Steamed

by Conan-Park, Jessica

  He leaned back on the couch and ran his hands through his hair. I noticed his hands were covered with burns and blisters and calluses, signs of battle from the kitchen. Although his beat-up hands might have put off some women, I thought he looked manly and, for some reason, heroic. But I did start to worry about the impression Josh’s self-assurance might have created on the police. To me, Josh seemed justifiably confident about his ability as a chef; he’d probably paid his dues and deserved to gloat a little bit. To me, his attitude wasn’t arrogance; it was pride. But maybe the police had seen him otherwise; maybe his self-confidence had made him a likely suspect.

  “Look,” I started, “I don’t think it was the nicest thing to do, but I can understand where you were coming from. If you two were old rivals, it doesn’t seem to make sense to put you together to work on a menu. And Garrett should’ve known that he was reaching with those dishes and figured out something else.”

  “I do feel bad about it, because I probably could’ve helped him plan dishes he could’ve done well. But I didn’t. And I think that’s made Detective Hurley suspicious.”

  “So you were off last Sunday, the night Eric was murdered, right?” I asked.

  Josh nodded. “Yup, and that detective is still trying to ‘verify my alibi,’ as they say on TV. I’m not that worried. It’ll be fine. I was home alone, though, so he’s having trouble confirming that. My roommate, Stein, was working late that night and didn’t get home until after midnight. And there’s the problem with the knife being mine. But the detective actually seems like a nice guy, and he has to do his job. And it’s not like I’ve been arrested or anything.”

  “Josh, what kind of knife was that? I saw it, unfortunately, when I found Eric in the men’s room. I’ve never seen a knife like that before. Kind of curved.”

  “It’s just a specialty knife called a cimiter.” The word sounded like scimitar: a saber. For someone talking about an object remarkably like a sword, Josh sounded casual when he went on to say, “It’s used for cutting down meat.” He paused and looked right at me. “So, are you ready to kick me out yet?”

  Maybe it was the gin-and-tonic-induced love goggles, but all I could see was a sincere, talented, driven guy, a guy I wasn’t about to kick out of my condo. I shook my head, “Of course not.”

  “Look, for the most part, the culinary and restaurant world is not nice. Everyone’s overworked, usually underpaid, and totally chaotic. We don’t get weekends off, we work nights, it’s tough on families, it’s tough on relationships. And everyone in this business is sort of whacked in one way or another. We’re all kind of manic, which I guess we need to be to keep up with the pace. But I don’t want you to get the impression that I don’t like other chefs and that I think I’m the greatest chef. I have plenty of friends that are chefs, and there are lots of chefs out there that I totally respect. But it’s still, well, pardon the expression, cutthroat.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t think you killed Eric. I’m starting to understand how tough your chef world is, but that doesn’t make you a killer. Now we just have to convince Detective Hurley of that.”

  Josh looked up at me. “We?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “I just met you, and I want to get to know you better, so I’m not about to let you rot in jail.”

  Sometimes it happens: an instant connection. Even my recent disasters with Noah and Eric couldn’t prevent me from putting myself out there. Heather was always warning me that I fall too hard and too fast for men. I didn’t care. I hated playing games, feigning indifference, taking things slow. When I liked someone, I just went for it, and I wasn’t about to start holding back now. If Josh decided he wasn’t interested in me, then I’d survive. Maybe I’d get burned. Maybe I’d find love. In fact, maybe I’d found it.

  “You know what?” I said to Josh. “Let’s not talk about the murder anymore, okay? It’s all going to work out.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been talking your ear off about this and the restaurant and Garrett. You must be bored stiff. I guess I just needed to get some of this off my chest. Thank you for listening.” One week of social work school, and I was already a highly skilled therapist.

  “No, don’t apologize. I love hearing about restaurants. I’m completely obsessed with food, which is probably why I thought Eric would be a good date for me. He was interested in restaurants. But we know how that turned out.” I rolled my eyes.

  “So, I guess this means you’re single, then?” Josh asked adorably.

  “Very single. Yes.” I got that nervous feeling that happens right before you get kissed for the first time . . . was he going to kiss me?

  Yes.

  Josh leaned forward and gently placed one hand on the back of my head as he moved in for the sweetest kiss ever. What a relief that he kissed as well as he cooked. It was always such a disappointment when a first kiss was seriously flawed: a monstrous tongue darting in and out, saliva everywhere. Nauseating. Unfortunately, common. I’d dumped people after the first bad kiss. If the kissing is bad, you’re pretty much guaranteed that any other physical pursuits will be a letdown.

  Josh eventually pulled back and whispered in my ear. “You know what, Chloe?”

  “What?” I asked, a little too breathlessly.

  “I’m starving.” Josh said. “I’m sorry, it’s just I haven’t eaten much today.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have offered you something. I’m a rotten host,” I apologized.

  “You,” he said as he kissed me again, “are a wonderful host. It’s just that I don’t usually get to eat when I’m working.”

