Turn Up the Heat

by Jessica Conant-Park

  Although Adrianna and Owen had not planned on having a baby, the two of them were managing this enormous surprise fairly well. They were moving in together next week and had found a decent two-bedroom apartment around the corner from me in Brighton. To describe their new apartment as having two bedrooms was pushing it, since the second bedroom was actually a walk-in closet, but the tiny room did have a radiator and a small window, so it would work as a nursery, at least for a while. What’s more, although Adrianna and Owen hadn’t set a wedding date—they couldn’t even decide whether to get married before or after the baby was born—they were nonetheless officially engaged. I was just happy that they were together at all, especially since Adrianna had freaked out when she’d found out she was pregnant and had foolishly made out with Josh’s sous chef, Snacker, a number of times in some sort of rebellious denial. On the night the unsuspecting Owen was going to propose, in fact, just as he was about to propose, right here at Simmer, Adrianna had suddenly announced both her pregnancy and her recent history with Snacker. Owen had understandably flipped out, but fortunately, the two of them had quickly worked things out. Owen and Snacker, on the other hand, loathed each other but remained coldly polite, mostly for my sake.

  “So what are we ordering?” asked the ever-hungry Adrianna. Despite complaining about heartburn all the time, the girl couldn’t get enough to eat. “The cod with vegetables looks really good. This is a new menu, right?”

  “Right. They’ve only been running it for a few days. It’s got all the new spring items on it. Josh had to teach the kitchen staff all the recipes and how to plate the food. I think it looks awesome.” I was bursting with pride at Josh’s food.

  I’d watched him sit at my kitchen table, pen in hand, while he brainstormed to come up with the perfect dishes for the menu. I’d also learned how he went about pricing them out. It was fairly appalling to learn how little it costs to make some plates and what restaurants charge for them. The basic rule was that you figured out what the protein portion of the dish would cost, like the steak or the tuna, then you’d estimate the cost of the other ingredients, add those together, multiply by three, and then add three dollars. So, a twenty-four-dollar entrée might only cost the restaurant seven dollars in actual food costs. Josh had explained to me that after following the basic rule, he would then adjust the price depending on how a dish sold. Pasta dishes were great because they sold really well, and the pasta was cheap to buy, so chefs could up the price on those menu items. It was also easy to up the prices for lobster and tuna dishes, which were obvious luxury foods and sold a ton. Chicken, on the other hand, often had to be on a menu to please the occasional customer who wanted it, but it generally didn’t sell well, so a chicken entrée price would stay close to the formulated pricing cost.

  Terry put his menu down on his plate. “I’m definitely getting the seared scallops with grilled pancetta, honey parsnip puree, and warm pear chutney. No question. Thank you for inviting us, Chloe. Doug has had such nice things to say about Simmer, and I’ve really been looking forward to coming here.”

  “I’m with you on the scallops,” Owen agreed. “And the roasted pork quesadilla with apple salsa.” It was very Josh to do something traditional like quesadillas but then serve it with an unconventional topping.

  Leandra came to take our orders. “Everybody set?”

  Despite having eaten at Simmer many times, I was still impressed that the servers didn’t write anything down. Order pads were apparently beneath the upper-crust atmosphere of Newbury Street. If I’d been Leandra, I’d have had to run to the register, scramble to remember every order, and immediately enter it into the computer. She showed no signs of strain.

  Just as Doug finished telling Leandra the entrée he wanted, Gavin Seymour appeared and welcomed us with the charm that’s so useful to restaurant owners. Gavin was in his late thirties, very handsome, and dressed in his typically and somewhat misleadingly casual style. Tonight he had on soft khaki pants and a simple cotton shirt, but I knew from Josh that Gavin did most of his clothes shopping through his personal dresser and that his clothing all came from high-end shops. The plain shirt was probably from Brooks Brothers. If I ever have the luxury of having a personal dresser, I’m going to instruct my assistant not to waste my money on overpriced clothes that might as well come from Old Navy.

  “Have you all ordered?” Gavin asked. We nodded. He took our menus then turned to Leandra. “Why don’t you ask Josh to send out a few extra appetizers for this crowd? They all look especially hungry tonight.”

  “Of course, Gavin. I’ll go put these orders right in.” Leandra smiled directly at her boss and smoothly took the menus from his hand. I’d heard that she and Gavin were seeing each other. Gavin was another Simmer male known for his many romantic flings, but according to the wildly active restaurant rumor mill, Gavin and Leandra were having a full-blown relationship and not just making out in the backseat of Gavin’s Jaguar after service. Although Josh said the two did their best to avoid public displays of affection, it was hard to ignore the glint in Gavin’s eye as he watched her walk away from the table.

  With all the love in the air, it really felt like spring. Doug and Terry, Adrianna and Owen, Gavin and Leandra, Snacker and whatever girl of the week, Josh and me. Things with Josh were great, but looking around the table at the happy couples, I found it hard not to miss him. Visiting him at the restaurant was the best chance I had of catching a glimpse of my chef—that or the late-night visits at my place. Not that I was complaining about that department. But I wanted him with me for dinners like this, too. Josh had repeatedly assured me that his crappy schedule would ease up over time. But Simmer had opened on New Year’s Eve, and I was still waiting.

