oil, salt, and pepper would make Gwen agree, then so be it. “All right, first item are these beets.” I dropped a bunch of dark red ones that had knobby, hairy exteriors into my basket. “And I saw on the announcement board as we walked in that the Bluebird Grain Farms has farro on special, whatever the hell that is. Oh, and how about those weird fungus things we passed earlier?”

  “You mean the wood ear mushrooms?” she asked as we entered the meat and poultry section. Instead of the traditional setup of a tent and tables displaying the products, these vendors had only small freezers, ice chests, and banners that proclaimed GRASS FED, SUSTAINABLE, and FAMILY OWNED.

  “If you say so. We can pick up those two items on the way out. Now what else . . .” I tapped my chin, examining the various offerings.

  “I’m dying of anticipation,” she said, her voice drenched in sarcasm.

  While Gwen bought bacon and pork chorizo from the Impeccable Pig Farms, I spotted a sign for something called biroldo and nearly gagged at the accompanying picture on display. Though if anyone could make what appeared to be blood sausage edible, it was Gwen.

  “That’s your protein choice?” she asked, joining me as I waited for the butcher to finish wrapping the links in dry ice.

  “I’m all about living in the danger zone these days,” I said, taking the package and tossing it in with the other items.

  “Yeah, you’re a real modern-day Maverick competing for top gun,” Gwen said in a tone that indicated she knew my agenda. That while I often made the seemingly risky decisions in the moment, each long drive, chance pass, and ill-advised run had been planned. Calculated. “What’s next?”

  “Pistachios,” I said.

  She gazed at me as if I had a few nuts missing myself. “Pistachios? Why?”

  “Because they’re nutritious and delicious,” I said. “And this way you’ll have to do all the hard work cracking them.”

  “You know, my father taught me a trick to opening pistachios,” Gwen said, leading us to the gourmet food area.

  “Squeeze them between your glutes?” I considered playfully patting her on the ass, but I worried I might lose a hand in the process, so I thought better of it.

  She huffed out what sounded like a laugh but was probably her way of telling me I was acting like a child. “That’s walnuts, and no. You crush them under a rolling pin. The shells fall away and the nut stays intact.”

  “I can only imagine the berth I’d have to give you when you wield a rolling pin.”

  “Wide, and mine’s made of marble.” Gwen grabbed a wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese and a bag of pistachios and set them in my basket. “It could put a dent even in a skull as thick as yours.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said. “Anything else your father teach you I should be aware of?”

  Gwen shrugged.

  When she didn’t elaborate, I asked, “You guys still close?”

  I could count on three fingers the number of times I remembered Henri Lalonde sitting in the stands watching Chris play, and even then I couldn’t recall him ever cheering during the games he had attended. I knew after Gwen and Chris’s parents had divorced and Henri had relocated halfway around the world to become the executive chef on a cruise ship that Chris and Henri spoke only occasionally. But I suspected Gwen’s experiences with their father were . . . different.

  “Yeah, we are,” she said. “When I can get ahold of him, anyway. It’s hard to track him down sometimes.”

  “Was he happy to hear you came home?”

  She shrugged. “He’s happy I’m around family.”

  “But not the rest?”

  Gwen shot me an uncomfortable look, something tinged with regret and a bit of embarrassment. Finally, she settled on, “You have to understand that my father had big dreams for himself, worked in the best restaurants, tried to open one of his own several times, and more than anything, he’s passed those expectations down to me.”

  Oh, how I could relate.

  “And somehow, at twenty-eight and an executive chef, you’ve failed in his eyes?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say he doesn’t think Denver is the right place for me.”

  “You mean he doesn’t think Stonestreet’s is the right place for you.”

  I wanted to be offended, scoff at the idea my restaurant wasn’t good enough for The Great Lalonde, as Chris had always called Henri. But in all honesty, until now, I never considered how bored Gwen must be cooking the same meals day in, day out. How unfulfilled. Perhaps Gwen was too big for Stonestreet’s, too creative, too talented. And in any case, I couldn’t hold paternal pressure against her.

  “I know a little something about a father’s expectations. Don’t sweat it,” I said.

  Gwen nodded. “I guess you would. But then your dad achieved everything he set out to accomplish. Won three championships. Played the Pro Bowl half a dozen times. Got into the Hall of Fame only three years postretirement—it was a storied career.”

  Yeah, it had been. Golden, even. Which had made growing up in Dad’s shadow that much harder. Worse, it made me question if he would understand that for me, football wasn’t everything. I loved it, thrived on it, still wanted to play it and win. But to only be remembered for it? I wasn’t so sure.

  Of course that’s not something I could ever voice.

  “And do you agree with your father?” I asked. “Stonestreet’s isn’t the best place for you?”

  “I think it’s what I need right now,” she said with a half smile, which didn’t exactly answer my question, but it was enough.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Gwen

  The following Monday morning after my trip to th
e farmers’ market with Logan, I stood with my mouth hanging open in astonishment at Missy’s Jacques Benedict Tudor home that abutted the Denver Country Club golf course. With its reddish-brown brick exterior, steeply pitched gabled roofs, leaded glass windows embellished with a diamond pattern, and large arched doorway, the house looked as if it had jumped right off the storybook pages of “Hansel and Gretel.”

  I looked over my shoulder, anticipating a witch disguised as a golf-cart-driving security guard to pull up behind my near-vintage Nissan and ticket my car for “disrupting the orderly view of the neighborhood.” I knew Missy’s husband, Dan, had achieved partner at the law firm and had some high-profile clients, but damn.

  Grabbing my notebook and the frittata I’d made earlier, I strolled up the paved path, watching ducks splash in the small pond adorning the yard and rabbits eat grass under the cluster of overgrown trees on the far side of the grounds. Birds soared across the blue sky, the sun inching higher and higher. It was still warm for early October, and I hoped Missy had us eating outside on the patio before we got down to business.

  Meal planning came best when I had fresh air and a warm breeze against my face, and I needed to be in peak form when I cooked for Logan tonight—that damn specials board would be mine. I was glad to have gained traction where the Stonestreet’s menu was concerned, but of course Logan being Logan, there had to be a stipulation, and of course it involved conning me into inviting him over for what I was sure he’d classified in his own head as a date. Wonder Bread was a hot pain in the ass, but a pain in the ass nonetheless.

  My cell phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen—unknown number—and let the call go to voice mail. When the red icon popped up, I checked the message.

  Hello, Ms. Lalonde. This is Bethany Smith from the TK Hospitality Group in New York City, the woman said, her voice soft yet her enunciation crisp and polished. I am phoning you about an exciting opportunity we’d like you to consider. She rattled off the telephone number and asked me to return her call at my earliest convenience, then hung up without a good-bye.