I took a deep breath and straightened the robe, “You’re right.” I smiled, “So are you going to let me cook today, or is it still your kitchen only?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Veronica
Three weeks later and it was Wednesday, the start of the work week at Le Poisson d’Azur.
As had become our rhythm, Ethan and I drove to the restaurant around noon. Our shift started at three, but the Head and Sous Chef needed to be on site earlier than that unless things were going very, very wrong. Word got around quick that we were cohabitating, but we managed to play it off as a strict tenant-landlord relationship. Even still, Esteban and some of the others had pulled me aside and offered alternative accommodations. It had been embarrassing, and hard to come up with reasons why not. It wasn’t like I could tell them the truth. Well, actually, I want to stay with Ethan because we both like it when he causes me pain, and I’m addicted to the feel of him inside of me.
Poisson did not serve lunch. We were open for dinner Wednesday through Sunday by reservation only—there were too many people in the city who wanted to eat there to allow walk-ins. Deliveries came in at all hours, most often in the morning, so coming in before noon was not unheard of. Ethan and I both arrived at five in the morning sometimes, to catch the delivery guys when they were first on their rounds, ensuring that the restaurant had its pick of the freshest ingredients.
Mr. Simmons and Fiona were supposed to be there since it was their turn to be on-site for deliveries.
I was happy for the early-morning reprieve. Ethan had woken me up with his tongue between my legs, and I could think of no better way to greet the day.
But now, as had happened every day on our ride into Poisson, Ethan grew more and more withdrawn the closer we came to the kitchen. I knew that when we climbed out of his BMW, he would, once again, be the ‘Bastard Chef’ of d’Azur.
The radio was on, and Jason’s song rang out. The one that was made him famous. The one that he had said he was writing for me.
I glanced at Ethan, but he didn’t seem to hear it. I had told him the whole sad story over our days and nights together. He was very careful to change the station when it came on, or try to distract me with an amusing anecdote if we were out shopping for groceries and it came over the PA system.
But he was too distracted now, possibly thinking about the dishes he would prepare for tonight’s menu. I reached out and changed the station and he didn’t even blink, his gaze fixed on the road.
A few nights ago he said, “I was told early on that a real chef creates, they do not recreate. I was in the position of doing so at my old restaurant, but when Mr. Simmons contacted me he stated that I was to hold back at Le Poisson. I agreed because I had to get away from the east coast, but I’ve always had it in my mind to work him over. I do not think he understands that gourmands come to Poisson d’Azur to be amazed, not greeted with the same old over and over.”
Poisson had several hundred house recipes to choose from. We had been rotating them since I arrived two and a half years ago. Chef Myra had whipped up something new on occasion, but even she had been curbed by Mr. Simmons lack of insight into the culinary world.
I had to admit that I agreed with Ethan—as lovely as the food was, preparing from old recipes was boring. I had been attracted to the idea of creation, of innovation, from the very beginning—but Poisson paid well, and I had student loans to pay off.
We parked and I exited the vehicle in a sort of malaise, too preoccupied to notice the number of cars that were there. I was thinking about Ethan, and how he had to keep his ‘work self’ and ‘home self’ separate. I hated interacting with him at work. I wanted to slap him sometimes when he was in someone’s face, in particular, mine.
We were greeted by a frantic-looking Fiona at the back door. “Something terrible has happened. We’re all waiting for you.” She yanked me forward and I stumbled, then caught my feet and rushed after her, my purse still swinging from my arm.
Everyone was in the dining room, gathered up in an informal circle with enough space so that Ethan and I were facing each other. These rooms were dissimilar from the kitchen in many ways—where the kitchen was all harsh lights and clean white tiles, the dining room was polished redwood-stained paneling, understated floral wallpaper, and soft carpet. Wall-mounted lamps cast a dim yellow glow on the circular tables, each covered in floor-length white table cloths.
