The Secret Ingredient

by KD Fisher

  “Anyway,” Pete continued, “you should sleep over if you want. If that’s okay, Mom.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Probably louder than I’d laughed in years. Pete and Beth exchanged an is she okay look. “Of course she can. Beth, if you want to have a sleepover, by all means.”

  Pete insisted we watch an episode of his new favorite show, some weird half-animated program about animals. Beth snuggled up close to me on the couch, the three of us huddled around my iPad since I hadn’t ever bothered to buy an actual TV. I’d never really gone out of my way to buy one since the last thing I wanted was my son zoning out to mindless garbage. But I remembered Dorothy, the first woman I ever really dated when I moved to St. Louis, telling me about her family movie nights growing up. Her dad would make “hamburger pizza,” a downright gross dish Dorothy loved to re-create. Her mom would rent a few movies and she and her sister would argue over which one to watch. They’d done it every Friday. I’d dang near burned up with jealousy when she told me about it, picturing her goofy dad and his collection of loud tourist T-shirts and her cool, collected mom snuggled up on the couch with Dorothy and her sister. But now I wondered if Pete and I couldn’t do something like that, too. Maybe even with Beth. Just without the hamburger pizza.

  Once Pete’s head started bobbing down and snapping up, the telltale sign he was pretending to be awake, I shuffled him into his bedroom for a speedy version of his bedtime routine. Hamlet nosed his way in and I didn’t even bother to kick up a fuss when the dog jumped onto Pete’s bed and snuffled to sleep at the foot. When I came out, Beth sat on the couch, flipping through the romance novel I’d picked up at the grocery store to read when I couldn’t fall asleep.

  “That’s some steamy stuff.” She laughed, fanning her face with the book. As much as I liked her, it still seemed unfair that someone that pretty could also be so darn likeable and excellent in the kitchen.

  “Sure is. They get busy on the beach, though, and that doesn’t seem like it would really be that nice. Too much sand.” I slipped the book out of her hands and pulled her in close.

  “Hmm, I don’t know, we almost fu—uh, had sex on the beach and it was pretty great. Then again, it was a rocky beach.”

  I scoffed and had to try real hard not to ruffle her hair. It was a little wilder than usual today and I wanted run my fingers through it. Fist my hand at the back of her neck and pull her down onto my lap... Okay. Not good thoughts when my son could barge out of his room at any minute. Glad as I was to have found Vanessa and such a convenient location to the restaurant, the apartment really lacked privacy.

  I pulled out the bed and the wrinkled, mismatched sheets I kept in a basket under the side table. We made quick work of making up the bed, a task I usually hated when I came home from work so exhausted I could fall asleep standing up. Beth followed me into the tiny bathroom and laughed when I told her all I did for my “skincare routine” (her words) was wash my face with a little soap and rub on some of the same lotion I used all over my body.

  “Next time I come over I’m at least bringing you some rosehip oil. And some witch hazel. For god’s sake, Adah, you have the plant tattooed on your body. The least you could do is use it as a toner for your face.” Her voice was light and teasing enough that I didn’t feel silly for having no earthly idea how to take care of my own skin. It definitely wasn’t something my mama taught me.

  As I pushed an extra toothbrush out of its plastic packaging and set it in the cup mounted over the sink, my body flashed with a hot tingle of awareness. This was comfortable. Beth next to me, rummaging through my tiny basket of toiletries in search of “decent moisturizer.” Our eyes meeting in the mirror as we brushed our teeth. The easy way she cuddled up next to me in the dark. It was all right.

  * * *

  “Alright, chef, that’s the last of it. Have a good week now.” Martin, my favorite of our produce suppliers, tipped the last crate of apples off his dolly and gave me a jaunty wave. With the help of Mac and our prep cook Sam, I hauled the order into the walk-in and started picking through the greens, winter squash, and a big bushel of Gala apples. A smile twitched my lips up as I noticed the bruises and bumps on a few of them, remembering how Beth had cradled each apple she’d picked like a newborn baby. We’d spent the drive home talking through recipe concepts and I’d come up with the idea for a new menu item: apple and root vegetable tagine to pair with the mackerel we’d been getting in for the past few weeks.

