After a quick shower, I pull a pair of boxers from the dresser drawer, slide into my jeans, slip on socks and work boots, and tug a clean black t-shirt smelling of fresh laundry over my head. Thank fuck for good-old Amy; must remember to get her a holiday gift to let her know her work is much appreciated.
I grab the keys from the table and take the flight of stairs down where I find the wait staff, already dressed in their smart black uniforms, cleaning and arranging cutlery, setting out napkins, and checking the place for cleanliness to ensure our guests will have a relaxing time, a smooth service, and the best culinary experience in return for their dollars.
“Good morning, everyone!” I call as I walk swiftly through the restaurant toward my restaurant manager, who’s also a friend. He’s reviewing the reservations. “Everything okay, Ed?”
“No one called in sick, and no last-minute cancellations. So, yeah, no panic so far.”
“Excellent.”
I get into my office and put on my chef’s coat, then tie a bandana around my still moist hair. I should really get a decent haircut so I can ditch the hairband, if only my schedule allowed it.
“Morning, people,” I say as I step into the back-of-house, the soul, or better nerve center, of Suite 63, where fifteen cooks are highly focused on prepping. Even after two years of running my own joint, it still thrills me to see my crew preparing my dishes with the utmost dedication and respect for the food. I may be the one nominated for Rising Star Chef of the Year, but if I get shortlisted, I owe it to this bunch of wonderful and talented line cooks, and Donna, of course, my second in command. I’d be a complete mess and never gotten this far if it weren’t for her. She’s my right-hand man, my biggest supporter, and above all, my partner in crime, who more than once assumed control of my kitchen and led my team when I found myself in a deep state of intoxication, which is usually around this time a year. Not planning on doing it this year, though. Let’s see how far I come, trying to live up to my own expectations.
“Morning, chef.”
“Is all of the mise done?” I ask as I scan the spotless-looking surfaces. A clean environment is my rule number one, if not my philosophy.
“Almost, chef!” they yell in perfect harmony.
I walk over and stand next to the only girl in my team – well, apart from Donna – who’s working the fish station, and watch how she filets the beautiful Atlantic Bluefin tuna I bought at the seafood market this morning. She slices down behind the head and then, with a strong hand and without a single hesitation, toward the tail along the back. When she’s done, she flips the tuna over and repeats the handling on the other side. She lifts the meat.
“Perfect, keep going, Michelle.”
“Thanks, chef.”
Next stop: the sauté station. I grab a spoon and taste the ceviche dressing, then look at my saucier. “Have you tasted this, Jonathan?”
“Yes, Josh.”
I lift my brow. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Then fucking taste again.”
He picks up a spoon and tastes. “Black pepper?”
Now he’s just guessing and that pisses me off. “It’s lacking salt and needs a squeeze or two of lemon. Wake up! You can think of your girlfriend when you’re taking a piss. In here, your mind better be on the food.”
“Yes. Sorry, Josh. I’ll take care of it right away.”
“Thank you.” I walk toward Donna, who’s helping prepping the line. “Have all deliveries arrived?”
“Yep.”
“Good.”
She lowers the sharp blade and places her hand on my forearm as she examines my face. I can tell by the look on her face how I look. Disheveled and barely awake, for sure. “How are you holding up?” she whispers.
“C’mon, Donna, not in here.” She knows all about my mood swings and alcohol intake during the festive season, but I don’t particularly like it when she brings it up in the kitchen.
“Call me if you need me, okay? Day or night; I don’t care.”
“Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine, really.”
I’m awfully glad that kiss we shared a few months ago didn’t ruin our professional relationship as well as our friendship. It was stupid, and I blame it on the extremely difficult task of that day, which was serving lunch to the CEO’s of the world’s biggest companies for their annual meeting. It happened as soon as the last meal was taken out, and it’s safe to say it shocked us both. It never happened again, and I’m glad I didn’t talk her into my bed that night, nor any other night. Even if we both agreed it was just sex, I’m positive it would only get in the way when you’re working cheek to jowl in a small area under extreme pressure.
Having said that, she’s a nice lady, performing amazing stuff in the kitchen with a knack for detail, and she looks sexy enough with that black skullcap on her platinum bob. Ordinarily, those things combined in a woman should be a big turn on for me, but for some reason I didn’t get hard when we were rubbing our bodies together. So, friends and colleagues it remains, and I value her loyalty more than a night in the sack. And, hey, if I don’t have time to get a haircut, I sure as hell don’t have time to screw someone. My love affair is with food. I spend most of my waking hours cooking and testing new recipes, and can’t even remember the last time I got laid.
Christ, I’m badly in need of a lay.
I run a quick inventory of the food and beverages, check expiration dates, and see if all fruit and vegetables are fresh. Fifteen minutes before service, the wait staff and kitchen brigade assemble around the pass, where Donna gives them a short motivational talk, and reviews the allergens of today’s guests. “Also, we have quite a bit of monkfish left over,” she adds. “So let’s try to get that sold today, people.”
The servers walk out of the open kitchen, then open the doors to admit the lunch crowd already waiting outside. This is how I like it. I don’t want to wait for guests tasting my food; I want guests to wait in line for tasting my food.
