Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  Tim looked me in the eyes. “It’s a very important competition, Mack. I got a lot riding on this one. I need you there to support me.”

  I could hear the universe making a giant flushing sound as all my hopes and dreams were sucked away in a current of condescension.

  I didn’t break eye contact, but Gigi leaned into my field of vision. “And trimming the silver skin from meat is tedious. You can be a big help.” She smiled broadly. “And don’t worry, I’ll be in the middle of you and Tim the whole time.”

  Just like always.

  Chapter Five

  I loaded the last of the B&B’s groceries into the commercial refrigerator. I was still in love with my new peach and copper kitchen. We’d had to make several renovations to turn Aunt Ginny’s Queen Anne Victorian into the Butterfly Wings B&B. Of all the work that we’d done, this room was my favorite.

  Figaro was pouncing from bag to bag to check for invaders . . . or treats . . . it was hard to say which. Aunt Ginny was rifling through the bag on the counter looking for chocolate of some kind. As if I put chocolate into everything. “It’s in the bag with the cassava flour.”

  “Ha! Chocolate chips! What are you making with these?”

  “I thought I would make black forest French toast for the guests.”

  “That sounds more like a dessert than breakfast.”

  “I know, but a lot of people look for that sort of thing when they’re at a B&B, and I think I can make a Paleo version for you and me, so we can try it.” I tipped my chin up to give Aunt Ginny a smile and caught her holding a spoonful of peanut butter rolled in chocolate chips. “What are you doing?”

  She gave me an indignant look. “Any caveman that can think of turning coconuts into pancakes can think of this.”

  That’s why I had a second bag of chocolate chips in my purse. Aunt Ginny always fell for the decoy chips. “Did you call Mrs. Galbraith?”

  “Yes, and she made a big deal about it being last minute and all, but she will be here starting tomorrow to clean the rooms.”

  I whipped up a smoothie with some tangerine juice, frozen fruit, spinach, and collagen powder. “I’m heading over to the coffee shop to make some muffins and bars to last throughout the week. This event filming schedule is brutal. Somehow they manage to make an hour of baking take all day to record.”

  “How is Gia going to get by without you? Is he going to freeze everything and dole it out?”

  “I think that’s the plan, yes.”

  “Aren’t you going to miss being with him every day?”

  I gave Aunt Ginny a sidelong glance. “I’m definitely conflicted about it. When I’m with Gia, I feel like my heart explodes, and my brain goes mush. But when I’m with Tim, I’m home again. He’s all I’ve ever wanted, and the years just melt away. It’s only for a week and a couple of days. I’ll be back to my regular life at La Dolce Vita soon enough.”

  Aunt Ginny kicked a bag with her toe and sent Figaro galloping across the room. “That’s the problem with love. You can love two people at the same time. I don’t know who I would have ended up with if I’d met all five of my husbands at that picnic in Seaside Heights. Yet, I loved every one of them.”

  Love? Did I say I was in love? Am I? I know I feel overwhelmed with both of them, like my whole world stops spinning and each moment could last forever. My heart speeds up, and my breath catches in my chest. Is that love? My love for my late husband, John, kinda skipped that step, what with our doing everything in reverse order and all.

  Aunt Ginny interrupted my thoughts. “What are you going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “Choosing between them.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I have to do anything yet. It’s not like either one has declared his feelings or asked me to be exclusive.”

  “Well, when the time is right, you’ll know what to do.”

  One thing I did know, the day would come when one of the three of us would have a broken heart. And if I caused either of them pain, that alone would surely kill me. I threw a straw in my cup and held it up to Aunt Ginny. “Do you want some of my spinach smoothie before I go?”

  Aunt Ginny froze with the spoon halfway to her chin, and through a mouthful of peanut butter said, “I’m full.”

  * * *

  Gia met me at the back door with a hot latte in hand. “There’s the next Food Network star.”

  I choked down a laugh. “Discovered from a one-hour news segment on local cable access, just like Cat Cora.” I took the latte and gave Gia a grin. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I can hear your car coming all the way from Aunt Ginny’s house down the alley. You need to get that muffler fixed.”

