The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  “What about all these little branchy, twiggy things sticking out the side? Nope. Not doing this. Give me another job,” I insisted.

  “Some help you are,” Josh teased. “Don’t worry about it. You should probably finish your stuff for the booth tomorrow.” He turned back to his cutting board. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet the infamous Naomi. She definitely sounds unique.”

  Images of granola-crunchy Naomi swirling her many brown braids around, engulfing Josh in hugs, and spouting words about peace and love started to give me a headache. I appreciated her gung ho attitude about Josh and me—she was forever telling me about the benefits of having a loving, supportive partner when working in an “emotionally draining field”—but she and Josh were two very different personality types; he didn’t have a Peruvian-knitted-cap bone in his body.

  “Yes, well, she’s excited to meet you, too,” I said truthfully. “She asks about you all the time. Actually, I think she might have something romantic going on herself.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?” He began to assemble ingredients for the focaccia.

  “She’s been sort of giggly and even more high-energy than usual. She hasn’t said anything, but I just have a feeling … maybe it’s that lady who runs that AFL-CIO thing down the hall from us. She’s always coming in to see if Naomi wants a chai tea from the café.”

  “Naomi’s gay?” Josh asked.

  “Well, I sort of assumed so,” I said. “You know, she’s always talking about women’s rights and drinking weird beverages and ‘forgetting’ to put on a bra.”

  Josh laughed. “And that makes her a lesbian?”

  “No. I mean, sometimes I drink chai iced teas or those funny smoothies with ginkgo and protein powder.”

  “Yeah, and I know you’re not a lesbian,” Josh winked at me. “And you better not let your classmates hear you talking like that. Aren’t you stereotyping or oppressing or labeling or something?”

  “True. Guilty, guilty, guilty. Okay, it’s not those things, but I’ve never heard her talk about any men, and she’s always referring to partners and mates and things. Anyway, the point is, I’m getting love vibes from her, and I think she’s got some sort of romance going on.”

  Josh came over to me and grinned. “Well, I’m ready for a break, and I’ve got some love vibes going on, too.” He leaned over and nestled his head in my neck, kissing me lightly.

  “In that case, I think I’m ready for a break, too.” I smiled and led Josh to the bedroom.

  TWO

  Love and food. I’d led Josh to bed, but what hauled him out was the focaccia dough, which really needed to be started. He stayed up late that night baking the bread and obsessing about Food for Thought. When I got up at ten on the morning of the twenty-eighth, he was dead asleep, so I tiptoed out of the bedroom and put on a pot of coffee. Fed up with my inability to brew a drinkable cup, Josh had bought me an ultrafancy coffee and espresso machine soon after we’d met. So far, I’d somehow managed not to break it, but success in steaming milk was still beyond me.

  The kitchen was a disaster, so I took my coffee to the living room and sat on the couch to go over the material that Naomi and I were going to hand out. I’d finished preparing it only the day before and was convinced that I’d misspelled something or typed an incorrect phone number. Reading and rereading, I came across no catastrophic errors. Naomi had called me last night to say that she was very pleased with my work, was going to have everything photocopied this morning, and would meet me at the gallery around five thirty tonight.

  Waiting for Josh to awaken, I took a gulp of coffee and surveyed the living room, which was almost as messy as the kitchen. Holiday cards, wrapping paper, and unwrapped presents were everywhere. I couldn’t stand the thought of tidying up anything Christmassy until January first, at which time everything associated with Christmas would be banished. Especially the tree. Back when I’d been dating my ex-boyfriend, Sean, I’d made the mistake of becoming so attached to my Christmas tree that throughout January and February and into March, it had still been in my living room, the lights and ornaments pitifully dripping from its dry branches. At that point it was simply too embarrassing to be caught hauling the tree down five flights of stairs. In a two a.m. drunken fit, I’d persuaded Sean that in a stealthy manner suitable for Navy SEALS, we’d lug the beast out of the building. Although the building had an elevator, it seemed quicker just to let the tree surf its way down the stairs. Sean, who’d had about twenty-two beers, had been completely game, so we’d grabbed the tree and pushed it down the steps and into the back alley, where Sean had lifted the dried-up Christmas tree and hurled it into the Dumpster. We’d then immediately raced upstairs and swept every single needle from my hallway and the stairs to give the impression that the tree in the Dumpster could have come from anywhere and that I’d certainly had nothing to do with anything so dumb as keeping a tree up until March. This year’s tree would be gone on the first of the year.