I felt like a trespasser coming in here. I never wanted to eat in these places so much as I wanted to cook for them. I felt scruffy and underdressed, no matter how nice I tried to make my appearance. It didn’t help that I could hear my mother’s high, sharp voice every time I tried to tame my wild hair or apply just the right amount of makeup. You’ll never look as nice as the other girls. You’re too tall, and your hair too out of control. Just accept that you’ll have to make yourself useful in other ways if you want to please your husband.
It had always been about that—pleasing my future husband. As if that was the only job I would ever be qualified for. She had only agreed to finance a part of my culinary training because she thought it was a great place to meet eligible men.
I choked back a laugh. This was not the time or the place, but I couldn’t help but think that I had done just that—found a man—when I thought romance would be the last thing on my mind in a kitchen.
Then again, seeing Ethan looming above the others, a scowl on his face and his hands on his hips, didn’t inspire warm feelings.
“What’s the problem?” Ethan barked. “And why wasn’t I informed of this meeting?”
Mr. Simmons’s fluttered his hands about, agitated. “We’re ruined. Reservations have been flooding in since the incident—”
I glanced at Ethan out of the corner of my eye. His scowl deepened, and he looked about to interrupt the owner. We were experiencing a surge of new reservations and inquiries. We had not made front-page news with the attack, but gourmands on talk shows and columns had reported on the crime outside our building. It was just enough of a danger that we were experiencing a renewed interest in the restaurant. Ethan had been invited onto one of the morning talk shows to discuss the experience in a small segment but had declined.
Any time the attack was brought up, Ethan made sure to change the subject. I know it was out of respect for my feelings—the thought of it still made me tense—and I was thankful to him.
Mr. Simmons continued on, oblivious to anyone else.
“—which means we’ve had to squeeze in more tables.” He took a deep breath, an angry flush coloring his neck, “And now those bastards at Riva have spread the rumor that we’ve been attacked again.”
There was a collective murmuring at this, but Mr. Simmons waved his hands to quiet us. “And I don’t know how it happened, but our deliveries were canceled. I’m sure Riva is behind it.”
Riva was Poisson’s long-standing rival. Their specialty was Italian, not French. We were often neck and neck to win the ‘City’s Best Dining’ award, but we had won that last two years in a row. Now, it appeared, they were resorting to dirty tricks to wrest the title away from us.
“Customers are calling non-stop asking if it’s true, trying to cancel, and we’ve been unable to convince some of them that we did not have an attack again.” Mr. Simmons stopped and took a deep breath, his cheeks dotted with pinpoints of red. “But we still have a full house this evening and nothing to prepare. Please,” he looked around the circle of standing employees. Some of them had scowls similar to Ethan’s, some of them were opened-mouthed with horror, and others looked confused. “Please tell me one of you has a plan. I don’t care if we all take orders from the dishwasher for the evening, we have to come up with something.”
Ethan spoke, “I don’t see how you expect me to run a kitchen without proper supplies, Mr. Simmons. That was not a part of my contract.”
“I know it wasn’t, Chef Craymore—” Simmons began.
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “I have an idea.”
Simmons turned his watery brown eyes to me, as did everyone else in the room.
While I looked at everyone, in turn, it was Ethan who I spoke to. “We don’t use the menus tonight,” I said. “We take stock of what we have on hand and use them to create as many of those simple, classic dishes that the French are famous for. With everything else, we improvise.”
I took a breath and stared at Ethan. His jaw was set in a hard line, a muscle jumping near his cheek. “With Chef Craymore to add flare to the dishes, I’m sure our customers will have nothing to complain about.”
“What you suggest is nothing short of—” Ethan began, a hard edge to his words.
“Brilliant,” Fiona cried, clapping her hands together. “I can do up the special menus on those chalkboards we have in the storage room. We could have one for each of the dining areas. What do you think, boss?” She directed the question at Mr. Simmons, ignoring Ethan.
“Well, it’s up to Chef Craymore...” he wheedled.
