She handled the crowd well. First, he could see her gaze lock on him and a few other people in the seats. As she got more confident, she engaged more of the audience. By the time the cooked beets had been blended with sour cream and shredded cucumber, Tilly had gotten comfortable with herself and the audience and watching her cook and teach was like watching a seasoned actress manage the orchestra seats. He’d wager money half the people in the audience who had grimaced at a cold beet soup were licking their lips and thinking about how refreshing the soup would be right now, especially with the cooling crispness of the cucumber.
Tilly dipped a spoon into the soup and slurped down a taste. Her plump lips puckered around the spoon and her entire face relaxed with pleasure before she pronounced the soup perfect. “Or nearly perfect. Chłodnik litewski is better if left to sit in the fridge overnight and served with hard-boiled eggs, but I don’t think we want to wait that long.” The audience laughed and she smiled, her lips stained a deep, sexy red from the beets. More alluring than any saucy red lipstick, especially to a man who thought about food for a living.
“Do you want some soup, sir?” His eyes shifted from Tilly’s red lips to a small wax cup with an even smaller tasting spoon held out to him by a short African-American woman with cropped hair and gliding movements. The bartender. If he remembered correctly, Babka had a good wine list. Not impressive, not outstanding, but good. What had been outstanding was their beer list, which included Northern and Eastern European beers, many he’d never heard of.
She raised her eyebrow at him and he accepted the cup. Sweet from the beets, rich from the sour cream, tart from a little vinegar and with a crunch from the cucumber and radish. No one flavor dominated and it would be the perfect cooling soup to pierce through the heat of a Chicago summer, if he didn’t look back up at the stage to Tilly’s stained lips and wonder if they would still have the salty taste from the hot dog on them or if they would now taste like the beet soup.
He’d kissed her and he wanted to kiss her again. Drinking an entire barrelful of whatever she called this soup wasn’t going to cool him of his desire. Her passion while they kissed had been arousing.
Just as arousing as those red lips.
And with that image Dan knew he had to leave directly after the demonstration. His fledgling personal relationship with Tilly compromised his ability to judge her professionally. His review compromised any personal relationship he might have with her. The best thing he could do right now would be to cut his losses. Make up some excuse not to take her to dinner—aren’t you even more of a jerk now, Danny boy?—and wash his hands of Babka. If the night of the review had been a fluke, eventually she would gain more customers and another review. Unless she truly deserved it, his review wouldn’t kill Babka.
He’d at least leave this situation with some of his morality intact. If he were the douche Mike accused him of being, he would wait until after taking the pretty chef home to bed. If he were turning into his father, as his mother had accused him of doing, he would manipulate Tilly until she apologized to him, all while collecting on his bet and sleeping with her.
Whatever was rotting in Tilly’s kitchen would come to pass—and he would win his bet—or it wouldn’t and he could forget this whole episode ever happened. Involvement would only put his reputation at risk.
Dan discarded his worries and decided to concentrate on lips he was never going to kiss again.
* * *
SO FAR, THE DEMONSTRATION was running smoothly. Tilly was enjoying cooking and teaching. She’d chosen simple, familiar recipes packing a punch and easily made at home by anyone in the audience. She wasn’t going to get people excited by her recipes, only to have them get to the grocery store and realize the key ingredient was only available by mail order.
“Many of you may now be wondering if you came to a demonstration of Polish food only to leave without any pierogi.” The audience chuckled as she reached under the counter and brought out some precut rounds of dumpling dough. “Don’t worry. I’ve got the dough and filling ready, so I have time to demonstrate rolling and stuffing the dumplings. I will need some help from the audience to fold enough of the pierogi for everyone while I fry them.”
Tilly smiled as she passed over her mom’s upstretched hand and picked two women and one man to help her. While they washed their hands and were outfitted with aprons, she explained the filling. “There are as many different fillings for pierogi as there are Poles, and fillings range from savory cheese or cabbage to sweet apple or plum. I’ve made a fresh mushroom filling. After I boil the dumplings, I’ll fry them in butter and we’ll serve them with cold sour cream.”
