Hello, Sunshine

by Laura Dave

  “I ’coptered in a couple of hours ago,” he said. Then he turned toward me. “You look familiar.”

  My heartbeat sped up, and I tried to act casual. “I don’t think so,” I said.

  Ethan pointed. “Sunshine Mackenzie née Stephens, the TV chef who was just hacked.”

  I forced a smile, elbowing Ethan in his side.

  “Oh, sorry, the internet chef who was just hacked. Never quite made it to TV. Though there is a great billboard over in Sag.”

  Henry smiled back. “That’s right! I think my wife is a fan of yours. And I know we have your cookbook.”

  “She’s not,” Ethan whispered, and continued waving. “And they don’t.”

  “Are we going to see you later, buddy?” Henry called out. “Maybe get a little surf in?”

  “Definitely,” Ethan said.

  Henry gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  Then he disappeared into his car and peeled out.

  After he was gone, I looked at Ethan, who shrugged. “I’ve provided them with fish for some dinner parties, so he knows we’re friendly,” he said. “He just doesn’t know how friendly.”

  “That’s lovely,” I said. “Did you really have to embarrass me like that?”

  “Please, in front of the guy who used ‘helicopter’ as a verb?”

  “I’m trying to keep a low profile. Until I can pretend this never happened.”

  He considered. “No offense, but isn’t pretending how you got into this mess? If you ask me . . .”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Seems to me that you probably should stop pretending.”

  He got up and headed toward the house, the one where I grew up, which now belonged to his celebrity girlfriend.

  “Let me know if you change your mind about the job at the fish shop,” he called out as he walked away. “I’ll put in a good word.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  He turned. “I don’t know. ’Cause I can.”

  “Yeah, where I come from, people don’t just do nice things for each other.”

  He smiled, motioned around himself. “This is where you come from.”

  21

  The truth was that I did need a job.

  I needed a specific job—and it was why I had acquiesced to coming to Montauk. I needed a job that would start me on the road to redemption: a new show, a new crack at the whole thing. I was already formulating a plan in my mind. A new story, if you will. Sunshine returns to her childhood home to embrace who she really is, and in the process learns to cook, and for real this time. But not just from anyone. From a master chef. From the master chef of the Hamptons.

  It would be the first step in getting it all back. The cookbooks, the show.

  I already had the feel of the new show worked out. It would be elegant, real, beachy, earthy, and wish-fulfilling. We’d shoot it in a kitchen that looked out onto the Atlantic Ocean, with fresh fish on the counter, a centerpiece of lemons and white seashells.

  I would emerge as a pared-down version of myself, tanned and happy and more effortlessly graceful than before. All that would be needed was a quick mea culpa that when you surround yourself with the wrong people, you can become wrong yourself.

  But now I had surrounded myself with everyone right—my family, my old friends, and an extraordinary chef, my new friend, who anointed me as his protégé. And I couldn’t wait to share new, homespun and delicious recipes from the sea.

  I would be legitimate again. Amber Rucci would be put back in her place.

  But first, he had to anoint me—which was going to be no easy task, considering who he was. In a world where every chef wanted the cookbooks and the shows and the attention, he wanted none of the above. He wanted to be left alone—which was one of the main reasons he’d opened his restaurant in the Hamptons.

  The restaurant, which he named 28, was a few tree-lined streets off Montauk Highway, on the way to Amagansett. It was called 28 because of its intimate twenty-eight-seat dining room and chef’s counter. The five seats at the chef’s counter were the most coveted, but getting a table anywhere in the small dining room was a serious coup. If you knew about food (or even if you didn’t), you knew about this restaurant. It was a destination restaurant, a place-you-get-engaged restaurant, a place-you-get-married restaurant, a place-you-can’t-even-get-a-reservation restaurant.

  And, with any luck, it was also going to be the start-of-my-redemption-tour restaurant.

  I got Sammy an ice-cream cone at Craig’s (two scoops, chocolate and vanilla) and left her to it in the foyer, so I could walk inside 28 alone. The dining room was perfectly understated: wooden rafters, dark stone tabletops, Windsor chairs. There were two paintings on the wall—one of Montauk, circa 1938, Hurricane written at the bottom; the other of a wooden spoon and fork, crisscrossed over a white canvas. I couldn’t explain why that painting was as compelling as it was, so simple and decent. And yet, kind of like the restaurant itself, you wanted to be a part of it.

  A woman was standing at the hostess stand, placing the evening’s menus in their holders. She was in her early sixties and perfectly coiffed, in a white sweater and dress pants. Formal. And so slight that you could have missed her, if it weren’t for her perfume—a pungent mix of lavender and dandelions—as though someone had told her that if she bought a natural perfume, she could put as much on as she desired. And, apparently, she desired to wear a lot.

  She looked up and noticed me in the doorway. “We’re closed until dinner service,” she said.

  “I’m actually looking for the manager . . . Lottie Reese?”

  She offered a forced smile, probably thinking that I was there to beg for a reservation. “I am she.”