  I looked at my Toyota Corolla. It was pretty old. “Hm, I never noticed.”

  Gia rolled his eyes. “Just like a woman. I bet you’ve never had the oil changed.”

  “The light didn’t come on.”

  Gia went off in Italian, which I understood very little of, but I gathered the gist was that I didn’t know how to take care of a car. I’d argue that he was being a chauvinist . . . except . . . I didn’t know how to take care of a car. John had always done that stuff for me.

  “Give me your keys. I will have my brother Piero take a look this week. In the meantime, you can take my car.” He handed me the spare keys to his Alfa Romeo.

  My jaw dropped. “I couldn’t. What if I get into an accident?”

  Gia shrugged. “I have insurance.”

  We’d swapped keys. It felt sexy and mysterious, like an important line had been crossed. I told myself I was being silly. It’s not like he was giving me the keys to his house or the PIN to his bank account. “If you’re sure.”

  Gia winked. “Come and tell me all about the greet and meet.”

  The back room to the coffee house had a stainless-steel kitchen with a brand new, cobalt-blue Viking range with double oven on the left and a walk-in refrigerator on the right. In the back corner, Gia had an office smaller than my closet with a walnut desk and two chairs.

  I put my coffee down on the polished countertop, put Gia’s keys in my purse, and put on an apron. Then I started the ovens, washed my hands, and went to the storage room to gather supplies for the day’s baking. “It went well for the most part. I have the judges staying at the bed and breakfast for the week now. Their original place was flooded.”

  Gia leaned against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. “I’m surprised the other chefs didn’t have a problem with that.”

  “Well, it was either that or the event was going to be canceled. Many of them have been hit hard by the economy and fewer tourists are visiting, so they’re banking on the publicity from this event to stay afloat.” My mind went to Tim living in that tiny studio apartment over the mostly empty restaurant. I didn’t want to let him down.

  Gia nodded. “It’s been slower here, too, but we have a strong base of locals that keep us going.”

  I pulled out a recipe I’d been thinking about for a Paleo version of a strawberry Pop-Tart and assembled my ingredients. “Other than that, all the chefs seem pretty nice. Except for this one guy that Tim knows from college, Adrian.”

  Gia handed me a mixing bowl. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. He was really abrasive and cocky, and he accused Tim of sabotaging him when they were in college and ruining his class ranking.”

  “Did Tim do that?”

  I measured my almond meal and arrowroot starch and added them to the bowl. “I don’t think so, but when I asked him outright he didn’t exactly say no.”

  “That was a long time ago. People make mistakes when they’re young.”

  “See, that’s what I said.”

  The bell for the front door jingled. Gia went to wait on his customer while I finished the pastry dough and formed it into a ball. I chopped some frozen strawberries and scraped a vanilla bean, and then dropped them into a saucepan with some honey and gelatin. At the last minute I grabb
ed some balsamic vinegar and added a tablespoon to the berries to bring up the acidity.

  Gia returned when I was rolling out my pastry dough. “Can you fill a special order for four dozen of your espresso brownies for a party tomorrow night?”

  I checked my supply of allergy friendly chocolate chips. I only had enough for the double batch of brownies for the pastry case up front. “I can if they don’t mind me replacing the chips with chopped dark chocolate.”

  Gia went back out front, and I stirred the Pop-Tart filling. The bell jingled again, and Gia came back a minute later. “She said that was fine. Where is your recipe? I will get everything together for you and be your sous chef.”

  I giggled. “You want to be my second in command?”

  Gia spun me around. “I want to be your number one.” Then he kissed me, and it was like he’d set me on fire.

  When he was done, all I could say was, “Wow.”

  He smacked me on the backside and said, “Don’t burn your sauce.” Then he began to collect ingredients for the brownies while he whistled a little tune. “Are you excited about the competition?”