Her new helpers introduced themselves and she set pierogi dough and filling in front of them. “While you should watch how much you stuff into the pierogi, it’s a beginner’s mistake not to put enough filling in,” she said as she spooned mushrooms onto one side of a dough circle and folded it into a half-moon. “Pierogi should look like a man’s hat cut in half, with a small brim and a fat crown. Get a tight seal on the pierogi or they’ll burst as I cook them. You can use either the fork or your hands, but get the seal good and tight.”
Together they stuffed and folded, while premade pierogi boiled away until she had enough to fill the four frying pans. The practiced motions of folding over the dough and crimping the seams closed with her fingers calmed her. She loved to cook, had known her whole life she would work in a kitchen. Her grandmother had joked she was born with a wooden spoon in her mouth. She had gotten in trouble as a child for skipping out on her homework so she could help in the restaurant. She would sacrifice anything for Babka.
The hand of one of the women slipped and mushroom filling spit out onto the counter while she swore loudly enough for Tilly’s mike to transmit her words through the tent. The audience tittered as the woman blushed. Tilly left the pierogi sputtering and frying in the butter while she went over to the woman and helped her clean up the mushroom filling.
“Now is a good time for everyone to learn a little Polish.” Tilly gave the counter one more wipe and the woman a reassuring smile before returning to her sizzling pierogi. “Everyone repeat after me, Święty Jacek z pierogami.”
The audience stumbled gamely along as the Polish twisted their tongues in knots. “One more time, with feeling, Święty Jacek z pierogami.” The audience tried again and got a little closer.
“I’ll bet you want to know what you said.” Heads nodded and the audience chuckled nervously. “Święty Jacek z pierogami is a Polish version of ‘good grief’ or ‘St. Hyacinth and his pierogi.’” Tilly laughed along with the audience at the silliness of the phrase. “You didn’t think I was going to teach you to swear in Polish with my mom sitting in the audience, did you? Stand up and give a bow, Mom. This is your recipe for mushroom pierogi.”
Her mother stood and bobbed with embarrassment and pride as the audience clapped and cheered until Karen, Steve and Candace whisked the first plates of pierogi into the crowds. The cheering stopped immediately, replaced by chewing and jealous looks.
Tilly turned back to her fry pans and slid more pierogi into hot butter. “Cooking pierogi is easy, but I want to emphasize that they shouldn’t be rushed. Too much high heat will toughen the dough. Take your time and your patience will be rewarded.”
Completely into her rhythm, Tilly fried and plated pierogi until everyone in the audience got a taste, then she cooked up a few extra for her helpers. By the time she turned off the gas to the stove, she was exhausted and starving. It wasn’t standing on her feet and cooking that drained her—she was used to that from years of restaurant work—but the emotion of the day. Nerves from the review and the demonstration. Desire from the kiss from Dan. More nerves, also caused by Dan’s kiss. Holding herself together and keeping up a stream of light chatter while she cooked and waited for jeers. Relief when all she got was cheers. Tilly couldn’t recall the last time she had been so happy to see the blue flame flicker and die.
She’d agreed
to have dinner with Dan, but all she wanted to do was clean up and take a long nap on the couch. Perhaps Dan could fan her and feed her grapes. Wasn’t that every man’s fantasy? Checking Twitter for comments about this demonstration and any kissing could wait until after her nap.
The demonstration wasn’t over yet. She had planned one more sample for the audience. Tilly washed her hands and got out a clean cutting board and knife as Steve, Karen and Candace brought three babkas forward on trays. The audience gasped in anticipation at the sight of the tall cakes dusted with powdered sugar.
