Let's Dish

by Catherine Wade

  He glanced at me as he wrapped the fresh herbs in paper towels and plastic wrap. “Sorry. I know I'm not exactly the subtle type.” He slipped the herbs in our refrigerator, turned to me and folded his arms. “But I think you're afraid of a lot of things. In fact, if you don't mind me saying so, I think you're a little afraid of me."

  Thud. Thud. Thud. I nearly dropped the arugula this time. “I'm ... I'm not afraid of you."

  Kevin's expression remained amused. “Then why did you try to get Chef to switch partners?"

  I focused on the olive oils, refusing to make eye contact and fall prey to his crooked smile. Besides, I was pretty sure I was blushing up a storm. “Where did you get the idea that I tried to switch partners?"

  "Come on. What was that little detour in the classroom, then?"

  Okay, this was not going well. He seemed casual and relaxed, but I was fidgeting, blushing and acting like a complete idiot. Time to change that dynamic. I looked up at him and focused right on those damned eyes. “Okay, so maybe I did want to talk to her about switching partners. But only because Armand and I have developed a sort of a relationship."

  "Oh yeah?” He grinned. “I thought you were married."

  "Not that kind of relationship,” I snapped. Geez, even when I was trying to be all together and in charge, this guy had the upper hand on me.

  Kevin laughed and put a hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his skin radiated down my arm, through my body, and into my knees. There was no way I was getting weak-kneed over this guy. I was going to act like an adult. For a change.

  "Sorry. I'll stop teasing you,” he said. “Well, no, I won't, but I'll try to tone it down."

  "Thank you. And, by the way, you were right. I do have dreams. Plans. What I'd really like to do after the Academy is start a little bakery or restaurant or something. Nothing big. I'm no Wolfgang Puck."

  "No, you're not. And thank God, because you're a hell of a lot easier to understand. I have a feeling that communication might be a handy weapon as we go up against Ratchet over there."

  "It might be at that."

  "And you're a damned sight better to look at, which will make the long hours a lot easier to bear. So what do you say, gorgeous? Should we get these pots put away?"

  Thud my heart went again, and my knees knocked. So much for acting like an adult. Working with Kevin was going to take a lot of getting used to. And possibly heart medication. But now I had a point to prove. Kevin Best wasn't going to get the best of me.

  * * * *

  My day off had been fabulous. Except for the whole Kevin thing. And I'd spent the whole evening reading that cursed diary again, dragging up memories better left dead and buried. And then there was the thinking too darned much bit. That wasn't fun. All in all, I was ready to get back to work early the next morning, even without Armand's sludge.

  I spent the day scouring old notes from culinary school to get ideas for the competition. An hour after closing that night, pumpkin chutney, caramel pecan rolls and turkey breast with rosemary and sage sat on the counter. Lyla and Jack looked on as Armand and I put the finishing touches to the spiced apple meringues.

  "Damn, this looks good,” Lyla said. Her eyes shifted sideways to Jack and she blushed. “I mean, oh boy!"

  "Give it up, babe,” Armand told her. “You're rough around the edges and that's not going to change simply because you gave birth."

  "Yeah,” I agreed. “There are certain things even hormones can't fix.” Lyla shrugged.

  Armand grabbed the acetylene torch and fired it up, adding a crisp golden glow to the top of the meringues. “Tasting time."

  I carved the turkey breast, but Lyla and Jack dove right for the meringues. Armand and I looked on, grinning. “So how are the apples?” I asked.

  Lyla smacked her lips. “I hate apples, but I want another. That tell you anything?"

  "Egsewent,” Jack chimed in, his face covered in frothy egg white.

  Armand and I gently cut down through the center of one meringue, examining the egg whites and the layers of apples and spices. “Looks good,” he said, and took a small dab of the sauce on the tip of a spoon. I did the same and slid the nibble into my mouth.

  An explosion of nutmeg and cinnamon hit my tongue and filled my nose with its sweet smell. I went back for some meringue, letting the delicate fluff linger on my tongue. “Wow. But is there too much cinnamon? Need some ginger? What do you think?"