  “I’m not sure what I have. Probably leftovers and scraps. If I’d known I was having a chef over, I’d have stocked up,” I teased him. We went into my tiny kitchen and peered into the fridge. I was dismayed to find nothing I’d consider offering to a man of such gourmet taste. “I don’t have much.” I pushed a wilted head of lettuce out of the way to reveal a one-inch cube of cheddar.

  “Here, I’ll find something for us to snack on.” Josh placed his hands on my waist and moved me gently aside. “Can you grab a plate for us?” he asked as he busied himself pulling jars and Saran-wrapped items from the depths of the refrigerator. Within minutes he had created an antipasto-like appetizer of three cheeses, pickled vegetables, stuffed peperoncini, sliced apples, crackers, a few raspberries, and some stray deli slices. Now, if I’d arranged exactly the same ingredients on the platter, it would’ve been nothing more than a group of mangled food bits; Josh, however, performed magic.

  “Here we go, my lovely one,” Josh said, placing the platter on the kitchen table.

  “I don’t know how you put this together. I didn’t know I had half this stuff left in the fridge.” We sat down together and talked while we ate.

  “So, Ms. Chloe Carter, tell me about yourself,” Josh said with a look of sincere interest.

  And I did. We talked for over two hours. After debating whether or not to portray myself as a pulled-together social work student with a clear plan for my future, I decided to put the truth out there and see where it led. I confessed that I was a bit muddled. Josh was slightly amused but supportive; he didn’t show the slightest hint of disapproval.

  Of course, we talked food. I would’ve assumed that Josh had grown up eating like royalty or at least like ordinary French people, same difference, but he’d existed on frozen dinners and canned vegetables until he’d left home to go to culinary school on a scholarship. He’d lived in a pretty rough section of South Boston with his parents and a sister, Angela, who was eight years older than he was. Josh used to bake with his grandfather quite a bit, but making pies and cakes was the extent of his cooking experience until he announced his intention to become a chef. “I’m not even sure how I decided that’s what I wanted to do. I just knew it. No one in my family got it . . . well, except my grandfather, who said, ‘You’re gonna cook your ass off, kid.’ ” After graduation, he worked his way up at a number of Boston restaurants until he eve
ntually got the job at Magellan.

  “All of your girlfriends must’ve loved the fact that you’re a chef?” I had to broach the subject of women. How many ghosts or exes were still hanging around?

  “Actually, no. Most girls don’t want to put up with a chef ’s hours. I work holidays, weekends, and I’m not usually done until anywhere between ten at night and one in the morning. I’ve had a couple of people break up with me because they resented how much I work.” Josh shrugged. “But what are you gonna do? I just love being a chef.”

  “Well, I think that’s horrible. If you want to be with somebody, then you work it out, bad schedule or not.” I’d wait up until three in the morning every night just to catch a glimpse of Josh. “Well, they must have loved your cooking, though. Didn’t that make the hours worth it?”

  “I dated one girl for two years, and her favorite food was a well-done turkey burger on a roll.” Josh rolled his eyes. “So I can’t say she was a big fan of my cooking. God, I never want to see another turkey burger as long as I live. And she couldn’t deal with my hours, so she dumped me.”

  “Turkey burgers? With everything you make, that’s what she wanted? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Yeah, obviously that relationship was doomed. And she was pissed that I didn’t make more money. Believe me, most people who cook aren’t in it for the money. A handful of top chefs have great salaries, but people like me and like Brian? We don’t make a lot. In fact, sometimes sous chefs and line cooks work second jobs to pay the bills. If they have the time to, that is.”

  I can’t say that I was too upset that someone else had cast off this great guy. But what woman in her right mind would break up with someone this wonderful? Murder suspect or not.

  As tempted as I was to jump out of my chair and into Josh’s lap for a more in-depth interview, I figured we’d better wrap up our first date, which wasn’t exactly a date but was better than most actual dates and consequently counted as one. Josh must have had the same feeling I did. He stood up and started loading the dishes in my minidishwasher. “Listen, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come into the restaurant for dinner this week. You could bring a couple of friends if you want.”

  I refrained from fainting with delight and collected myself enough to agree to come in at seven on Friday night. I said I’d bring Adrianna and her boyfriend, Owen. No sense in flaunting Adrianna without Owen on her arm.

  “Excellent. I’ll seat you guys up by the kitchen so I can talk to you while I work,” he promised. “I can’t wait to see you again,” he murmured as he leaned over and kissed my forehead.

  “I can’t wait to eat again,” I joked, pulling him back in for another full-on kiss.

  TEN

  AS much as I didn’t want to see Josh go, I was exhausted from the funeral as well as from my day of food and new love. I puttered around the house for a while and thought about Josh and how cute and sexy and gastronomically gifted he was. I couldn’t believe I’d be at his restaurant on Friday. I left Adrianna a voice message demanding that she and Owen come to dinner with me to check out my new love interest, rate his food, and keep me collected during my first real date with Josh. Even though he’d be working, as far as I was concerned it would still qualify as a date. And a date at Magellan! Probably with dishes even better than his catered funeral food.

