An Acquired Taste

by Kelly Cain

  I continue picking up my spilled plants.

  “Hey, I was sorry to hear about your mom.” His voice is soft with concern.

  “My mom’s fine.” I blow out a hard breath and face him. “How did you hear about my mom?”

  He shrugs and stands. “My dad mentioned she was sick. I’m glad she’s doing well.”

  For two families who want nothing to do with each other, we sure are up in each other’s business a lot. Too much.

  “Like I said, she’s fine. You can tell your dad that.”

  “You can tell him yourself at the alumni meeting next week.”

  I roll my eyes in response. He knows full good and well I don’t talk to his father at alumni meetings. Ignoring Knox and his dad completely is the only reason I’m even able to attend.

  He bends toward me and I freeze, inhaling his lemon-pineapple breath. “I know you hate me, but let me help you get these.”

  I turn my head and breathe in a solid amount of cleansing air. “I won’t ever need your help.”

  Okra with Corn and Tomatoes

  1 cup white onion, diced

  4 cloves garlic, minced

  1/4 cup bacon grease

  3 cups okra, sliced

  4 cups corn, cut from the cob

  2 cups fresh tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Heat a cast iron skillet over medium high heat and sauté onion in bacon grease for 3 minutes. Add garlic and sauté 1 minute more. Turn heat down to medium and add okra. Continue to sauté about 5 more minutes. Add remaining ingredients and cook an additional 10 minutes, stirring frequently. Cover and reduce heat to low. Simmer for 5 minutes. Add water if necessary to prevent sticking.

  Yield: 8 to 10 servings

  *Note: If you prefer your okra a little less gummy, soak sliced okra in 5 cups cold water with 1 tbsp lemon juice. Rinse and dry before adding to alliums.

  CHAPTER TWO

  This is why I don’t talk about Knox Everheart.

  I really don’t like thinking about Knox Everheart. I definitely don’t like talking about him.

  Sue’s sitting on a barstool just outside my kitchen, writing notes and sipping on the green drink she just made in my blender. Those green drinks obviously have benefits because her russet-brown skin is glowing. I look down at my own chestnut arm and shake my head, then flip my hoecakes onto my plate. She’s covered in dew and I’m covered in ash. Time to get the lotion, but first…syrup for my hoecakes.

  “Hey, Google.” I wait for my home hub to light up. “Play ‘Mad to Cook’.”

  My trusty electronic sidekick responds, “Sure. Playing ‘Mad to Cook’ by Indieknot.”

  This is our pattern on Tuesdays and Fridays when I’m off and she’s on. Since I live above the restaurant, it’s an easy routine.

  She puts down her pen and stares at me. “What’s your deal this morning? You’re awfully quiet. I only got two notes for today’s lunch service and three for tonight. That’s got to be a new record low.”

  I set my plate on the counter across from her and pull a barstool around so I’m facing her. “What’s there to say? You’ve been doing this a couple years. You’ve got it down.”

  “I’m not buying it. You always have plenty of notes.”

  She puts a hand in the air when I try to object. “It’s okay. I know you trust me or you wouldn’t bother to take the day off. Something’s wrong though.”

  The room lightens as the sun makes its first appearance of the day. I go over to the living room drapes and pull them open, flooding the whole apartment with light, taking a few moments to take the day in. There’re no clouds on the horizon as far as I can see. It’ll be another beautiful spring day, and I can’t wait to get outside and get those new plants in the ground. That brings my thoughts back to Knox.

  “You’re chewing the inside of your cheek again. That’s never good.”

  She finishes her drink, watching me as I walk back over to my cooling hoecakes.

  I’m not bringing up Knox, so instead I hesitantly tell her what else is bugging me. “There’s so much I want to do with the restaurant, but my mother won’t even entertain changes. What’s the point of going to culinary school if I can’t put my degree to good use?”