“For your last treat, I baked three babka podolska, or babka baked with the Italian prune plums that are now showing up at the markets.” Tilly cut into the desserts and laid pieces of the fluffy yellow cake with glistening purple plums onto paper plates to be handed out to the audience.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the last slice left the counter for the audience’s eager hands. The demonstration was almost over. Patricia had warned her that the audience was encouraged to come up to the stage and talk with the chef after the demonstration. Before the review had been posted, Tilly had been looking forward to talking with the audience about Babka and Polish food. Now, even after a successful demo, the crowds that had been laughing and clapping along with her cooking suddenly seemed to loom down the aisle.
A fashionably dressed blonde hurried up to the stage with confrontation on her face. Tilly braced herself and plastered on a smile.
“I read the review.”
How to respond? It wasn’t a question about the food, more an accusation that Tilly didn’t belong here. She tried to be nonchalant. “Yes,” she said, waving her hand lightly in the air as if brushing away some bothersome flies. “It was quite a night a Babka. Doubly unfortunate a food writer was there. I’m sure people will overlook a review written after only one visit, and I hope The Eater will return to my restaurant and try us on a normal night.”
“I think it shows bad management and I’d be afraid to find cat on the menu.” The woman chuckled at her own joke and took a bite of the babka on her plate.
The audience crowded around the counter, waiting for Tilly to respond. Some were trying to pretend their babka was so engaging they dare not glance up from it, others were busy memorizing the recipes Tilly had provided, while others didn’t even bother to hide the fact they were eavesdropping. One man even stood with his fork poised halfway to his open mouth.
“If there is something we can do to change your mind, please let me know,” she replied calmly. It was an effort to keep her voice steady, but she didn’t want to risk losing the business of other people crowded around eating her food.
“It’s sad to see how many restaurant hopefuls fail in the first year. Besides all those fancy dishes, the cooking schools really ought to teach some classes in the reality of the business. Do you know how many restaurants close in their first year?” The woman took another bite of the cake and chewed appreciatively.
Don’t give in to temptation. Don’t give in to temptation. Don’t give in to temptation. Tilly knew her face was red and tight with irritation, but she forced a pleasant smile when all she wanted to do was pace or sit on her hands in the corner.
No, all she wanted to do was shove the nasty woman and her comments in the oven and shut the door. Unless she wanted to be arrested for Hansel-and-Gretel crimes, she would have to grin and bear it. Maybe someone in the audience would notice her self-control and reward her for it by spending money at Babka.
A muscular arm threaded around her waist and she smelled spicy bay rum.
Dan.
She leaned into him and allowed his presence to comfort her. It was nice to have someone else stand with her as this woman attacked her restaurant and everything she had worked for.
Before she could respond, she heard Dan say, “It sure does look like you enjoyed the babka. I know it’s some of the best cake I’ve ever had.”
Her stomach got all tingly and she wanted to shake like a puppy. Best he’s ever had? Tilly had a vision for her restaurant and love of food that transcended any review. But she still liked compliments.
The woman finished her cake, sniffed and walked away. Almost immediately the void around her was filled with people talking to Tilly from all directions.
“Best I’ve ever had, too,” said a Hispanic woman with a black leather purse.
“Eat at your mother’s restaurant at least once a month and I’m looking forward to trying what you can do,” said an older man with a round Polish face Tilly vaguely recognized from the neighborhood.
“Never thought I’d like a cold beet soup, but I’m going to make some for my next cookout.”
“I’ve always wanted to make pierogi at home, but they seemed too scary. I’m going to make some this weekend.”
“Do you think Babka would be a good place for a date?”
Dan bent his head and whispered in her ear. “Nothing to worry about. I was paying attention to the audience. They were riveted and you won all of them over. That woman is the only one who remembers the review.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and slipped his arm away. “You look exhausted, so I won’t hold you to your promise of dinner. Nice to meet you, Tilly Milek. See you around.”