“It’s outrageous,” Ethan stated, his tone clipped and short. “To make this drastic change when we have regular customers coming in to enjoy the flair of Le Poisson. They are not here for simple food,” he spat.
I put my fists on my hips and took a half step forward, “Not up to the challenge, Chef?”
The room fell deathly silent. All eyes went between the two of us. I think I was the only one that noticed the slight twitch at the corner of Ethan’s mouth, the hint of a smile.
He inclined his head. “It will be a disaster,” he said and while his tone was clipped, his voice was soft. “But on your head be it.”
With that over, there was nothing left but to have everyone go back to the kitchen and see what we had to work with. I devised a menu along with Ethan and the other cooks to help. I couldn’t help but notice that as we worked on it, his eyes began to shine, and he was taking to the idea with greater enthusiasm. Once we finished, we handed one copy of our list over to the sommelier and the other to Fiona, who’s part-time job in college had been to paint advertisements on the inside of grocery store windows.
Ethan and I brushed up against each other on occasion, but his words were as they always were at work—short, terse, and bordering on the insulting.
Fiona and I took a moment out in the alleyway to breathe. It was clean now, the garbage long gone, and with the sun shining down it was nothing like the dark cave where three men had attacked us. Julio joined us with one of the dishwashers, Esteban, and they shared a cigarette. “The boss man,” Julio said. “He seems not so bad today.”
I let out a bark of laughter, “What was it that he called you earlier, Julio?”
He grinned around his cigarette. “A bastardo burro,” he said, using the Spanish translation. “But it’s okay. I spit in his coffee.”
I choked laughing, “Really?”
He nodded along with Esteban. The dishwasher said, “Yeah, we all do it from time to time.”
I looked over at Fiona. She shrugged and grinned, “What? He’s an ass.”
“Am I the only one who hasn’t spit in something Ethan would eat or drink?”
“I think so,” Esteban said, flicking his cigarette into one of the many puddles in the back alley. “But it’s okay. We expect you’ll burn his house down if he gets on your nerves.”
I shook my head, “I think I’ve had enough fire for one lifetime.”
The two men went back inside, and a companionable silence fell between Fiona and me. She was leaning against the same wall as I, staring up into the sky.
I looked up as well, my eyes falling closed, content to be away from the chaos of the kitchen.
Then Fiona shattered my calm. “So,” she said. “How long have you two been sleeping together?”
I blinked, “What?”
She threw up her hands and pushed away from the wall, facing me, then hissed, “Are you crazy?”
“Wait, how—”
“Please tell me I read the signs wrong?”
I held up my hands as though I was going to ward off a blow. “Hold on a minute. What signs? How do you know?”
“Oh my god!” She shrieked, her dark hair flying about her face.
I waved my hands, “Shut up!” I hissed, “They’re going to hear.”
Fiona groaned but lowered her voice, “You did? I was guessing.”
I rubbed my hands over my face. “Shit.”
“Shit is right! He’s a shit! What were you thinking?”
I peered at her between my fingers and said, voice muffled, “He is hot.”
“Of course he is!” Her tone was angry, though she kept her voice down. “We discussed this. Remember? A few days after he started working here, we had a few too many margaritas down at Taqueria Mexico and swore that we would never, never, ever, even if he looks like painted-on sex?”
“Vaguely,” I admitted. “You know that tequila and I don’t play well.”
She slammed her heels against the wall beside me and I jumped, “Well, I remember! You said ‘I would never sleep with someone who is such a jerk, no matter what he looks like.’ You did!”
I dropped my hands and took a half step toward her, a hot flash of anger flooding over me. “Now wait just a minute, you don’t know—”
“I know that he’s still a dick to you!”
“Stop!” I shouted.
Fiona was shocked into silence. The door opened and Esteban poked his head out. “Everything okay out here?”
“Everything’s fine, Esteban, thanks,” I said, my voice normal despite the fact that Fiona and I were glaring daggers at each other.