  I nodded like I didn’t already know that. I had known it. I’d done my homework and had picked this exact time to walk in, knowing she would be the one in the main dining room. Lottie Reese: Chef Z’s right-hand woman, the first employee he’d hired when he opened 28. Chef Z avoided the dining room whenever possible—didn’t like mingling with his guests—and Lottie handled everything front of house for him every evening. By day, she handled everything else.

  I offered her a large smile, taking in the restaurant, listening to the noises already coming from the kitchen. And taking in the smells—a mix of citrus and freshly cut herbs—reminding me that I hadn’t eaten all day.

  “What can I do for you?” she said.

  “Peter Gerbertson told me to ask for you directly. I used to work for him at Per Se.”

  Her eyes went wide, and I saw her trying not to react. Peter had been the general manager there and was famous in the world of high-end dining. Considering that I was lying to her—I didn’t even know Peter, let alone had ever worked for him—it was a risky move to use his name. But it added legitimacy. I knew she cared about Per Se. Even if Chef Z deplored the business of the restaurant business, Lottie liked to think the Per Ses and Blue Hills of the world knew of 28, that they were talking about her the way she talked about them.

  Her smile went from forced to real, and I could see her take in my attire, which I had carefully chosen: a white peasant shirt, classic jeans. My hair was curly and loose. And I wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses: thick and oval, covering my eyes, obscuring my face. I didn’t look so much like myself with the glasses on—and without makeup. It was my Clark Kent disguise, in case I needed one. Though, of course, I’d never been Superman.

  “How is Peter?” she said.

  “He’s good,” I said. “He sends his regards. And he told me you’re the person to talk to about the possibility of working at 28.”

  “Well, it was kind of him to send you my way . . . uh . . .”

  She was searching for my name, which I took as a good sign. “Sammy. Stephens.”

  I probably should have thought harder before using the kid’s name. But it was the first that came to my mind.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Though honestly, we’re already overstaffed for the season. But if you want
to leave a resume, I can let you know if something opens up.”

  I pretended to reach into my bag for a resume I had no intention of handing her. I’d win or lose this battle in this moment.

  “That would be great,” I said. “I imagine it must be hard, training people and then retraining them every summer season.”

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  Which was when there was yelling from the kitchen. A British accent. Strong and intrepid. Chef Z.

  Lottie blew right through it, and took me in. For a second, she looked at me as though his loud screaming would give me permission to call her out on the obvious: how many people Chef Z fired. How hard it was for her to keep any staff at all here, no one good enough for Z, no one meeting his standards, the task all the harder in the Hamptons.

  “It’s largely a summer community, so that’s the case with most establishments,” Lottie said.

  I nodded. “Absolutely, but I’m from here. Born and raised. Not going anywhere. My sister had a kid, and I want to be around for that. So, if this worked out, you could count on an employee even in the quieter seasons.”

  She tilted her head, considering. “And how long were you at Per Se?”

  I killed her with a smile. “A long time. And I was at Gramercy Tavern before that. I’m very familiar with how a kitchen like this runs.”

  She smiled. “Until you’ve worked here, no one is quite familiar with how a kitchen like this runs.”

  “A fair point. But I would love to find out.”

  Her smile disappeared. I wondered if I’d overplayed my hand, too eager. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to figure out . . . why do you look familiar?”

  “I’ve probably waited on you.”

  “All right, if Peter sent you, I’ll give you a shot, but you’ll have to make it through training, like everyone else.”

  “Understood.”

  “We do two dinner services a night. Six thirty and nine. Be here at five. I’ll have you shadow Douglas. And depending on how you do, we’ll start you on the floor.”

  “Great,” I said, and started to leave.

  She called out after me. “Wait a second,” she said. “I know why you look familiar.”

  I braced myself and turned around.

  “Anyone ever told you that you look like that girl? The cooking star . . . the one who can’t cook. What’s her name?”

  I pushed the glasses higher up on my nose. “I think . . . it was Sunshine.”

  “Right, you look a lot like her.”

  My heart started racing, but I shrugged, not showing it. “People have said that to me before. I don’t really think so.”

  Lottie nodded. “Well, she is thinner.”

  “I’m not really familiar with her . . .”

  “A lot thinner,” she said.

  22

  When we got back to the house, Rain was sitting on the porch, drinking a glass of wine. She looked exhausted, but tried to hide it, giving Sammy a huge smile.

  “How did the science experiment go?” she said.

  “Relatively uneventful. How was the wedding?”

  “If I ever hear the word orchid again . . .”

  Sammy tilted her head, taking her mother in. “I think you could use some pizza,” she said.

  Rain looked at her daughter, amused. And I could see the joy she took in her child, surpassing any other disappointments.

  “I think that’s a fantastic idea,” she said.

  Rain ushered Sammy into the house, apparently to order. No invitation. Not even a hello. I was nothing more than a babysitter whom she was never planning to hire again.

  Rain turned around in the doorway, forced a smile. “Maybe you want to head into town?” Rain said. “Get something to eat?”

  And I heard the implication. Make yourself scarce. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to sit in front of the computer and see what was going on with Amber and Ryan. I wanted to break into Danny’s email and see if he had calmed down yet, and was ready to talk more reasonably about our small relationship hurdle. I wanted to strategize for the first night of work with Chef Z.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said.

