The Secret Ingredient

by KD Fisher

  * * *

  Wednesday lunch service was dead. Not a single customer walked through the door for the first hour we were open. Sure, it was snowing outside. But we’d never been completely empty before. The kitchen was silent. I’d sent two of my line cooks home and was considering telling Mac she could take the rest of the afternoon off too, when Jay slapped the metal prep table and groaned.

  Mac looked up from her dinner mise, half startled, half amused.

  “You know you’re killing us, right?”

  The last thing I wanted was to be short with my staff, not to mention the only person who seemed capable of putting up with me. So I rolled my shoulders back and took a deep breath before setting down my knife and looking at Jay. “I can’t help it that we’re still doing this dang lunch service. I told Sean...”

  “No, dummy.” Jay crossed the kitchen to put their hands on my shoulders. “I mean you. You’re so goddamn miserable it’s like someone let a bunch of angry, taciturn rain clouds in here.”

  I felt my face heat. I had been...unhappy since Beth left on Monday. She’d texted a few times. Long, sincere apologies. But when I didn’t respond she stopped. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Sorry. Just some personal stuff.” I tried for a casual shrug but it felt robotic.

  “Yeah no shit, Sherlock. Did you and Beth break up?”

  My stomach flipped. Had we? Had my cruelty and silence cut the cord that tied us together? Was it that easy? I picked up a clean towel and started wiping the already spotless stainless steel in front of me.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it,” Mac said behind me.

  “Well too fucking bad. I’m worried, you know, Adah. I haven’t seen you like this since...” They trailed off. The last time I’d felt like this, numb and scooped out, had been after the reverend had shown up at my old apartment and scared me half to death.

  “It’s nothing like that,” I murmured. Mac didn’t know about my past and she didn’t need to. That was private. Ancient history. Closed.

  “Okay so you and Beth broke up. Or got in a fight. Or something is wrong with Pete. You can tell me, babe.”

  “I don’t know.” I groaned into my hands. “I guess we broke up? She came over to surprise me and was there with Pete when I got home. I wasn’t expecting it and I lost it. I barely remember what I said but it wasn’t good.”

  Jay made a sympathetic face. “Okay, well that kind of sounds like a fight. Did you two talk about it after?”

  My guilt was so big I thought it might split my skin trying to burst out of me. “No. She texted me a few times but I didn’t respond. I mean, what the heck am I supposed to say? I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Well you could start with apologizing for snapping at her.” Jay’s voice was insistent but not unkind. “Are you sure everything’s okay with you because I’m—”

  Jay’s words died on their lips, however, as one of our servers came barreling into the kitchen. His pale cheeks were flushed and his eyes flashed wide, darting from me to Mac, then back to the dining room. I searched my mind for the guy’s name. A good number of the front of house people Sean had originally hired had been college kids, chosen more for their looks than their experience waiting tables. This guy... Tim, that was his name, was a little older and far more competent. Too bad for him business had been so slow since he started that he was probably barely pulling in enough tip money to eat anything other than our family meals.

  “Everything okay, Tim?” I asked. The guy looked like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Yes, chef. I just thought you should know right away that Marcus Blanche is here. Sean showed us all a picture of him and well...” Tim gestured to our best table by the window, where a stylishly dressed man with salt and pepper hair perused the menu. “That’s him.”

  My stomach curdled and my legs buckled. He was the only person in the dining room. Why the heck had he come for lunch? I didn’t like anything about the new menus, but the lunch service was downright awful. And eating in silence, save for the awful, sleazy sounding electronica Sean insisted on playing, would make it even worse.

  After a moment of feeling sorry for myself and letting all my worries in, I closed the barn door and trapped them there. I needed to focus. Needed to serve this man the best dang meal I could possibly cook.

  “Bring him out a glass of the ’02 Le Mesnil Blanc de Blancs, on the house, and then come right back. Sound good?”

  Tim nodded seriously and turned on his heel.