  My mind was a million miles away...well, maybe fifteen miles at a certain farm-to-table restaurant, firmly fixed on a certain redheaded restauranteur. I must have been pretty dang distracted thinking about Beth, because I completely missed Sean coming into the walk-in. But when I looked up, there he was, arms folded over his chest, irritation clear as a bell on his face. My heartbeat picked up and I hated myself for it. There was no reason this man should make me nervous. No reason his showing up in the walk-in should remind me of the reverend coming into the kitchen through the screen door ready to yell at the first person he stumbled upon.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Adah?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t stop pulling containers of lobster stock that hadn’t been labeled with a date off the shelf. Whatever nonsense Sean wanted to talk to me about could wait. I needed to talk to Mac about starting up a better system for keeping the pantry organized and making sure we dated every single item. We’d been wasting more food than I liked, and I wanted the kitchen staff to find a solution that would work for everyone.

  “In my office.” Sean turned to leave, assuming I would follow.

  “We can talk here. Got a lot to do.” My eyes stayed fixed on the neatly organized jars of preserved lemons and roasted red peppers.

  “Maybe you need to manage your time better. If you don’t have time to talk about the kitchen you run are you sure you have time for that little competition you entered?” His anger cracked through his usual smarmy professionalism. I almost liked him better angry. At least angry he was honest. Sean cleared his throat loudly. “Have you even taken a look at last week’s numbers?”

  He knew I reviewed the numbers every night. Trying not to sigh, I looked up from the work I actually needed to do. “Yup. I saw that things have been slowing up a bit. A lot less tourists coming through. That’s why I entered the contest. Good exposure for the restaurant with people who might come in more than one time. I was thinking we could—”

  Sean held up a hand and it took a heck of a lot of self-control for me not to smack it down. “I already talked to Ric about it. It’s a profit issue. So basically, we’re spending too much on supplies.” He eyed the produce boxes between us. “We need to lower our operating costs and the best way to do that will be changing our vendors. I know this whole ‘local food’ thing is having its moment, but most people can’t tell the difference anyway. I have a meeting set up with our rep from Wesco for tomorrow afternoon to expand their service. In the next few weeks we’re going to be phasing out our other distributors.”

  I was a little surprised when, instead of being engulfed by a haze of mind-numbing red rage, my first thought was of Beth. Of the way she would undoubtedly stomp her foot and launch into a whole speech about why sourcing food locally mattered to the environment and community. I could practically see her face getting all flushed as she gesticulated wildly, starting in on the ways big food suppliers monopolize the food market and hurt workers. A smile crept over my face and I shook my head.

  “Do you really think that’s the best solution?” I asked, looking my idiot manager right in the eye. “Because it seems to me like most of our loss is coming from weekday lunch service. I don’t think a lot of the local folks have the time for a three course sit-down lunch.”

  “You can leave the business stuff to me, Adah. I know what I’m doing here, okay? You stick to the kitchen and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  And there was that explosion of anger. M
y throat clenched tight and hot and I wanted nothing more than to push Sean out of the way and run out the back door. Keep on running until I felt okay again. “Well, our menus and website all talk about our commitment to the finest ingredients and the freshest food. Heck, Sean, we’re charging thirty-five bucks for a piece of fish and a few fancy veggies here. They at least gotta be good ones.” I hated myself for being so darn inarticulate. I hated how every time I got mad my accent reared back up. It was always going to be easy to dismiss the dumb hick who hadn’t even managed to finish high school. Planting my feet firmly on the ground, I lifted my chin to meet Sean’s gaze. “This is good food. And it’s my menu.” My kitchen.

  “None of that has to change. We’ll still be serving the same stuff, just cheaper on our end. Which means we’ll be making more money.” He was speaking slowly now, like I was too stupid to understand the basic concept of profit. “And speaking of, I think Marcus is going to be coming soon so I did talk to Ric about tweaking the menu. Freshening things up a little.” With this delightful comment, Sean turned on his stupid fancy-shoe heel and stalked out of the kitchen.