As she responded to all the people clamoring for her attention, she watched Dan weave his way to the back of the tent. Her date, the perfect kisser, was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
TILLY WOKE UP Tuesday morning with a giant smile on her face. She snuggled deeper into her sheets, content to doze in her post-demonstration high until her alarm went off. A post-demonstration high and the wonderful fuzziness of being attracted to a man and having him be attracted back at the same time. She’d pump her fist in the air, but that was too much action for first thing in the morning. Better to pull the sheets closer to her face and continue to sleep.
So she didn’t know his last name. She had no idea how to contact him again. The cards were completely in his hands. Normally that would make her nervous, but, in this case, it took some of the pressure off.
She didn’t need a boyfriend. As her ex had informed her while she packed up to move to Chicago, sixteen-hour workdays didn’t give her time for a boyfriend. Until Dan contacted her, she had the memory of a perfect kiss to sustain her through long hours on her feet at Babka. And when she was ready for a man in her life, she would have a memory of a perfect kiss to help her sift the wheat from the chaff.
Her large orange cat, looking more like a pet and less like the devil animal who had ruined a dinner service now that he’d been to the vet and been eating regular meals, settled on her stomach and began purring. As for Dan contacting her again, well, she’d deal with that problem when and if he appeared. Right now, Imbir, Polish for ginger, was all the man she needed.
“Another perfect summer day for those of you headed to the Taste of Chicago.” When her radio clicked on to the chatter of a morning show, Tilly popped the sheets off her face and blinked at the sun streaming in through the slats of her blinds.
“Speaking of the Taste, Sam, do you remember the review of the new Polish place on CarpeChicago?”
She swung her legs over the side of her bed and stretched, tugging her T-shirt down over her panties. A good demonstration yesterday and now the most popular morning show in Chicagoland was talking about her restaurant. This had to be an auspicious sign. Babka would have a Tuesday to remember.
“How could I forget, Marty? That article must have been forwarded to me from twenty different people and we got more comments on our Facebook page about that than any story we posted in the past several months. Viral is not a word you want associated with a restaurant, but that review went viral. It was sick, man.”
Tilly padded across her small studio apartment to the bathroom and started brushing her teeth.
“Well, the Twitterverse is full of a new development. Apparently The Eater, the writer of the review and wrecker of Tila Milek’s career, was at the demonstration. A friend of mine snapped a picture an
d it’s posted on our Facebook page.”
“His identity is supposed to be a secret, like the identities of The Musician and The Sports Nut. Only The Politician’s identity is known for certain.”
Tilly spit toothpaste into the sink and turned to glare at her radio. Stop talking, Sam. I want to know what Marty has to say about The Eater.
“It may be a secret, but it’s not a nuclear passcode. I have it on good authority one of the men in the photo is The Eater.”
Tilly rinsed her toothbrush. The Eater was at the demonstration? Which one was he? Did he enjoy her food? Would he write an apology?
Which one was he?
She set her toothbrush on the sink, rinsed her mouth out and went to her small desk. Now, of course, was the moment when browser needed to update for security reasons. Tilly clicked No—the laptop could update tomorrow, or next week. Right now, she needed to see the picture.
She entered her password and a couple of clicks later, Tilly was on the station’s Facebook page, staring at the thumbnail picture hiding The Eater’s identity.
“It’s not a very good picture, Marty,” the other morning host chided.
No, it’s not, Marty. If you’re going to freak me out, the least you could do is post a good picture.
The DJ laughed. “My friend’s not a very good photographer. I won’t tell you which one is The Eater, but for those people who know, they will have a good laugh.”
Tilly clicked on the picture to enlarge it, but it was no help. The image was blurry and even if it had been clear as Julia Child’s consommé, there were at least twenty different people in the photo, not including her sister, her mother and her. She examined the men. One portly gentleman who clearly enjoyed his food. Maybe, but she’d heard The Eater was a college friend of the blog’s founder, so he was too old. Two younger men laughing together. They were the right age, could it be one of them? Dan, with his arm around her, was giving her a peck on the cheek. Maybe? Tilly shook her head and dismissed the thought immediately. No one, no one, could be that cruel.
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