  But for now, I didn’t mind the Christmas mess and was comfortably seated next to an indoor herb garden that I’d bought for Josh and then decided against giving him because it struck me as a ridiculous present for a chef. On those and other grounds, I’d also become the not-very-proud owner of a handheld stick blender, a two-year subscription to Real Simple, a bundt pan, and a set of see-through panties and bustier that I’d convinced myself were presents for Josh, since he’d get to see me in them. After realizing that the gift of me was disgustingly narcissistic, I had managed to buy something actually for Josh: a really expensive knife from his favorite store, Kitchen Arts. And since most of Josh’s clothing consisted of chef clothes and of logo T-shirts given to him by beer and liquor distributors, I’d bought him a couple of plain pullover shirts that bore no reference to alcohol. As for his presents to me, I’d spent most of December fearing that Josh would give me something awful and corny, like a charm bracelet with miniature pans and spoons hanging from it. But Josh, knowing me as well as he did, got me a monstrous supply of paint rollers, masking tape, trays, and paintbrushes, and a gift certificate to Home Depot, where I could buy all the house paint I’d ever need. Now, this might not sound like a romantic present, but Josh knew that about every three months I repainted my apartment and was too goddamn lazy to wash the brushes or rollers and consequently left them, soaked in paint, to dry out and eventually end up in the trash. I still had an unsightly, crooked stripe painted across one wall of my bedroom, a wall that desperately needed help. Josh was a dream.

  He’d also given me one of the Naked Chef cookbooks, a selflessly generous gift because he thought that most celebrity chefs stank. On Josh’s accepted list were Julia Child, Jacques Pépin, Jamie Oliver, Gordon Hammersley, and Charlie Trotter. Oddly enough, he’d watch entire episodes of Iron Chef with me, but I could wear my Rachael Ray Yum-O T-shirt only in his absence. If he caught me indulging my addiction to the Food Network, his typical comment was, “What are you doing watching that bozo?” As though I were cheating on him by admiring another chef! But if you ask me, the reason he got all pissy about celebrity chefs was jealousy. His profession was highly competitive and underpaid. If Simmer succeeded, he could remain the executive chef there, have good reviews written about him, and maybe earn enough money to pay the bills. He might eventually open his own restaurant and hope that it survived long enough to make even a small profit, but as the owner, he’d have to deal primarily with the business aspects of the restaurant and would be able to do very little cooking, which was his true passion. If he got super lucky, someone famous might eat at his restaurant and give him his own show or create a line of Josh Driscoll cookware. Highly unlikely.

  Impatient for Josh to wake up, I worked on Naomi’s list, which was coming along:

  3. Attempting to put duvet cover on duvet without sweating to death.

  4. Having shower curtains that refuse to stay on stupid shower curtain hooks and fall off while you are trying to take sexy shower with chef boyfriend.

&
nbsp; 5. Being given annoying hermit crab pet named Ken as gift from nephew.

  I glanced up from papers to stare at my worst present, Ken, who was hanging from the top of his cage as if trying to impress me and make me like him. My sister, Heather, was trying to teach her three-year-old son, Walker, about the “experience of giving” and had foolishly let him pick out presents for Christmas. Walker was in the stage of choosing gifts that he himself would like to be given, and I was pretty pissed at Heather for supporting his inability to take the perspective of another. Yet, who was I to talk? Looking around the room at the mass of gifts I’d purchased for others and kept for myself, I suspected Walker and I shared some sort of genetic family flaw and were therefore blameless. Anyway, I was now stuck caring for a damn hermit crab, one that Walker had already named, for Christ’s sake. Still, I felt an obligation to keep Ken alive and not flush him down the toilet. I promised myself that I’d look up crab care on the Internet.