  Sue rests a hand on mine and smiles at me. “You bring so much to this restaurant. Your mom knows that. Five years ago, she hardly had enough people in here for lunch. Now there are folks waiting around the block. You’ve added dinner and alcohol, and it takes a month to get a reservation here. That’s all your work, love. Your idea for changing over to farm-to-table made all the difference.”

  I snort and a piece of chewed hoecake comes flying out of my mouth. “Ha, please. You know half the ideas we’ve implemented have been due to your support, right? Having another trained chef has been a godsend. No way I could have done this by myself.”

  She frowns and shakes her head. “Why do you do that, Rowan? You have the rawest talent of any chef I know. You never give yourself a break though. I’ve helped, but all the ideas have been yours. You’ve turned this place around. I’m just happy you gave me a chance right out of a low-level culinary school.”

  Now it’s my turn to return the look she just gave me. Her school may not hold all the prestige the one Knox and I went to, but it’s hardly low-level. If anything, we’re so lucky she’s slumming it with us. “You know that’s not even close to being true.”

  She takes her glass over to the sink and washes out the remaining green sludge. “Did you get my email with the new recipe I’d like to add to the menu?”

  “I did and it sounds delicious. Make it for Mama and we’ll see about offering it as a special next week for dinner.”

  Her shoulders fall and she gathers up her notes, tucking them in her oversize bag. “I’ll try but we barely have enough kitchen space to make a new appetizer, less known a whole cassoulet. We need to get rid of some of the slower sellers if we want to add anything substantive.”

  I nod, saying out loud what we both know. “We need a bigger kitchen, Sue. Plain and simple. We’re going to have to convince Mama to move some sort of way. I was looking at reviews last night, and there was a scathing one from someone who had to wait almost an hour with their reservation.”

  We’re getting more and more of those and soon that’s going to affect business. We can’t hire additional help because we’re on top of each other as it is. We don’t own the building, and the landlord won’t let us expand, so we’re running out of options here.

  I frown and set my fork down, taking my plate over to the sink and shoving the rest of my uneaten hoecakes down the disposal. I think back to yesterday, passing by the Everheart’s extremely large building. They have enough space for two restaurants. I push down the uninvited thought and look back at Sue, sighing.

  She leans on the counter next to me. “You’ll figure it out. I have the utmost confidence in you. What’s the scowl about though? Not our kitchen size.” I swear she’s so perceptive.

  I do not like talking about Knox Everheart.

  I pick at my cuticle. “I saw Knox and his brother, Weston, yesterday when I picked up those new plants for the garden.”

  “Which one’s Weston? The nice one who writes fan fiction or the asshole one who shops too much?”

  “Does it matter? Did you not catch the ‘I saw Knox’ part?”

  “I did. I was just trying to change the subject because I know how much you never like talking about him even though I’m dying to know why you hate him so much. Is it because his family’s so rich? Or because he’s so pretty and that’s just irritating given how rich he is? Not because he’s a gifted chef, right? I mean, you cook circles around him.”

  Do I? No, I don’t think I do. Not that I’d ever admit that to him. “It’s because everything comes to him on a silver platter. That and he’s an asshat.”

  “The couple times I’ve seen him, he seemed nice actually.”

  I nearly choke on my own spit. �
��Nice? Are you kidding me? He’s the exact opposite of nice. Trust me, I know. He may be all charm and what not to people who don’t know him, but I spent four years in close proximity to him, and nice… he’s decidedly not.” Pbssh. Nice? For fuck’s sake, he even has astute Sue fooled. “You know what’s not nice? Me being waitlisted while he sailed in on a bribe from his father. You think I’m a more talented chef? Imagine how that feels when the rich, pretty white boy gets into the school you’ve dreamed about your entire life because his daddy made it so.” My voice has risen, so I take a couple of gulping breaths to calm myself.

  “Okay, sure. I get that and it’s terrible, but is that it? You seem to have a lot of hate in your heart for the Everhearts.”

  I think that’s enough, but there is something else. Something I’ve never told anyone before and have no plans of ever telling. “I overheard something he said about me after we first met. About me and my family. What he said to his roommate put a clearer light on him for me.”