  Armand rolled a bite around in his mouth, letting it touch every part of his tongue. “I think I should have listened to you about using powdered sugar in the meringue. I can feel even the fine sugar on my tongue. And it needs to be creamier."

  I jotted his comments down on a note pad. Lyla and Jack didn't say much else, but dove into the pumpkin chutney.

  An hour later, we were full of good food and our notepad was full of constructive notes. Confectioner's sugar in the egg whites. More brown sugar in the pumpkin chutney. Think about adding some peach brandy. Try a glaze on the turkey breast, maybe plum or apricot.

  We wrapped up the leftovers and were getting ready to call it a night when the phone rang again. Carpenter, Fred the Caller ID flashed, and I groaned. “Please, Armand. I'm begging you this time. Please deal with him. Tell him I came down with the plague or something. Maybe he'd think the place was contaminated and leave us alone."

  "No way.” He stuffed the leftover turkey in the fridge. “You're majority owner, so he's your problem, not mine."

  "Maybe I could just ... not answer.” I looked at the ringing phone, knowing I'd pick it up. God knows why, but I never could let the damned thing ring. “Let's Dish,” I answered, hoping he would mistake me for Heather.

  "Hi, Maggie.” So much for wishful thinking.

  "I haven't changed my mind. I'm not selling the Dish."

  "I know you're not,” he said.

  "I'm not coming to work for you, either."

  "I know you're not,” he said again. “I'm calling to talk to your partner, if you don't mind."

  I felt myself blink, but somehow didn't feel connected to my body. “Armand?"

  "Yes. Armand. Is he there?"

  "What do you want with Armand?"

  I heard Fred clear his throat. “Maggie, I think that's between Mr. Hemingway and me, if you don't mind."

  "Uh, yeah,” I said, then turned to Armand. My face must have looked stunned, because he stared at me like he thought I might fall over at any second.

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. It's Fred. He wants to talk to you."

  Armand's eyes narrowed. “Me? Why me?"

  "If I had a dime for every time I asked myself that...” I said, and he grinned. But it was an uneasy grin.

  Armand took the phone and turned his back to the room. I tried to finish tidying up without listening. After all, I'm no eavesdropper. But I never realized how difficult it is to stand in a room when your business partner is on the phone with your nemesis and not listen.

  Not that there was much to hear. Armand mumbled a few times while Lyla and I exchanged worried glances. Occasionally, Armand said, “I know what you're saying, Fred.” Or, “Yes, but that's not the way I do business.” Still, I really had no idea what was going on. At last, Armand said, “I'll think about it, Fred, but I'm not promising you anything."

  He hung up the phone and turned to us. I tried to read his face. Was he pensive? Tired? Exasperated? Happy? Nothing. There was nothing I could see that would tell me what had just happened. “You need help finishing this up?” he asked.

  "Ah, no.” I had expected him to say something about the call. Anything. But if he didn't want to talk about it ... “I'm, uh, going to try a batch of those almond cookies before I go upstairs."

  "Okay.” He grabbed Jack and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I suppose we should get the boy home to bed. See you in the AM."

  "Hold on a second,” Lyla said, knowing I would have just let him stroll out the door without a word. “What was all that between you and Fred Carpenter?"
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  Armand tried to look innocent, but I could tell it was a subject he had hoped to avoid. With his wife in the room, he didn't have a prayer. He should have known better. “Oh, that? Nothing, really. He's just given up on Maggie. And now he's trying to get me to come work for him. Solo."

  "What?” Lyla squawked. “He wants to break up the team and you said you'd think about it?"

  He looked at her, red-cheeked. “He doubled his offer."

  "Oh,” I said, my brain quickly figuring how much it would cost to hire a second chef or if I could survive on two hours sleep a day if I tried to run the Dish alone.

  Armand turned back to me quickly. “But I just said I'd think about it to get him off the phone, Maggie. I swear I'm not really considering it.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I'm not going anywhere. As long as the Dish is here, I'm here."

  I nodded and smiled at him. I knew he meant it, but I could also see in his expression that whatever Fred had offered him had been tempting.

  After a hug from them both, they left me alone in my kitchen. I dug into the flour and sifted it into the bowl, glad that almond cookies needed a lot of vigorous kneading.