  My anger went with him, leaving only exhaustion and sadness churning it its wake. I knew when I took this job that it wouldn’t be easy. Accepting the role of executive chef meant dealing with endless headaches and putting out both real and figurative fires. I understood that working for a restaurant group meant dealing with a wide variety of people who saw the world different from me. But this feeling was new. This felt personal and unfair in a way I didn’t quite know what to do with. Maybe being a good boss meant having to grit my teeth and deal with giving up control sometimes. I wasn’t really sure. What I did know, though, was that this job gave me and Pete full benefits and a steady income and it was going to take a lot more than my manager being an idiot for me to give that up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Beth

  It honestly wasn’t fair for someone to be as hot as Adah Campbell. I watched as she set up her table at the Fifth Annual Port Catherine Autumn Fest. Crisp button-down shirt with a perfectly starched navy blue apron. Hair pushed back with a neatly folded bandanna tied around her head. That laser focus. She was not going to win this, but she was going to look hot as hell while she lost. When she’d told me she planned to make sous vide lobster tail it had taken a lot of effort not to scoff into the phone. If people in Port Catherine hated one thing it was overly fancy preparations of lobster. I liked her idea of doing a Maine potato gratin and tarragon beurre blanc, but I doubted the people of my hometown would agree.

  The other competition ranged from a cocky chef from South Bay, who loved bragging about his conquests in the kitchen almost as much as he loved hitting on his front of house staff, to Dana Whitfield, my old preschool teacher who had already seemed old twenty-five years ago and made the same chowder for every local cook-off in southern Maine. It was a pretty great chowder.

  My prep was done and I had chosen to make a simple dish I could execute flawlessly with my eyes closed. Sea bream caught by my next-door neighbor, brushed with some excellent olive oil, would be roasted over applewood and served over a bed of delicata squash, crispy garlic, and crumbled bacon. I usually felt like adding bacon into dishes was a cheap thrill, but I knew folks in Port Catherine would love it. I set down my knife, washed my hands at the big communal sink they’d rigged up, and wandered over to Adah. She was bent over her work station, one of the big plastic tables set up along the waterfront in town, furiously chopping tarragon. Behind her the reflections of fluffy white clouds shone in the deep blue, perfectly still port. Dozens of small lobster boats dotted the water. The view had always been gorgeous but it had nothing on Adah.

  “What’d you decide on?” Adah asked, not even looking up from her prep. The back of my neck heated but it had nothing to do with the early afternoon sunshine. Damn, why did her focus do it for me?

  I explained my dish and gave her a quick rundown of the other competition and judges. “So the first judge, the guy with the Santa beard, is Jim Davis. Used to own this really awful dive bar that my dad and the other lobstermen loved. He sold it last year to this couple from New York who turned it into a wine bar. Honestly, the wine bar kind of rocks but people in town love to bitch about it. The lady with the super-long hair owns the local food co-op. She’s a sweetheart and grows some pretty great pot. And the other guy, the one with the fancy sneakers...him I don’t know.” I worried about this new judge, a dude about my age who had Brooklyn Transplant written all over his designer workwear.

  Adah looked up and flashed me what I could only describe as a cocky grin. My stomach flipped and if I didn’t think it might get us both disqualified from the competition I would have kissed her then and there.

  “I think my food will speak for itself. You better get to it, Summers.” She winked and returned her attention to her prep work.

  Two hours later my food was perfectly plated and lined up on the judges’ table. I had to admit Adah’s dish was gorgeous. The lobster was clearly perfectly cooked, even if I did think sous vide was an idiotic way to prepare food. And when I’d set my dish down next to hers the smell of the tarragon beurre blanc may or may not have made my mouth water. But food like that wasn’t about to win big in Port Catherine. My dad, for example, routinely made fun of people for eating nothing but a lobster tail and was wholly convinced that the only right way to consume seafood was the day it was caught and doused in melted butter, ideally chased with a cold beer. Still, my heart seemed to thud to a halt as Judge Brooklyn stood up to announce the results.