  No, not nice. This is why I don’t like talking about Knox Everheart.

  *

  The quarterly Austin-area alumni meeting has just been called to order by Chef Brown, our current chapter president. I’m sitting near the back of the room as usual because the only alumni I know have the last name Everheart. They’re front row center, of course, father and son. Flynn Everheart is a Michelin-star chef and always commands everyone’s attention because of it. He’s this chapter’s most distinguished graduate. Knox borrows his light by association.

  Pretending the Everhearts don’t exist isn’t going to work this afternoon. Chef Brown is holding a crystal phallic-shaped object etched in gold. “Chef Everheart, please stand and come up to receive your award.”

  Flynn stands and turns to the audience, waving his hand as though he were king instead of chef. His brown eyes light up his face, something I rarely saw during visits throughout the four years I spent in school with his son. His handsome face is creased with smile lines when he shakes hands with Chef Brown and poses for pictures. He’s attractive, but his sons must have inherited most of their beauty, dark hair, and blue eyes from their mother.

  The audience erupts in applause. Everyone except me. And Knox interestingly enough. Trouble in paradise?

  We drag through the rest of the meeting and my ears perk up when the correspondence secretary gives his report—his PowerPoint slide has Restaurant Family Feud in bold across the page along with other letters he’s received through the alumni post office box.

  He says, “We received a postcard for a reality television competition for chefs coming up. It appears the deadline is tomorrow. I’ll pin up the postcard with the link on the bulletin board for anyone interested.”

  When the meeting is adjourned, I look around trying to gauge if there’s any interest in the contest. Most people are gathered in small groups, no doubt boasting of their latest restaurant openings or what have you. Several surround Flynn, congratulating him on his new award. No one’s moving toward the board, so I sidle that way, checking my surroundings as I go. I glance at the corkboard, noting the link and put it in my phone’s browser.

  The contest rules come up and the more I read, the more excited I get.

  • Open to a team of three family members who work together in a restaurant owned by at least one of the members.

  • Two days a month filming commitment for two months if the team advances. Five days in the third month for the final round.

  • The winning team gains a new restaurant anywhere in the continental United States.

  By the time I read the grand prize, I’m bouncing on my toes, too preoccupied to notice Knox’s approach.

  “I haven’t seen you this excited since…” He taps a long finger against his chin. “I guess I’ve never seen you excited. What are you looking at?” He snatches my phone before I can react.

  I grab at it but even though I’m tall, he’s so much taller, and easily holds my phone out of reach. “Give it, Knox. You’re such an asshat.”

  He huffs. “Did you just call me an asshat?”

  Have I really never said that out loud to him before? That seems impossible because whenever I see him, that’s the first word to pass through my brain. There’re others of course: arrogant, impulsive, and petty among them. “Give. Me. My. Phone.”

  He waggles his eyebrows. “What will I get in return?”

  “A chance to live with your balls intact? And I’m not making any promises.”

  He shrugs, offering the phone to me.

  My hands are shaking so badly, I nearly drop my phone once I grab the device out of his proffered hand, like he’s doing me a favor. Why do I let him get under my skin so much?

  “So. You want a new restaurant.”

  Of course he saw what’s on my screen. “Why are you so nosy? Don’t you have something better to do like shining your daddy’s star or boots or something?”

  Anger flashes through ice-blue eyes before quickly changing back to cornflower. He scans me from head to toe. “Good luck with your little contest.”

  No way am I going to let Knox Everheart ruin tonight. This is the day a plan has finally formed to get Mama’s restaurant out of the confines of the building we’re currently in and expand it into what it has the potential to be. Something that will rival Everheart Bar and Fine Dining. I just need to get us in.

  I sneer at Knox one last time and walk away.