  “The what? Oh, yeah.” I wasn’t thinking clearly about anything except what had just happened. “Yeah, that. Um . . . yeah. I’m not doing as much as I originally thought, but I still feel like I’m living out a fantasy, you know? I don’t want to do anything to mess it up again.”

  “You won’t mess it up. Maybe the time wasn’t right before. Now will be your time.”

  “I hope you’re right. This is definitely the major leagues. I hope I don’t make a fool of myself. Bringing out the wrong ingredients or being asked to get something and not knowing where it is—or what it is.”

  Gia chuckled. “Don’t worry. You are better at this than you think you are.”

  “I sure hope so. Chef Philippe and Chef Adrian both went to top-tier culinary schools, and have professional pastry chefs on their teams. Chef Vidrine has been mentored by top chefs for years. Only Hot Sauce Louie is self-taught like me, and his restaurant is ranked in the top ten in Cape May. I don’t know what I’m doing in the same room with them.”

  “You need to believe in yourself like I believe in you.”

  My heart swelled, and I had to swallow some emotion. “And don’t worry about the shop. I have four batches of muffins, the brownies, Pop-Tarts, and a couple cookie bars to make for you to freeze today. That should get you through the week. You won’t even notice that I’m gone.”

  He stopped chopping chocolate for a minute. “Bella, my heart will always notice when you are gone.”

  Chapter Six

  Gia and I worked together for hours making enough muffins, brownies, and lemon bars to feed one of Georgina’s charity events. Although I’m not sure what charity would want only Paleo and gluten-free baking. Maybe the Celiac Foundation? Anyway, between the many shots of espresso, dance breaks to Dean Martin, and just trying to control myself around a sexy Italian for six hours, I was wired. I was also covered in melted chocolate and tapioca flour. I needed to rush home, take a shower, and eat something healthy before Ivy arrived with the celebrity judges.

  Gia pulled his Spider convertible to the back door for me. He gave me a long kiss good-bye and tucked me into the silver sports car. I very gingerly pulled out of the alley, terrified that I would hit something during the two-and-a-half block drive home.

  Three black town cars were parked at the curb in front of my house, and a fourth one was pulling up. Neighbors were coming out to check their mailboxes for mail delivered by fairies, because the mailman had been gone for hours, and they knew it. I checked the clock on the console: two-thirty. The judges were early. Well crapalulah!

  Aunt Ginny was standing in the yard wearing the frumpiest-looking flowered dress I’d ever seen. It looked like the cover-up they give you at the gynecologist for your Pap smear. I didn’t even believe it was hers. She had to have gone to the thrift store this morning just to punk me. “Today of all days.”

  I pulled into the driveway and Aunt Ginny stuck her face in the driver’s side window. “Whoo, look at this. Did the hot barista give you a car?”

  “No,” I said, a little grouchier than I’d intended. “And what are you wearing? When I left this morning, you were in a navy and white striped sweater from Ralph Lauren. This looks like something you’d give a first grader to wear as a smock for art class.”

  Aunt Ginny quirked a smile and raised an eyebrow. “I wanted to give the highfalutin judges an authentic South Jersey welcome.”

  Three guests were getting out of their town cars and Ivy was on her way over to greet me. “For the love of God, go change,” I said. Aunt Ginny stormed off, and I turned to give Ivy a smile. But a last-second thought caused me to call over my shoulder, “No ball gowns!”

  Aunt Ginny stopped, dropped her head, then disappeared into the house.

  “What was that all about?” Ivy smiled.

  “Nothing, but I’m sure I’ll come to regret it at some point today. So . . . they’re early.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. One of the judges is Bess Jodice. She used to be the Dean of Culinary Arts at Cape Community College. Now her cookbooks are on the New York Times best seller list. You may have read her column in Food and Wine Digest.”

  I shook my head no.

  “Well, she arranged a tour of the kitchen arena for the judges this evening, so everyone was picked up early. Only you know who the studio forgot to tell?”

  “Me?”