  Jay and Mac didn’t say a word. They got to work. We had talked about our plan for when Marcus finally showed up and we executed it flawlessly. Jay started on forming fresh pita, the dough studded with sumac and nigella seeds. We had some ready to go, but these would arrive to Marcus fresh from the oven. When I glanced over at Mac’s station, she was already arranging the crispy onions on top of the tuna tartare with preserved lemon and Aleppo pepper we planned to serve as an amuse-bouche. I checked her plating, perfect as usual, and lifted the bone china bowl off the pass.

  I quieted the noise in my head. There was no more fight with Beth, no more worrying about my son, no more fussing over what Sean was going to say. There was me, and the food, and the guest. Marcus Blanche. Taking a deep, even breath, I walked out into the dining room. I had to admit, although it was a little over the top for my tastes, our restaurant was lovely. Near the front door stood a small table covered in a careful arrangement of autumn flowers and greenery. The soapstone bar, even empty, was striking. The floors were rough-hewn wood stained a matte black, the walls a deep terra cotta.

  Marcus sat at the center table in front of the windows overlooking the port. He gazed out the window at the admittedly beautiful view. In the distance a few tugboats chugged out to sea. Bruised slate clouds hung heavy over the dark water.

  I’d seen pictures of Marcus before, had read larger-than-life profiles detailing his childhood in Lagos and culinary training in Paris, but he seemed smaller in person. He was thin with the kind of gentle presence that made me want to sit with him in easy quiet. His clothes were nice in the way that rich people’s clothes always were, simple but beautifully made. He must have felt me looking at him because he turned to me and offered a soft smile.

  “Ah, you must be Chef Campbell.” His voice was musical, with a light British accent.

  “Yes sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for joining us this afternoon.”

  “Oh please call me Marcus. And the pleasure is all mine. This is a lovely space you have here.” He glanced around the dead empty restaurant and it took everything in me not to apologize for the oppressive quiet.

  “Thank you. We’re proud of it.” I paused, smiled, glanced at his water glass to make sure it was still full. “Have you had a moment to look over the menu, or would you like a little more time?” A bolt of inspiration hit me then. A special. I could offer him something good. Something interesting. Something that was mine. A dish I’d been dying to make with some of the sea bass we’d gotten in floated to the surface of my mind. I mentally checked our pantry—we had everything I needed to make it. “I did want to tell you about a special we have today.” Another pause. The last thing I wanted to do was rattle off the details of a dish he had no interest in hearing about.

  Thankfully, he perked up, dark brown eyes lifting from the menu to lock with mine. “Please.”

  I raced back into the kitchen, heart hammering in my chest. Mac and Jay turned, both of their faces tense. Idly, I wondered where Sean was, why he wasn’t out there schmoozing with Marcus and ruining the man’s meal with his terrible, borderline offensive jokes. He’d been showing up later and later, looking puffy and exhausted. Whatever the reason for his absence, I was grateful for it.

  “Okay.” I washed my hands quickly and called Marcus’s order over my shoulder. “I need one brussels sprout salad, one scallop. Jay, when the pita’s done r
un it out to Marcus yourself and charm the pants off him.”

  Jay barked out a laugh behind me. “You got it, chef.”

  “Um, chef.” Mac’s voice was heavy with confusion. “Did he not do a main or...”

  My lips twitched up. I looked around my kitchen. It was still mine. I had my best friend in the world here and a take-no-prisoners sous-chef. “We’re gonna do a special.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Beth

  Quinces were a fascinating fruit. Knobby and yellow on the outside, hard and tart inside, when exposed to the magic of heat they transmuted into a soft, sensual pink bursting with flavor. I contemplated the pounds of quince we’d gotten from Snakeroot Orchard. Maybe a cake would be best. It was November now, officially cold. Outside the trees were nearly bare of their russet and ochre leaves. Frost etched the windowpane. Guests would appreciate winter spices, the floral bite of wildflower honey, and a bit of almond flour melding into the kind of warming dessert folks wanted when they came in from the snow. Then again, poached quince with a thick, creamy custard could be good too.