  I grabbed the phone to call my best friend, Adrianna. Ade was an independent hairstylist who was building up a loyal and wealthy clientele. She’d just started representing a makeup line as well, and she was forever giving me awesome product samples. My social work school volunteer day was coming up, a day when students were required to help out at social service agencies other than their own field placements. I was taking advantage of Adrianna’s skills. I’d hooked up with Moving On, a small house in Cambridge that provided temporary housing for women in what were euphemistically called “transitional situations.” The director of Moving On, Kayla, was thrilled with my idea of bringing Adrianna along. The day after tomorrow, Ade was going to give some of the women mini makeovers—and with them, we hoped, boosts in self-esteem. Kayla said that a few of the women had job interviews coming up and could really use help with self-presentation and self-confidence. Besides, these women’s lives were short on fun. New makeup and hairstyles would be a blast for them. Adrianna had even charmed the makeup company she represented into donating some products for her to give out.

  I heard Josh open the bedroom door and head to the shower.

  “Morning,” I called.

  “Hey, babe. Can you turn the oven on for me? To about three twenty-five?” He turned on the water. “I have to bake up the focaccia crisps.”

  “Sure.” I went to the kitchen. As I set the oven, I felt proud to make a contribution to Josh’s food. I was so excited about tonight that I could hardly stand it. This evening, Josh would be introducing his food to the rich and famous, and he’d probably become an overnight success and achieve national recognition as the hottest, most influential chef of our time! Okay, I was jumping the gun, but Food for Thought and the opening of Simmer really were excellent opportunities for Josh.

  Now what was I going to wear again …?

  THREE

  At five thirty, Josh and I pulled his yellow Xterra up to the gallery and double-parked so that we could start unloading his food and equipment. Mercifully, it was not snowing or freezing. On the contrary, the weather was unseasonably mild. I hoped the warm temperature boded well for a high turnout this evening. Josh followed me up a set of cobbled steps to the first floor of a quintessential Boston brownstone and into the gallery, which had originally been the first floor of an almost palatial house. A generous and graceful bay window overlooking Newbury Street had been set up as a well-stocked bar. Most of the interior walls had been torn down to create a large front room with an archway that led to the back of the gallery. Everything was brightly lit from the amazingly high ceilings, and beautiful pine floors stretched all the way from the entrance to the rear of the gallery. With the exception of the floors and the artwork, every surface was almost overwhelmingly, even blindingly, white, as if the intention were to impair the vision of those who visited the gallery: white walls, white ceilings, white reception desk. In the case of some of the works on display, the effect was, I thought, a charitable one. A massive canvas depicted what looked like a close-up view of abdominal surgery, blood, guts, and all. An appendectomy gone hideously wrong? Another painting, also large, was probably titled something like Study in Cobalt: blue, blue, and more blue evenly and smoothly spread over the whole surface. Here and there, pieces of sculpture in bronze and stone sat on white pedestals, and under the archway was a monumental hunk of smooth granite in the form of a gigantic egg.

  Well beyond the archway and the egg, at the far end of gallery, Naomi was tossing a white tablecloth over what I presumed to be our table. She was being helped by a frizzy-haired, lean man dressed entirely in black who fumbled awkwardly with the white fabric.