  She sighed loudly, as if she were unhappy with my response. “What are you going to do there?” she said.

  I couldn’t answer that. If Rain thought I was doing anything to stay, she would make me leave. “Do you really care?”

  “I only care that you don’t wake us when you’re back,” she said.

  Then she shut the door.

  23

  You name a favorite world-class chef, and I could probably tell you about an experience I had at his or her restaurant. Thanks to Ryan (and his various attempts at cross-promotion) I had been in some of the most spectacular kitchens in the world. I’d spent an afternoon learning from Thomas Keller how to make his signature oysters and pearls, a creamy tapioca pudding infused with caviar and oysters. On the next episode of A Little Sunshine, I gave it a farm-girl twist—substituting juicy mushrooms for the oysters, caviar making way for sustainably cured salmon. I’d spent an evening at Blue Hill at Stone Barns learning how to cull the most perfect piece of lettuce.

  So you might think it’s surprising that I’d never met Chef Z before. There were a couple of reasons why I never met him. The main one was that in the modern cooking world, where TV shows and Instagram feeds were king, Z was as reclusive as he was talented. He didn’t play the food-as-porn game. He didn’t fight for Zagat reviews or a guest blog at Epicurious. No one even knew what Z was short for—it was a name he chose not to share with anybody—which told you a lot about Z: a Le Cordon Bleu trained chef who spent years as the executive chef at Michelin-starred kitchens in France and Spain before relocating to New York, where several investors got in line to open his flagship restaurant. It was located in a former Midtown West bank, which had been done and redone to Z’s exact demands.

  The reviews during the soft open were stellar. Z was set to rival Daniel and Jean Georges. But a week after opening—that’s right, one week—Z had an enormous fight with his investors and fled. The investors sued, and he countersued, and the whole thing went on for years. All the investors wanted was for Z to return to the restaurant, and all Z wanted was to never again have anything to do with a restaurant of that size, which he thought made it impossible to focus on the food the way he wanted. Eventually they settled, and everyone thought that was the end of Z. Until Z moved to the Hamptons, where he opened 28 to worldwide acclaim and the elusive three-star New York Times review.

  After which, rumor had it, Louis (my former publisher and friend) offered him a $600,000 advance for a cookbook entitled Z. And Z wrote back: Not for six times as much.

  Z refused to do any press about 28 at all, except one interview he did for a small magazine about botany that his friend edited. In the interview, he spoke mostly about his garden and how the vegetables and fruits he grows dictates 28’s menu. He did take a swipe, though, at his former business partners, and grand fare dining in general. “It is a step away from a wedding,” he said. “Unless you’re personally controlling every plate that hits your tables, you’re a caterer.”

  So even when Ryan had made some headway at having A Little Sunshine do a special lunch at 28 (Z’s silent investor hired a PR consultant who apparently liked Ryan), I declined to pursue it further. Z wouldn’t have attended, but it didn’t matter. I had no interest in returning to the Hamptons or discussing the Hamptons. And I certainly had no interest in honoring a nasty chef who would hate any press we got him anyway.

  Which made it somewhat ironic that I was now walking into his kitchen, willingly, convinced that he was the only person who could get me out of my current jam.

  The kitchen was pristine and mirrored the dining room in its simplicity. Everything was sterling silver and chrome. Everything was spotless. Workstations glistened, every chef and waiter already at work, moving through their early evening prep. The waiters were all dressed in their simple uniforms. Button-d
own blue shirt, dark pants. Loafers.

  I knew enough not to disturb anybody, so I kept my eyes out for Lottie and watched the kitchen move. Sous-chefs were chopping and sautéing, waiters folding napkins. Everything was eerily silent and Chef Z was nowhere to be seen.

  Lottie walked briskly past, not noticing me and heading to the other side of the kitchen. She put her hand on a cook’s shoulder, whispering something into his ear.

  When she looked up, I caught her eye, and she waved. Then she pointed at a heavyset guy, sweating profusely as he walked up and down the cooking line.

  “Douglas,” she mouthed.

  It was as if he heard her, because he looked up. And she pointed at me. “Her,” she said.

  Douglas walked over quickly. “I’m Douglas,” he said. “I guess you’re following me tonight,” he said.

  Nothing. Not even a smile.

  “There’s a uniform for you in the break room. Get dressed and come back in here. I move pretty quick so try and keep up.”

  He said it with a straight face, but something about his girth made me wonder if he was kidding.

  “Get your instructions from me. Talk to no one but me. And no matter what you do, never look at Chef Z. If you make eye contact, you’ll be fired.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  Douglas shook his head. “Those kind of questions, and you’ll be fired. And don’t think I don’t know, okay?”

  He added it in so quickly, so smoothly, I thought I’d misheard him. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t pretend,” he said. “Sammy.”

  I looked around the kitchen. There was no one going out of his way to stare at me.

  “Who knows?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t taken a poll yet. Would you like me to? I can imagine the dishwashers don’t care.”

  “Please, I really need this job.”

  “And I really need a good server. Lottie just fired someone else. And tonight’s menu is particularly demanding. So if you can keep up and do your job, your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you.”