  * * * *

  Early the next morning, before I did anything, I checked out the front windows to see if anyone was loitering out front. No sign of Kevin. I smiled, but it faded fast, leaving a hollow pit in my stomach. “Too early,” I said to the empty dining room. “I'm tired. Screwy hormones. Mixed up emotions. Doesn't mean anything."

  I went into the kitchen, brewed myself some decaf and started the morning baking. After putting the third batch of bagels on to boil, I grabbed my felt-tip pen and went into the butler's pantry. I was putting an X on the days on the calendar, counting down one by one to the Atlantic Gourmet competition. Marking off another day toward my salvation.

  Or doom.

  "Three weeks left.” Armand startled me. For a second I thought it was Kevin. So why wasn't I relieved when I saw my partner's brown eyes instead? “We're in good shape, though,” he continued. “Just need to tweak those recipes a little more and get our time down, and I think we've got a shot.” He shot me a grin as he loaded his arms with napkins and took them into the dining room to replenish the supply.

  "Three weeks.” I was hopeful, but nervous. I'd tweaked the menu before I went to bed the night before, and was pretty pleased. Celery stalks stuffed with chive and garlic cream cheese, plum-glazed turkey breast, pecan cornbread stuffing with spiced rum, pumpkin chutney, braised root vegetables with a wine sauce, cranberry crescents, and, for dessert, spiced apple meringues.

  Still, it would be a pretty busy three weeks perfecting the recipes and getting the process of preparing them in front of the judges down to a science. And I couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to go hideously wrong. Annoyed, I took a breath to clear my head. It was the diary. Rereading the disasters of my life couldn't help but make me wait for the next shoe to drop. I set my jaw and grabbed a bag of cane sugar to make the day's batch of mini-muffins.

  "How you feeling?” Lyla said, barging in my kitchen door.

  "Fine,” I said, after I swallowed my heart and slowed my pulse. “Geez, Ly, you have got to stop sneaking up on me."

  "Sneaking? Who's sneaking?” She grabbed a rosemary bagel and sat on a bench at the counter.

  "You're up early."

  "Jack stayed at Vera's last night. I wanted to be here before opening to see if you needed any help."

  "Thanks.” I meant it. Lyla really had been a silent—and absent—partner, but she always came through in a pinch. “I'm fine, though. Really, I think the hormones are starting to settle down. And you don't want to risk further psychological damage to Jack."

  Lyla chuckled and pulled at her bagel. “Yeah, he's okay. Mom's a better grandma than she was a mother. And yes, I realize that's not saying a whole lot. The man out front?"

  I dumped sugar into a canister. “He's restocking the napkins, then he's off to get some flour for the pumpernickel rye, so he's occupied for a while. Did you need him for something?"

  "Nope,” she said with her mouth full. “I'm doing the books later, but I thought we maybe needed to talk first."

  Ugh. Dreading this. “What's up?"

  She pointed to my tummy with her little finger. “That's up. Maybe it's just ‘cuz I know, hon, but you're starting to look a little chubby. Not like you're going to be able to keep that thing a secret for long."

  I looked down at my apron, which was starting to betray the tiniest bulge. “Yeah, I noticed that this morning, too. It's like the little snot came out of nowhere."

  "They have a bad habit of doing that."

  I measured my dry ingredients. “Good thing I have that old saying on my side: never trust a skinny cook."

  "Ha!” Lyla nabbed the cup of coffee I had cooling on the counter. “There's a difference between well fed and preggers, hon."

  I pointed toward the cup. “That was just about to the perfect temperature, you know."

  "This?” she asked, swallowing her first gulp. “You don't need this. Have to watch your caffeine."

  "It's decaf."

  She shook her head. “Too many chemicals.” She took another gulp, and I gave up on my morning cup of coffee.

  Lyla looked me over, as if mulling my options for me. “Have you decided on a plan of action? I mean can I assume this is going to be a permanent thing?"

  "Yes.” I was concentrating as much as I could on cracking eggs.

  "You going to start telling people?"

  I was going to have to soon. I knew that. Lyla was right. I was going to start looking pregnant eventually and, judging from the last time, sooner rather than later. But, despite my revenge-seeking fantasies, it wasn't something you just sat down at your parents’ dinner table and said, “I'm pregnant. Pass the potatoes."