  I wrapped my arms around myself and heaved an overly dramatic sigh. It was all well and good to plan next week’s menu, but what I really wanted was to hear back from Adah. It had been more than two weeks since my disastrous pizza party. I’d texted a few times. I’d even worked up the nerve to call and leave a very pathetic voicemail. But if Adah didn’t want to hear from me, I had to respect her boundaries. Even if I didn’t understand them.

  I did understand that I had fucked up. Something about me showing up out of the blue had been a major trigger for Adah. There was no mistaking the terror flashing in her eyes, the way she seemed to retreat so far into herself she wasn’t there with me at all. I’d felt her pain like a hot brand on my own skin. Sure, she’d been kind of a jerk. But I wanted to talk it through, wanted to understand, wanted to help her in any way I could.

  My body felt hollow, hulled out, and sick with sadness I didn’t want to acknowledge. For the first time I’d known in my bones that everything was right. That she and I fit together. That she was my person. It was more than the fact that I wanted to tear her very practical clothes off every time I saw her. More than the arguing over recipes and teasing her about her the fact that she’d seemingly never listened to music made after 1980. Something fit. I saw a bright, clear future with Adah. It pained me to think of it now but I’d imagined getting into the habit of helping Pete with his homework in the evenings, picking him up from school and stopping for an ice cream on the way home. I’d hoped to finally show Adah my house, to wrap her in comfort and set her at ease in every way possible. I wanted the chance to show her how much I cared.

  The back door clattered open and Nina brought a swirl of snowflakes and snap of cold air into the kitchen with her. At first glance, I thought her face was red from the cold. Like me, she was pale and tended to flush easily. Then I saw her puffy eyes and pained expression. I opened my arms and she came into them willingly, her tears immediately wetting the fabric of my shirt.

  “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I ran a soothing hand over her hair.

  “I’m so sorry, Beth.” Nina’s voice was raw and tiny.

  The heartbreak in my usually sunshiney friend’s voice sent a tremor of worry through me. Nina had seemed decidedly off for the past few months. The few times I’d tried to check in with her, though, she brushed me aside. Was she sick? Had something happened to her family? Had I done something unkind or spent too much time talking about my new relationship? Gripping her shoulders tight, I pushed Nina back and stared into the deep gray of her eyes.

  “You’re going to hate me.” She dropped her gaze to the floor.

  My worry shifted then. Fear wrapped its fingers around my throat and when I spoke my voice sounded forced. “I could never hate you. Tell me what’s going on, okay?”

  Nina sniffled and rubbed her eyes, leaving dark streaks of mascara on her cheeks and hands. “I just checked our email and we had a personal note from Marcus saying we won. People from Gourmand are coming in next week to do the photo shoot and interview you.” She paused, clearly waiting for my reaction.

  My thoughts scattered. I should have been trying to connect the dots as to why this good news was making Nina weep. Instead, though, concern for Adah flooded my mind. She would be devastated. And this award definitely wasn’t going to help my case for winning her back.

  “Did he say who else they listed for the top five?” My mouth moved ahead of my brain. I said a silent prayer to the universe that Bella Vista had at least been awarded a spot.

  Nina nodded. “Yeah he included a link to the announcement on their website. I’m pretty sure there was one other place in Maine...some B&B way up north. Obviously Ninth Street in Boston came in second. And some other new place that opened up in Cambridge. I forget the other one though...”

  I yanked my phone out of my pocket and thumbed over to my email app. The message from Marcus was lengthy but I didn’t even skim it. I would read and reply later. My breath stuttered to a halt as I clicked the link and waited for the article to load. Damn spotty cell service.

  Then there it was. The five best restaurants in New England with The Yellow House right at the top. I didn’t even read the review. I already knew what we’d served Marcus: the same fall vegetable and venison tourtière we’d served all of our other customers that day. He’d ordered an extra side of our blistered endive and homemade fromage blanc toast, a kale and buttercup squash salad, and a slice of tarte tatin for dessert. My eyes flicked over the glowing reviews of a French-style inn near Elkhead Lake, gushing descriptions of the elegant Italian place in Cambridge, recycled praise for Ninth Street, and then... My stomach dropped. The number five spot had gone to a family-run Vietnamese restaurant in New Haven. I kept scrolling, past the flashing ads, down to the bottom. I wanted to punch the air. He’d mentioned Bella Vista among a list of notable dishes to try.