  “Well, yes, but I mean me, the director of the Restaurant Week segment. Do you know how long I had to work to be given my own special interest, weeklong mini-series in a non-fiction time slot?”

  I shook my head.

  “Six years. Jazmin got to do it in two, but Jazmin has a tiny waist and big boobs, so, you know, she earned it faster.”

  “Aww.” I patted Ivy on the shoulder.

  Across the yard, the celebrities were getting restless.

  There was a dapper gentleman in a white suit and perky, salmon-colored bow tie with matching pocket square. He wore a white trilby hat cocked at a jaunty angle over a gray handlebar mustache. He looked like the Monopoly Man, and he was poking my Butterfly Wings B&B sign with his walking stick.

  Next to him was a young Adonis in designer jeans and a pale blue cashmere sweater. He had perfect hair in the shade of dark chocolate, icy blue eyes, and very straight, very white teeth. He was busy taking numerous selfies in front of the B&B. He called out to the older gentleman. “Where is the paparazzi? I thought they’d be swarming this place by now.”

  The older gentleman looked around. “Clearly the staff has been sworn to secrecy. It’s a good indication of a well-run establishment that they have been discreet about our arrival.”

  I whispered, “Who are they?”

  “The older one is Horatio Duplessis, restaurant critic for the New York Journal Food Digest. He’s a bigwig in the industry. The word is, he came out of retirement just for this event.”

  “So, he’s the one I’ve been hearing about.”

  “Oh yeah. We had two chefs drop out of Restaurant Week when they got wind that he was coming.”

  “I thought there were only six slots?”

  “There are. Hot Sauce Louie and Oliva Larusso were last-minute replacements. And over there, the yummy one, is Stormin’ Norman Sprinkler, channel eight’s eleven o’clock weatherman.” She tapped her temple with her pen. “Not a lot going on upstairs, but with those looks, who needs brains?”

  “How is a weatherman one of the judges for a cooking competition?”

  Ivy pursed her lips and slid her eyes to the side. “This is a low-budget show, okay. We got local celebs. Most of the Chamber’s money is being spent right here on wining, dining, and lodging the judges in order to get a big name like Horatio Duplessis. Even the basket items have been donated by local suppliers in exchange for free advertising.”

  “Yoo-hoo. Is anyone going to take our bags?”

  We had to peel our e
yeballs off the weatherman because we were being hailed by an older woman with a gray bob wearing a mumsy plaid pantsuit. Ivy said through gritted teeth, “That one’s Bess. If you can make her happy, you’ll be the first.”

  We walked over to the group, and Ivy introduced the judges to each other. I offered my hand to Bess. “I’m so sorry about the delay. We didn’t expect you just yet. I’m Poppy, the owner of the Butterfly Wings B&B.”

  Bess stared down at my hand and made a distasteful recoil. I had a smear of strawberry jam on my wrist. I wiped my hand on my hip. “Sorry, I’ve been in the kitchen all day making Pop-Tarts and . . . stuff.” Bess wasn’t listening; she was mesmerized by a vision in white coming down the front porch.

  Aunt Ginny had chosen to punish me by donning a vintage beekeeper’s suit and helmet. I could just make out her smirk through the netting. She was being closely followed by Figaro, who would pass out if he even saw a bee on the other side of the window.

  Ivy nodded toward Aunt Ginny, “What’s that all about?”

  I sighed. “Retribution.”

  Bess greeted Aunt Ginny like the two were old friends. “Do you keep bees here?”

  “Not yet, but I thought I would start. I need some safe hobbies.”

  “I have my own hives up in Asbury Park.” Bess got closer to Figaro who promptly flopped over. Bess looked at him with concern.

  Aunt Ginny said, “Don’t worry about him, his head is hollow.” And the two of them walked arm in arm toward the house, leaving Bess’s four large bags at my feet.

  “I guess I’ll just get those.” I hefted two of the bags and looked back at the town cars. “There are only three judges? Who’s in the fourth car?”

  Ivy shuffled through her clipboard. Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh no.” She ran to the fourth car and threw the door open.