  “Chloe!” Naomi called to me. “Isn’t this exciting? Please, come meet Eliot Davis, the owner of this incredible gallery. Oh, and this must be your Josh?” She beamed at me in an uncharacteristically giddy fashion. I studied Naomi for a moment, trying to determine what was different about her tonight. Did she have on makeup? Yes, I definitely saw a pink hue on her cheeks and … was that lip gloss? I was even pretty sure that her chunky braids had been rebraided. Their usual stray hairs weren’t visible. It suddenly hit me: Naomi was nervous! I’d seen her before only in the office or at the irritating rallies she was forever dragging me to. She was completely out of her element here in this upscale, sleek gallery where the visitors were going to reek of money and class and Botox. In her effort to dress up for the event, she’d put on a turquoise peasant blouse, what looked to me like karate pants, and seven thousand bracelets—an outfit she must have thought would help her fit in. Her adorned arms kept making a piercing, clinking sound every time she moved. She might as well have thrown some hideous, big poncho over the whole ensemble to complete the look. I couldn’t resist peeking down to see that she had even put on simple brown flats instead of her usual Birkenstocks. Although her attempt at upping her fashion sense had failed, I still felt touched by it and hoped that she didn’t notice the difference in our attire. I had on my most recent purchases from Banana Republic, a shiny brown Empire tank under a yummy off-white crocheted sweater, and dark suede jean-cut pants. I wanted to look good for this evening but knew that I needed to look somewhat conservative since I was, after all, working at the Organization’s sexual harassment awareness booth, and any sort of provocative clothing might send an odd message.

  When Josh and I reached the table, I made the mistake of putting down a stainless steel tray of beef tenderloin in front of Naomi. Glancing at the meat, she visibly tried to avoid gagging. I’d forgotten that she was a vegan. Before she could open her mouth to say anything about cruelty to cows, I turned to Eliot. Lord, did he have big bug eyes!

  “Hi, I’m Chloe Carter. I’m Naomi’s social work intern. And this is Josh Driscoll, the executive chef at Simmer, which is opening a few doors down from you on New Year’s Eve.”

  Josh placed a massive food processor next to the tray of dead cow, and we all shook hands.

  Eliot smiled. “I can’t wait for people to start arriving. This is fantastic that I get to help promote an organization like Naomi and Chloe’s, and such a great restaurant with a fine chef such as yourself, Josh. Please let me know if you need anything at all. Consider this your home for the night. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Nothing right now, thank you,” I answered. Josh and Naomi shook their heads in agreement.

  “I need to get moving if I’m going to get food out on time.” Josh clapped his hands together, eager to start working.

  “Okay, then. You can set up here.” Eliot gestured to a couple of tables next to the one with the tablecloth. “Josh, I thought you might need two tables for Simmer, and I put you right here next to Naomi and Chloe. There’s a large coatroom behind us, here, and a phone in there. Or feel free to use my office if you need to.” In contrast to the front of the gallery, this area retained its interior walls. Eliot pointed to a room right off a hallway that led to a set of stairs illuminated by an exit sign. “And there are outlets here, too, if you need them. I see you’ve got a big food processor there, huh?” Eliot said,
eyeing the industrial-sized piece of equipment, which Josh had put on Naomi’s table. The heavy-duty machine, all steel and black and shiny aluminum, looked like a monstrous version of a Cuisinart.

  “This is what we call a Robocoupe,” Josh said. “Thanks to Gavin, I’ve got all new top-of-the-line equipment. And, yeah, I need to hook this up for the dressing. Okay, I’m going to go move the rest of the stuff from the car and find a parking spot, if possible.”

  “Please, park in the alley behind us. I own six spaces back there. Naomi’s parked there. You’ll never find a legal spot at this time.”

  “You know what? I’ll take you up on that offer. And I’ll just unload from there and come up these back steps if that’s okay with you?”

  “Absolutely,” Eliot said.

  Josh took off, and Eliot went to open the rear door. With Naomi’s help, I covered Josh’s two tables with the white tablecloths that Eliot had thoughtfully provided. Then, with considerable effort, I shifted the heavy Robocoupe to Josh’s space. After that, Naomi and I worked on setting up the harassment table. Before long, Eliot and Josh returned, each carrying armfuls of culinary supplies, and then Eliot left to go to the front of the gallery to rearrange the bottles and glasses. I looked around the room as I worked, admiring the large canvases on the walls. The paintings here were much more appealing than those at the front, abstract works with bold colors streaked throughout.

  Naomi leaned in and whispered to me as we spread out flyers. “Eliot has been extremely welcoming to us. And did you see how he helped out Josh just now? Not all gallery owners would do something like that.”

  “He seems very nice. And has very, um, distinctive eyes.”

  “He’s really been quite helpful. And Josh seems very sweet, too.”