“Okay, let’s do right to the food!” I shout as everyone takes their position in the kitchen line, then conjure up my favorite quote by a great French chef to keep the gang motivated. “Treat this kitchen like it’s yours, and one day it will be.” It sure as hell worked for me.
***
Both lunch shifts run smoothly into the first dinner shift, and by the time the second shift starts, my body’s slipping into survival mode. I’m running the kitchen on sheer adrenaline due to lack of sleep – or alcohol abuse. Probably both.
“Josh, got a sec?”
“Yeah, one moment. Listen up, guys, table of four...” I glance at the ticket and bark the order, then turn to Ed. “Yeah?”
He hands me a white envelope. “This is addressed to you. It’s marked confidential, so I wanted to make sure you got it before it gets lost in a pile of receipts.”
I take the envelope and stare into the restaurant. “Who gave it to you?”
“They’re already gone. One of the servers found it inside the check presenter.”
I frown. “An unhappy customer?”
“He remembered it was a couple in their late thirties. They seemed satisfied, didn’t complain about the food, although they didn’t order dessert. Hope they didn’t order it across the street in that new restaurant.”
I fold the light weighted envelope and tuck it into my back pocket. “Ah, shit! Their opening is today; totally forgot about it. Server, please!”
“You want me to check it out for you?”
“No, I need you in the front of the house,” I say, and then check the dishes sitting on the pass and waiting to be sent out. “It’s still hectic as hell. I’ll check with Donna and see if one of us can go.”
With a nod he leaves the kitchen.
“Donna, come over here!” I yell. “Remember we got an invitation to the opening of that new restaurant? What’s the name again?”
“Oh, yeah. Uh, something with Kitchen,” she says, while wiping the sweat from her forehead.<
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“Right, Camila’s Kitchen. I want to check out the place and see if we need to worry about our desserts.”
“I got you covered. Go! Jonathan,” she yells, “take over my station!”
I remove the bandana and open my jacket. “I won’t be long. Holler if you need me.”
“Will do.”
I get into my office and quickly knock back a drink, then look around, but soon realize I don’t have my winter jacket in here. I decide to go without. It’s snowy, but the place is just across the street. I’ll friggin’ live in just a t-shirt.
***
A bell on the door announces my arrival, but no one notices me. The place is already swamped with people hanging on standing tables, while sipping a cocktail or eating dessert from small glasses.
I stomp the snow from my boots and enter the dessert bar. A band is performing “Demasiado Corazon,” giving the place a warm and Latin feel. Thank fuck no Christmas theme.
As I look around, I recognize neighboring shopkeepers, but most people I’ve never seen before. I maneuver through the crowd, smiling secretively when I spot a food critic. Somehow, I can always sniff them out; the way they observe their surroundings, or the food lying on their plate, although I’ve never come across a critic this young or looking like she does, which is plain hot with a capital H. She could be a blogger. The woman flashes me a seductive smile when she notices me. Damn, she’s sexy.
“Be nice,” I whisper into her ear when I notice the repelled look on her face as she spoons up her tiramisu and swallows it. I usually stay far away from places featuring tiramisu on their menu, and by the looks of the hot foodie, she wished she had too.
I come to a stop at an empty table and study the various desserts: tiramisu, crème brûlée, rice pudding... I hope the flavors blow me away, because the menu selection is hopelessly outdated.
I pick up a spoon and taste the brûlée, then set aside the tiramisu and taste the pudding. It’s not bad, but it isn’t orgasmic either. Meanwhile, my gaze drifts off to the brunette in the sexy red dress, fitting her body nicely. She’s looking around, studying the place and the people with much interest. Yep, she’s definitely here to review the place.
I tear my gaze from her round curves in hopes of spotting the proprietor. Time to wish them well and be off. Not wasting anymore time. I came here to find out if I should worry about my last course, and it’s safe to say I needn’t. This place offers as much competition as a cafeteria.
“Hello.”
Tongue-tied, I study the classic but extremely fascinating face of the food-blogger curiously staring back at me. Her somewhat wavy brown hair surrounding her smooth, velvety skin has different kind of shades, and her peculiar eyes are grayish blue with a prominent ring around the iris. My throat runs dry. She looked good from a distance, but she’s fucking beautiful up close. I wouldn’t mind sampling her instead of these mediocre desserts.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” I utter in all honesty. I’m aware of the stale compliment, and sure I could do a hell of a lot better, but my mind is drawing a blank.
“Thank you,” she says heartily, as if she’s not tired of hearing it for the millionth or so time. Then she smiles again seductively, but maybe that’s just her natural look. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
Now she has me smiling too. Not many women are this direct. I find it refreshing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m Teresa.”
“Josh. And I’m not that easily embarrassed.”
“Well, you probably hear it all the time.”
I shake my head. “Actually, I don’t. It’s a first. So, what’s the verdict?” I ask after a brief pause.
She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”
I nod at the desserts. “What do you think?”
She follows my question with silence, then grins. “You go first.”
I shrug indifferently. “Let’s just say this place doesn’t dazzle from originality.”
Her grin fades, replaced by shock, as though I offended her personally. “It doesn’t?”