  I hated going on dates where the guy took you to some boring restaurant with mediocre food and didn’t notice that anything was wrong. In fact, I can remember what I’ve had to eat on most of the dates I’ve had, and for me, the sharing of food can make or break a relationship. The first date I ever had was in the spring of my sophomore year in high school. It was with George Rosenthal, a junior who worked part-time at a fishmonger (good sign). He took me to the Ground Round (bad sign), where in quintessential teen fashion, I made like I never ate anything and lived exclusively on Diet Coke. George scarfed down two plates of fries and a huge burger and, clearly not impressed with my soda dinner, took me to see Die Hard: With a Vengeance and then promptly drove me home. That was the last time I starved myself on a date. If a guy is put off by the fact that I like to eat, too bad for him.

  The quality of the food on a date doesn’t necessarily have to be great, but we do have to agree about whether a meal is sensational, forgettable, or just plain offensive. The first time my ex-boyfriend Sean made dinner for me at his cramped studio apartment, he somehow managed to burn the spaghetti while it was boiling (something I hadn’t known was possible) and to oversalt the red sauce so horrendously that we both kept puckering our mouths as we tried to eat. Sean got high marks for effort and agreement: he couldn’t cook, but we agreed that the burned and oversalted dinner was awful. We dated for two years.

  After Sean and I broke up, I briefly dated Zach, who was definitely not my type, but I was lonely and taken in by his muscular build, strong jaw, and fully loaded black Jeep Cherokee. I predicted his good looks and cool car would eventually enable me to overlook his deficiencies, among them, that he was not very bright and not particularly interesting. He lived two hours away in Connecticut, and after the novelty of his body had worn off, the distance had meant tiresome drives followed by insufferably long weekends during which I made ineffectual attempts to find something intellectually redeeming about him. When that strategy failed, I decided that if cognitive capabilities weren’t his strength, I’d address the food angle. So far, his dinners had consisted of baked beans and franks, but maybe he just needed some culinary education. After all, it wasn’t his fault if he didn’t know any better; it was up to me to teach him about meals that didn’t come out of plastic wrappers and tin cans.

  One cold Saturday morning in February, I drove to Zach’s place with my car full of fresh produce and two beautiful cod fillets. I slaved in the kitchen finely slicing red peppers, onions, zucchini, tomatoes, garlic, and cilantro. I laid the fillets in foil packets, slathered them with the veggies, and doused the fish in white wine and butter pats. Zach looked on in bewilderment, having probably never even seen a piece of fresh fish before. When his virgin kitchen was filled with the heavenly aroma of the bubbling cod purses and audible sizzling was erupting from the oven, Zach curiously went over to the radiator to see if the pipes were hissing again. I explained that the unusual noises were the result of actual food cooking. As proof, I had to crack the oven to show him. I served the fish packets with plain couscous and French bread. Zach diligently tasted his fish and, surprised, pronounced it “not bad.” He then devoured the whole dish in seconds, leaned back in his chair, and reached for the remote to check in on Sports Center, which he’d grudgingly turned off when dinner was ready.

  I was about to give up on Zach but went to see him the following weekend after he’d called me to say that he wanted to make me dinner since I’d done so for him. I made the tiresome trek to his place that Friday night with the hope that some sort of miraculous transformation had occurred following his first fish dinner. Much to my dismay, Zach had gone to the local grocery store and bought some frozen haddock fillets that he bravely slapped onto a dry skillet while I sat frightened in the living room. I mustered all the graciousness I could and bit into the miserable fish, which was accompanied by a side of canned green beans. Zach, who didn’t seem to notice much difference between his fish and mine, once again pronounced the meal “not bad.” The declaration marked the demise of our relationship. I fled after dinner, pausing outside his building to vomit in the privet hedge before speeding back to Brighton.

  Josh was clearly on a whole new culinary level. I went to bed that Saturday night feeling like Christmas was coming.

  On Sunday morning I decided I’d better go retrieve my car from the funeral home in Cambridge, where I’d probably amassed nine hundred dollars in parking tickets. I called Heather, hoping she’d take pity on me and drive me to collect my Saturn.

  “Well, where have you been, my long lost sister? Huh?” Heather said as she picked up the phone.

  “Come get me, and I’ll te
ll you. You won’t even believe the week I’ve had. Drive me to my car in Cambridge, and you’ll hear all about it,” I said, knowing Heather would do anything for a good story.

  “Fine. I’m heading over to Mom and Dad’s with Walker and Lucy. Let me just get them ready, and I’ll come over. Meet me outside your house.”

  Twenty-five minutes later I was comfortably seated in Heather’s Mazda minivan tickling my adorable niece and nephew. “All right,” Heather demanded, “spill it. What the hell is your car doing in Cambridge?”

  “Hell! Hell!” Walker chirped from the backseat.

  “Dammit, I have to stop swearing in front of the kids. Walker, don’t say that word, please. Mommy shouldn’t have said that. And, Jesus, don’t say it in front of your grandparents.”

  “Jesus! Jesus!” Walker echoed.

  “I’ll just have to tell Mom and Dad he’s an extremely religious child,” Heather sighed. “Okay, Chloe. Go.”