  While Bella Vista’s watered-down molecular gastronomy approach feels out of context among the coastal charm of South Bay, Chef Adah Campbell’s baked sea bass with a fresh za’atar salsa verde was a bright spot in an otherwise unexciting menu.

  “He mentioned Adah!” I chirped, waving my phone at Nina.

  Nina’s eyebrows crashed together. “Aren’t you excited about us winning? Now we’ve really made it. This is a really big fucking deal, Beth.” She said this in a monotone, like she couldn’t be less happy about the news.

  I lifted a shoulder. Of course, it felt good to know that people liked our food. But I hadn’t opened The Yellow House to cater to critics. And besides, we were already so overbooked the new wave of publicity was probably going to drive me into an early grave—death by shaping pastry. Plus, I still hadn’t come up with a funding solution for the dining room expansion problem, which was now more dire than ever. “I mean obviously it’s awesome, but Adah’s going to be so upset. She really wanted to win this and...”

  “Jesus Christ!” Nina snapped. “Can you stop talking about Adah for like two seconds? I get it, you’re in love, everything worked out perfectly for you. You got the life you wanted.” Nina’s voice broke and tears slid down her cheeks, one after the other.

  As much as I wanted to push back—to remind Nina that Adah wouldn’t even talk to me, that I’d never been sure I wanted this life, that I was still so scared and overwhelmed I wanted to run away—I knew now wasn’t the time for that. Nina and I had never fought, not even when we decided to stop hooking up and stayed friends. “Tell me what’s wrong.” I leaned against the prep table and tried to project as much calm as possible.

  “I’m leaving,” Nina murmured. “I wanted to tell you earlier but then you seemed so happy and then all this award stuff came up and now we won and I’ve probably fucked everything up for you.”

  “Hold on, honey, slow down. What do you mean you’re leaving?”

  Nina buried her face in her
hands and shook her head. She’d always been dramatic, my best friend. I crossed the small kitchen and pried her hands away from her flushed cheeks.

  “I just feel so stuck here, you know? Like, you left. You got to travel and date around and see shit. I don’t know, like, I’m gonna be thirty next year and what the hell have I even accomplished? This town feels so small now and I just didn’t know what to do. So when I saw this opening at a winery in Bordeaux, I applied. I didn’t think they’d have any interest in me but they want me to start in the new year. So basically I’m completely fucking you over because we’re about to get even busier and you’ll be down a chef and you and I both know you’ll take a zillion years to hire someone.” She started twirling her hair around her finger, something she’d always done when she was nervous. Nina was almost never nervous. “And, well, I hooked up with Jay. You know, the pastry chef that works with your girlfriend.” This last part was uttered in the kind of hushed whisper I would have expected from a deadly secret, not a revelation of a onetime sexual encounter I already knew about.

  I waited for her to elaborate, to bring a little clarity to this jumble of thoughts and feelings, but when she didn’t, I decided now was the time for comfort. I hated the thought that Nina had twisted herself into knots trying to hide these things from me when really all I cared about was her happiness, whatever shape it took. “First, I mean it when I say I could never hate you. You know that. And I’m so thankful you worked with me but it doesn’t mean you’re chained to this kitchen forever. I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me and I’m really sorry if I’ve been distracted lately because of Adah.” At the mention of her name hot panic twisted through my chest. Maybe she wouldn’t ever talk to me again. Maybe this award would push us so far apart I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to her...

  Not now. Focus on your friend and save your pity-party for your few hours of tossing and turning and failing to fall asleep.

  “And I’m a little confused,” I said belatedly. “What does you hooking up with Jay have to do with this though? Was it really so bad you want to skip town?”