  It’s still light out when I return to the restaurant, so I park in back and rush up the stairs to my apartment, then hurry over to my laptop sitting on the desk. I flip it open and go to the link I copied into my phone earlier. It takes me over an hour to respond to all the questions plus submit whatever paperwork they require, but by the time I close my laptop, I’m buoyed by the possibilities. We need a bigger place and this contest would get us that.

  I close my eyes and imagine the updated menu with kitchen staff flowing freely throughout, making those delicious dishes come to life. An extended dining room full of customers with no lines outside. A bar where the mixologists don’t bump elbows while creating drinks.

  I snap my eyes open. Now I just need to convince Mama.

  Hoecakes for One, Only One

  1/2 cup all-purpose flour

  1/2 cup cornmeal

  1/2 tbsp sugar

  1-1/2 tsp baking powder

  1 large egg

  1/3 cup + 2 tbsp buttermilk

  2 tbsp + 2 tsp water

  2 tbsp bacon grease

  Oil for frying

  Combine the first 8 ingredients in a mixing bowl. Place a cast iron skillet on medium and heat the frying oil. Drop about 3 tbsp of batter per hoecake in the hot skillet. Fry each hoecake until crisp and golden on both sides. Serve with real maple syrup or local honey.

  Yield: 1 serving (Really 2, but Rowan will save some in the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast.)

  CHAPTER THREE

  It can never just be good.

  I remove the chicken pieces from the buttermilk marinade, then dredge them through the flour and drop them in the hot grease. We don’t use fryers here anymore, instead opting for Dutch ovens. Thankfully that was another one of the changes Mama begrudgingly let me make.

  Frying chicken isn’t my favorite thing to do, but there’s an order in for it and only a couple of us left closing up late on a Wednesday night. If it were up to me, it wouldn’t be on the menu. But after six long years as head chef, it still isn’t up to me, and Lillie won’t budge. She says fried chicken is a soul food pinnacle dish.

  Mama narrows her eyes. “What’s wrong with you? That’s a sour face you have there.”

  Do I? I look up innocently. “Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.”

  Along with the chicken, the customer wants yellow squash casserole, mashed potatoes, and biscuits. We have some biscuits already cut out, so I stick a couple in the oven to bake while Mama whips some potatoes and dishes out the squash. We settle into the comfort of routine, and I smooth out my sour face. Sti
ll, she watches me.

  She says, “You haven’t heard from the game show?”

  I move the chicken around, ensuring even cooking. “It’s not a game show, Mama. Have you even watched one episode?” It’s not like I ever watched it before hearing about it at the alumni meeting, but I had at least heard of it. Now I’ve binged both seasons.

  Convincing her wasn’t easy, mostly because she doesn’t like change, but after both Wyatt and I worked her over, she finally relented. I always bring the passion and Wyatt brings the numbers to back up my gut. That combination usually wins Lillie over but not always. In this case, she couldn’t deny our constant uptick in customers plus the story the reviews are telling. The most recent one: “I had to wait forty-five minutes after arriving on time for my reservation. The food was amazing but why can’t they get more staff or something?” My gut clenches just thinking about it.

  “Not yet, but I plan to. I guess that means you haven’t heard anything. You seem anxious.”

  “No, I haven’t, but it should be any day now. Waiting is hard. I guess I am a little anxious.” I remove the biscuits from the oven, and the buttery smell lightens my mood. Then I stick a probe thermometer in the chicken breast. It’s perfect so I remove the pieces from the oil. “It’s downright agony.”

  Mama doesn’t say anything, but her nod of agreement is enough. When she finishes plating, she says, “Ready.”

  After the waitress takes it away, I turn off the stove and slump against the counter. “I see Hannah’s off today. Coincidentally when Wyatt is too.”

  “Unlike you, she only takes one day off other than Mondays when we’re closed so no complaining.”

  “I’m not complaining, just pointing out an interesting observation. And if we want to keep Sue, I have to at least give her two days. You know that, Mama.”

  “I do know that.” She peeks out the kitchen door, then turns back to me. “Just one person left thankfully. I’m too tired. What’s your problem with Hannah anyway?”