  I caught Adah’s eye across the sea of people still finishing their paper plates of food. Her stony façade crumbled only momentarily as the corner of her gorgeous lips lifted in a small smile. Then she clasped her hands in front of her and brought her full attention to the judges’ table.

  “So we’re all super grateful for these amazing chefs cooking up some of the most dope dishes we’ve eaten all year.” Judge Brooklyn beamed out at the crowd. Dope dishes? I tried not to roll my eyes as he continued to speak. “I’m so proud to be a part of this awesome town and very grateful that I got to try all this awesome food.” Again I caught Adah’s eye and mouthed the word awesome, then pointed to myself. She rolled her eyes and bit her lip.

  “Today’s winner captured the exciting future we hope to see for this town. Modern, creative, and...” I knew what he was going to say. “Awesome. Without further ado, I’m pumped to announce that the winner of the Fifth Annual Port Catherine Autumn Fest cook-off is Chef Adah Campbell from Bella Vista in South Bay. Her dish was not only the judge favorite but the crowd favorite, as well. Congrats, dude!”

  The crowd erupted into applause and a weird mix of pride and anger bubbled up in me. Adah’s face was impassive as she strode up to the table to accept the check and pose for photos with the judges and various local officials. On autopilot I strode over to the buffet tables and grabbed a plate of lobster tail. Even lukewarm it was excellent. The flavors were perfectly balanced, the slight sweetness of the tarragon cutting through the richness of the potatoes and shellfish. I wanted to toss the food into the garbage but it was so tasty I wanted to finish every overly fancy bite. Well damn it all to hell.

  “Nice there, Beth.” Jim sauntered over, his beard full of crumbs. “Maybe next year you’ll take first. Bacon was just a little overpowering for the fish, we thought.”

  I managed a tiny smile and watched as he grabbed a second plate of Adah’s lobster.

  Next time I saw Adah I was going to either strangle her or kiss her senseless... Okay it would definitely be the latter. But I couldn’t eat another bite of that damned delicious lobster.

  * * *

  The sky stretched open overhead, so bright and clear I wanted to tip my head back and stare up into its depths. A flock of honking geese flew south in a perfect V formation. As much as I wanted to watch them until they disappeared, the shoppers and tourists along Bay Street mi
ght not appreciate the weird lady standing stock still on the sidewalk, gawking at the sky. But it had been a while since I’d paused to appreciate a perfect New England autumn afternoon. The sun cast everything in shades of gold, the shadows dancing long and lean over the brick sidewalk and cobbled streets.

  I turned the corner and there I was. Bella Vista. Adah’s restaurant. I’d put off my promise to check the place out because, honestly, I was worried I wouldn’t like it. And, okay, I was still kind of pissed off about losing the competition in my own damn town. Plus the last thing I wanted was to take out a loan for the dining room. That money wouldn’t have solved all my problems but it would have been a sizable drop in the bucket. Adah hadn’t said a word about it and her stupid honor made me like her and hate her even more.

  Despite my sour grapes, a quick look at the offerings on Bella Vista’s website had me worried for Adah. A good number of the dishes sounded wonderful, but Marcus did not mess around when it came to seasonality. If a restaurant claimed to buy from local producers, the menu damn well better reflect it. Not so at Bella Vista, where I’d seen a watermelon and feta salad and a number of eggplant dishes being offered. Not exactly in season in mid-autumn in Maine when overnight temperatures were already dipping down into the thirties at night.

  I rolled my neck, pulled a long, even breath of crisp ocean air into my lungs, and pulled open the imposing wrought iron door. Inside, Bella Vista was quiet and undeniably stunning. The place looked less like the nicer restaurants around South Bay, places with exposed brick walls and big communal tables, and more like the elegant places I’d tried cooking at a few times throughout my travels. Next to the host stand the wall was covered in living moss and flowers. The dining room, quiet though it was, was gorgeous, with dark wood floors, large abstract seascapes on the walls, and modern metal light fixtures that had probably been custom made. The air smelled like fresh-cut lilies and new construction. So much money and effort for a space that probably intimidated half the locals in town.