When our entrees arrived, my mouth watered at the sight of my lamb. It smelled heavenly! The grilled lamb was served with cannellini beans and a rich salsa verde. The server who’d brought our main courses had pushed a rolling cart with preparations for Kyle’s steak au poivre near our table. A sous-chef appeared and set a pan over an open flame. He then dropped a thick pepper- covered steak into the pan, causing billows of smoke to erupt.
“I love anything prepared tableside, don’t you?” Kyle asked us as he stared happily at the sous-chef. “Wait until he lights the pan on fire. It’s gorgeous!”
When the steak was done, the sous-chef removed it and poured in a generous amount of pungent cognac. He tilted the pan and lit the cognac on fire, and the three of us almost involuntarily clapped our hands. It was like watching a show! When the fire subsided, the sous-chef added heavy cream to the sauce and then poured the rich concoction over Kyle’s steak.
“That’s great, isn’t it? I go to those Japanese restaurants sometimes, the ones with the group tables where they do the hibachi cooking. I love it when the chefs make the onion volcanoes and fire shoots up from the onion rings. My father would probably faint if he knew I went to those kinds of restaurants, but I enjoy them.” He sounded like an excited child talking about Disney World.
Ade nearly choked on her food, and I laughed. “We shouldn’t talk about hibachis in front of her right now. Her husband is at home grilling on a small hibachi on their wooden fire escape.”
“Yes, my idiot husband is probably going to burn our apartment down tonight. We don’t have the money to buy a new grill, never mind to pay for rebuilding our apartment!” Ade flipped her blonde hair behind her shoulder and took a deep breath. “What am I going to do with him, huh?”
“Aw, it could be worse,” I said. “Besides grilling outside, he could be trying to flambe things in the kitchen. Could you imagine him igniting cognac in the apartment?”
“Don’t even suggest that!” she said. “If he hears about this steak tonight, then you know he’ll want to replicate it at home. I’ll have to keep the details of this delicious dinner a secret.” She winked conspiratorially at us.
I worked my way through a plate of succulent lamb, and by the time dessert arrived, Kyle and I had agreed that I’d keep his folder of notes so that his father, the famous Hank Boucher, wouldn’t have the opportunity to see the mess of recipes and crumpled papers. Chef Boucher wouldn’t see anything about the book until I had at least turned Kyle’s notes into neat, tidy pages. Boy, did I have work ahead of me. I felt less guilty about accepting such a generous hourly rate now that I knew about the late nights that lay ahead of me.
I sampled the tiramisu and smiled. “Maybe we should get this recipe.” I groaned. “It’s sinful!” Tiramisu was one of those desserts that could be either outstanding or totally mediocre. This one, with its layers of mascarpone, liquor-soaked ladyfingers, and cocoa, was rich and decadent.
“So, Chloe, not to rush you too much, but do you think you could contact this Digger character tomorrow and see what Simmer recipes you can get your hands on?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“It’s just that with my father coming into town tomorrow, I’d really like to do what I can to avoid a fight. I know I can get this book together and really impress him, but I think it’d be best to make a strong first presentation.”
“Absolutely. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I speak to Digger,” I assured my new boss.
After we had thoroughly gorged ourselves on dinner, Kyle paid the bill and left a substantial cash tip. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to ingratiate myself with the chef and see if I can finagle a recipe or two and an interview from him. Thank you so much, Chloe, for taking this on. And, Adrianna, it was a delight to meet you. I hope to see you both again soon.” He shook our hands and headed off toward the rear of the restaurant.
Ade helped herself to the last bite of my dessert. “So, Chloe,” she said, “good work. Not only did you find yourself a great job, you also just found a potential husband.”
“What?” I said with irritation. “That man is not husband material. He’s my employer. We are going to have a strictly professional relationship.”
“We’ll see,” she said in a singsong voice. “I think he is adorable and charming and sweet. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time to move on?”
FOUR
I spent Thursday at my internship, or “field placement” as my graduate school referred to it, at a community mental health center where I provided counseling services to an array of clients. Draining though those days were, they kept my mind from wandering to my romantic troubles. When I returned home, my car slid on wet leaves as I pulled into my parking spot by my condo. November weather stank. It was freezing, with bitter winds and gray skies dominating the forecast for the next ten days. Now, at four fifteen or so, it was already as black as midnight, and I was missing spring terribly. I walked up to my third-floor condo and immediately turned on all the lights and lit a few sugar-scented candles. I was fighting the urge to get into bed and hide, but I was determined to beat this endless Josh hangover. Last night’s conversation about Simmer had stirred up memories of my frequent visits to see Josh at work, the way he looked after a long night in the kitchen, how his once- white chef’s coat would be all dirty and smelly but somehow comforting. His hair would be mussed up and adorable, and his blue eyes were always filled with exhaustion… I had to stop! I refused to let this gloomy day bring me down. My interesting new job would eat up a lot of the time that I’d otherwise have spent lolling around, pining over my chef. No, I corrected myself, not
I scooped up one of my cats, Inga, and nuzzled her white fur. She’d been terribly scrawny when I’d first taken her in, but she’d gained weight. I was, however, still struggling to keep up with her constant need for thorough grooming. These days, she got the occasional knot and was nowhere close to the matted mess she’d been when Josh had rescued her. I loved having her and loved what a snuggler she’d become. Gato, my shorthaired black cat, was still pissed off that he was no longer an only feline. I frequently came home to rolls of shredded toilet paper that he’d left for me in the bathroom. Gato didn’t fight with Inga, but he clearly had no interest in becoming kitty pals with her, either.
I had no idea what days Digger was off work, or even where he worked, but I decided to give him a call and at least leave him a message. I still had his cell number programmed into my phone, so I flopped onto my bed and dialed.
“Hello?” A woman answered his phone.
“Hi, this is Chloe. Is Digger there?”
“Chloe who? Who are you? What is this about?” she asked suspiciously. “Do I know you?”
Who was this girl, and why was she so rude? “I’m a friend of his. I wanted to talk to him about recipes.”
“Oh, Chloe, right! I’ve heard about you. You used to go out with a friend of Digger’s, right?”
I sighed. “Yes.”
“Oh, okay. Good. I’m Digger’s girlfriend, Ellie. Digger’s working tonight, but you’re interested in recipes? What do you need?”
I explained about Kyle’s cookbook project and emphasized the name Hank Boucher. “I’m sure Digger knows who Hank is. Do you think he’d be interested? What restaurant is he at now?”
“He’ll definitely be interested. Are you kidding?” she said enthusiastically. “He’s about to be the executive chef at the Penthouse. It’s a new, ultra-high-end place that’s opening in a few weeks. I can’t believe he got the job. Well, I can believe it because he’s so talented, but the competition was crazy. You know how it is with chefs, though, right?”
“Yes, I do.” In fact, I knew all too well. Chefs were often wildly passionate about their careers, and good jobs were hard to come by. The testosterone-fueled atmosphere of the restaurant kitchen, combined with the frenetic pace of cooking, gave rise to lots of cursing and hazing. Over the past year, Josh had regaled me with countless kitchen- insider stories. I knew more than I cared to about the politics of the restaurant world. Most of what went on in the industry was entirely crazy: endless power struggles among the waitstaff, the kitchen crew, the managers, and the owner. I was tuckered out just thinking about it.