  "I've been thinking about how to tell Mom and Dad about Bob. Armand, too. I think I should tell Armand, first."

  "Bob?” Lyla's mouth twisted in a half grin.

  "What's wrong with Bob?"

  "Nothing's wrong with Bob. Bob Taylor. I like it."

  "Donnely,” I said quickly. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I hadn't even thought about it until that moment.

  Lyla's eyebrows raised, but she chewed silently another moment, letting me get my bearings. “And have you put any thought into telling Ted?"

  "Not much.” I scooped the muffin batter into the pans, focusing on getting them the perfect size instead of the scenarios with my ex-husband that filled my head. “I will, of course, but I'm not sure how."

  "He still calls, right?"

  "Every week, like clockwork. Sunday night call from Ted, Monday night hell with my parents."

  "And hormones to boot.” She laughed, grabbing a fresh muffin. “No wonder you look like hell."

  I glared at her. It had no effect. “I'm not going to tell him something like this on the phone."

  "Road trip!” Lyla hollered, jumping down off the stool. “Hot damn, we're going to Atlantic City! I can make arrangements for Vera to take Jack this weekend, and we are outta here!"

  "Not so fast. I think maybe I should do this alone."

  Lyla looked skeptical. “I'm not sure I should leave you alone with Ted. Look what happened the last time I left you alone with him."

  "For one, I am no longer attracted to Ted, especially in his current ... profession.” I paused, trying to get the picture out of my head. “And two, even if I do suddenly go brain dead again, the damage is already done."

  Lyla sat down again, nodding. “Good point. Still, I don't think going alone is a good idea."

  "We'll see.” I turned to the oven. “Come on, help me get this batch of muffins in to bake. Oh, and turn off Armand's coffee pot. I think he emptied it a while ago, and the last thing I need is that thing to overheat."

  "On it.” She hit the switch. “Come on, Mags. Let's put some buns in this oven."

  I glared at her. She ignored me. At least some things were normal.

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  Chapter Eight

  November 15

  Diary, Chef is going to work me to death. I'll die holding a pastry blender in one hand and a stick of unsalted butter in the other. But if I make it through another eighteen months, then Kevin and I can finally open the catering shop we've been talking about. Then my life will be perfect.

  "The next project will be a major test of your ability.” Chef paced the floor in front of us and wielded a balloon whisk like a cattle prod. We'd been years in her kitchen, proving ourselves over and over, and she still treated us like kindergartners who couldn't stay in line to the bathroom. “At the end of this month, you will present me with your best work. Absolute best. You will have two weeks to prepare, then eight hours to create and present your dishes."

  "We've got it nailed,” Kevin whispered in my ear. “Two weeks? Give us two minutes and we'll have it."

  "Each kitchen will be assigned a different main ingredient. You are to create eight original dishes using this ingredient, prepare them, and present them as you would in a restaurant. Course by course."

  "Easy breezy,” I whispered back.

  "Chef Taylor, Chef Best? Have you a question?"

  We'd graduated to being called “chef". Amazing, but true, and it hadn't even taken the decades she'd predicted. In the first two years, Chef had cut the dead wood as she'd promised. Poor Brenda was toast—not a huge surprise, but about a third of the class was gone. Armand and Harriet had thus far made the cut, which was good, but I think she was doing her best to drive him to an early grave.

  Those of us who remained were still there simply due to stubborn determination, I think. But slowly, one by one, Chef began bestowing us with the esteemed title. Kevin and I had earned the distinction first after our white chocolate and cranberry soufflé passed muster. Still, I think Chef Ratchet had us marked in her little red book as troublemakers.

  "No, Chef,” I said. “We don't have any questions."

  "Anything you'd like to add to the discussion?"

  "Actually,” Kevin started, but I elbowed him in the ribs. “Uh, no, Chef. Please continue with the assignment."

  She examined us for a moment, trying her favorite intimidation tactic. Kevin's breathing changed as he tried not to laugh. I bit my lip to stop my own giggle. For Pete's sake, we were adults and I felt like a ten-year-old who'd just be scolded for chewing gum in class.