I saw Esteban look between us out of the corner of my eye, whistle low, and retreat. Smart man.
I had never yelled my best friend, but I was close to it and didn’t want an audience. “I want you to listen to me,” I said. “Please? Just listen, don’t talk.”
“Okay,” Fiona said, her voice small and her brown eyes shining.
I took a deep breath and ran a hand through my hair. “You know as well as I do how hard it is to get ahead in the culinary field when you’re a woman. How do you think everyone would react if they knew that Ethan and I were sleeping together? Think about it for a moment. I love everyone here, just like you, but you and I know that they would always wonder if Ethan was letting sub-par cooking slide because I’m his main squeeze.”
I sighed, “Look, we discussed it, okay? We’ve been keeping work and our... other activities separate. It’s been going on since I moved in, anyway—”
“What?” Fiona squeaked, a hand flying to cover her mouth, eyes wide. “That’s almost three weeks!”
I glared at her, “Yes, three weeks.” I pointed a warning finger at her. “And we don’t know where it’s going. It’s not as if either of us planned it. I’m renting his spare room and, once the insurance is sorted out or maybe before, I’ll find a different arrangement.”
Though how I can afford to outright buy a condo like I had before remains to be seen. Maybe I can rebuild where my old condo was? I’m not sure how all that works.
“You know me, Fiona,” I reminded her, softening my words. I stepped forward so that we were very close. “And do you remember what I told you, after that whole business with Jason? About what I want in a partner?”
She lowered her hand and nodded, “Yeah, I remember. I—honestly, hon, I thought you were just going through a phase at first but, yeah, I know.”
I leaned in a little, “Ethan is giving me that,” I murmured. It was the closest I think I would ever come to discussing my sexual preferences to a friend of mine. At least, while sober. “And it’s...” I shook my head, “I can’t even describe it, Fiona. It’s like a piece of my life that has been missing has clicked into place.”
She stared at me, her deep brown, almost black eyes boring into mine. “Are you being careful? I don’t mean about contraceptives, I know that you know all that, but... you’re not rushing in, are you?”
I shook my head and smiled, “I’m t
rying not to. Trust me?”
She nodded, “I trust you. I just don’t want Ethan to be Jason two-point-oh.”
“Neither do I,” I said and was surprised by the depth of feeling contained in those three words.
Fiona hugged me, quick and sudden. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have lost it. I’m just... surprised that you would pick him. I don’t like the way he talks to you, or to any of us, in there. I hate that he gets away with it just because he’s a brilliant cook.”
I laughed and hugged her back, “So am I.” We parted and I held her shoulders, “You know, I did accuse him of waiting for a roaming TV crew to peg him as the new ‘Bastard Chef’ and give him a television show.”
“You didn’t!”
I nodded and smiled at her. “He is much different away from here. Relaxed, generous, and with a good sense of humor. He doesn’t even curse.”
“Jesus, really?”
I nodded.
“And,” she licked her lips and leaned forward, voice lowered to a stage whisper. “He is good in bed, isn’t he?”
I blushed and let my hands fall from her shoulders. She cackled, sounding all the world like a wicked witch. I blushed harder, “I won’t go into details but, yes. And, hey,” I said, remembering. “I haven’t heard word one about your new guy, George! You’re one to talk! You have to fill me in on all the sordid details. I need pictures.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, grinning. “I’ll bare all, but we have to back in there before Chef Sexy-Pants blows a gasket.”
I swatted her on the arm, “Don’t you dare call him that to his face.”
“What about Chef Hot-Butt? Or, oh, do you call him ‘Chef’ in bed? If he’s yelling at me should I just give him O-face and he’ll let me off the hook?”
“I’m going to kill you, Fiona,” I warned.
She laughed and bounced toward the back door, “I’m just getting started, honey.”
“Fiona,” I whispered, following her. “Don’t you dare!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Master Chef Page 10