“Look at this table,” I say, gesturing at the three glasses. “Tiramisu? Seriously?”
“You don’t like tiramisu?” she asks with a frown creasing her forehead. “But it’s a classic, flamboyant dessert.”
“A classic, flamboyant dessert or a tired old cliché? You may quote me on that in your review.”
“Quote you on that?”
“Yeah, on your blog, go ahead. Not many people can pull off a good tiramisu, unless your roots are Italian and you have a recipe from your mother, who was born in the region of Veneto.”
“I see,” she says, suddenly dispirited, and I wonder why. It’s fucking tiramisu.
“Are you Italian?” She sure could pass for an Italian beauty with her olive skin tone.
“I’m Spanish,” she says, sticking her chin in the air.
“Are you saying you liked it? I saw the look on your face when you tasted it.”
“Because I couldn’t taste the coffee flavor.”
I sweep a hand through the air. “Well, there you go. I’m no tiramisu expert, but in my opinion, the coffee is a crucial ingredient.”
“What about the crème brûlée?”
“It has issues.”
“And the rice pudding?”
“An okay-dish. Liked the mouthfeel. Don’t get the merengue.”
She squeezes her eyes. “What do you do?”
“For a living you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I work at the restaurant across the street.”
“You work at Suite 63?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Line cook, pastry chef? Dishwasher?” she adds, clearly to insult me, but it only makes me grin. She knows I’m not, although I started out as one before I set my goals higher and reached for chefdom. If she’s from around here, and a self-respected food blogger, she reads magazines and keeps up with the restaurants and trendy bars in the area, therefore she must recognize me. Maybe not by my appearance, but my name in combination with Suite 63 must ring a bell.
“Exec,” I finally answer.
“Congratulations on your Michelin stars,” she mutters.
“Thanks. Interested in checking out my stockroom, by any chance?”
My indecent proposal, although neatly wrapped up in a euphemism, makes her flinch. “Are you hitting on me?”
“Actually, I thought you were hitting on me,” I reply matter-of-factly.
She cocks her head. “What makes you think that?”
“You were checking me out when I came in.”
Her eyes suddenly widen. “I was welcoming you with a friendly smile. Believe me, if I was checking you out, you’d know.”
I’m sure I would. Already I feel my dick expand just by the thought of it; just as I can already feel the cold sprays of the shower I’ll need later. “That means we won’t be fucking?” I ask, unfiltered this time. “I mean it’s clear we’re both hot for each other.”
She clears her throat while staring briefly into the glass with untouched tiramisu, and then looks up again. Her cheeks have reddened a little. “I believe I’ll take a rain check on that. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Executive Chef. If not for the food, then at least the music.” She turns on her high heels and strides away gracefully. What a woman! That’s going to be one hell of a cold shower. Too bad I lost my touch for picking up women. I was good at it once.
As I look around, I spot a teenage boy sitting in the back of the restaurant. He’s looking bored out of his mind, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he were family of whoever is running this joint. I’m positive he could point me in the right direction.
“Hi there,” I say as I stand before him.
He bobs his head. “Hey,” he greets back in a low voice.
I gesture at an empty chair. “Can I sit?”
“Yeah, whatever,” he says, not overly enthusiastic.
Smiling, I take a seat. It’s almost a
s if I’m listening to a younger version of myself. Uninterested, giving curt answers... I’m not sure much has changed. “Your family runs this place?”
“It’s my sister’s.”
“That’s great.”
“It pays the bills, I guess.” He glances down at my arms, or better, the body art. “Your sleeve tats are cool.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Where does it hurt the most?” he asks flat-out.
In my wallet, I think. “You want one?”
He nods. “A sleeve, like you have, maybe more colorful, I don’t know yet. But my sister is against it.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Well, I think your sister is right. You’re still young. You might end up regretting them.”
He looks me dead in the eye, and I’m struck by the fact his eyes are bloodshot and his pupils dilated. A telltale sign he just smoked a j. “I know what I want,” he says with a stoned glaze in his eyes. “I wanted one when I was nine and still want it today. It’s not an impulse.”
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “in that case, the ditch, that’s the inner part of your elbow, hurts the worst. The wrist is a sensitive area, and the armpit felt pretty bad too. The rest is okay, but overall it’s an unpleasant experience. And you have to factor in the finance. A sleeve doesn’t come cheap, so you better start saving some dollars if you wanna go big.”
“I’m saving up already. You wanna beer or something?”
I glance at my watch. They’re about to start desserts, and I still haven’t met the owner. “Yeah, a beer sounds good.” So does the music.
“Let me get you one.”
“Thanks. I’m Josh, by the way.”
He extends his arm and we shake hands. “Felipe Sainz.”
A few minutes later, he hands me a bottle of beer. “You want me to get you a glass?”
“That won’t be necessary.” I relax back in the seat and sip from the cold fluid as the band plays, “Each Word’s a Beat of My Heart.” Love that song. “So, your sister runs the place. She makes the desserts herself?”
“Yeah, she pretty much does everything herself. She also holds workshops and makes wedding cakes.”
“You guys are from around here?”
Joshua Page 2