  Best friends are good at reading thoughts. “I’m sure Josh will come out again when he can,” said Adrianna in an effort to comfort me.

  “I know, I know,” I said. “I’m happy it’s so busy tonight, but it also means Josh might have to stay late.” Again, I thought.

  Josh was working at least ten, if not twelve to fourteen, hours a day. He caught me one morning covertly trying to apply cold cucumber slices to his exhausted eyes while he slept. I hated Josh’s schedule, but he wasn’t the least bit surprised by the hours he was putting in. Josh felt strongly that Simmer’s success rested on him. Gavin might be the owner, but it was Josh who seemed to feel the most pressure to have the restaurant succeed. The majority of restaurants fail within the first six months, and Josh was determined that Simmer wouldn’t be one of them. Now that he’d finally found the ideal place to showcase his culinary, artistic, and managerial talent, he was giving Simmer everything he had. The menu was all his, which didn’t happen at every restaurant, and Josh had complete control over every dish that was served. Gavin had been really great to Josh, too, and promised him that the better the restaurant did, the better Josh would do in terms of both hours and pay. Right now Josh’s salary was almost laughable, but Gavin just didn’t have the money to pay him what he deserved. The start-up costs involved in opening any restaurant are astronomical. I wanted to believe Gavin’s promises, even though it seemed odd that an executive chef working on Newbury Street didn’t get a decent salary, never mind a fat paycheck. In spite of everything, though, I was thrilled for Josh and convinced that Simmer would be the place he’d really make a name for himself in the competitive world of Boston restaurants.

  TWO

  LEANDRA arrived, followed by two young Hispanic busboys, all carrying plates of food. “Here we go,” she said, delicately placing her plates on the table. “I’m sorry these took so long. We’re having problems with this new computer system Gavin is trying out. All the orders have to be entered into this elaborate program, and then, theoretically, they’re magically sent to the kitchen, but we keep having trouble. Anyhow, we got your orders through, and then Josh sent this out for you, too.” Leandra set an oval platter in the center of the table. “Tempura lobster tails with a sweet chili sauce.”

  Oh, wow!
Lobster was one of my absolute favorite foods. I took this additional dish as a sign of love from my chef.

  “You know what I pay for these?” Owen said, reaching across the table to help himself to one of the golden servings. “And you know what I sell them for?”

  “You probably pay nothing and sell them for a lot more,” I guessed.

  Owen had recently quit his position as a puppeteer’s assistant to work as a seafood purveyor for a company called the Daily Catch. Before he’d found out that Ade was pregnant, he’d bounced from one quirky occupation to another. After hearing the news, he’d miraculously taken it upon himself to look for a somewhat traditional job.

  “That’s right, Owen.” Doug jumped in with interest. “I haven’t seen you since you started with the fish thing. What’s that like?”

  Looking proud of himself, Owen said, “I’m what’s known in the business as a seafood purveyor. I work for a company called the Daily Catch. We sell seafood to restaurants. So I get up by six, check my cell phone for orders from chefs, write those down, and then write up a price list. See, every day I get faxes from the companies we buy the seafood from with their prices. We buy from them and then sell to the restaurants. I’m kind of the middleman, so I mark my prices up based on what we’re going to have to pay. Then I take my delivery truck and drive down to the seafood district in South Boston’s waterfront, where I put in my orders, load up the truck, and I’m off to deliver everything. I’ve only been with them for a few weeks, but I’ve already got a bunch of great accounts. And Josh even dropped his old company for me!” Owen beamed with satisfaction at having persuaded Josh to switch purveyors. Simmer had decent-sized orders for Owen almost every day, but Josh knew enough not to let Owen overcharge him. Josh had explained to Owen that he’d better be careful who he tried to screw over with prices, because when chefs caught on, they’d drop him. “I bet that’s my cod right there!” Owen pointed his fork in the direction of a cod fillet that had been baked in foil with tomatoes, squash, zucchini, red peppers, scallions, fresh oregano, butter, wine, and garlic.

  “So are you salaried? Or do you get paid on commission?” As soon as Doug asked the question, Terry held out a fork laiden with scallops for Doug to try. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “That pear chutney is to die for!”

  “No, he’s definitely not salaried.” Adrianna shook her head. “And save some scallops for me. They look incredible.”

  “No, I’m not. I get a percentage of the profit made on the sales. It’s basically like I have my own business through the Daily Catch. I run my accounts and set my daily prices based on whatever I’ve got to pay, and then the company gets part of the money I earn. Wait until you guys see my truck. It’s just a regular pickup truck, but we added a refrigeration unit to the back, and I just got the company logo painted on. It’s so cool. Want to come check it out quick? Josh let me park it in the back alley behind Simmer.” Owen stood up as though we all might be itching to abandon our dinners to go out and admire his delivery truck.

  “Owen, no one wants to tromp through the dirty alley right now, okay?” Ade grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat. “And, technically, it’s not even your truck. It’s your boss’s.”

  “Well, yeah. But when I get enough money, I’m going to get my own from one of those car auctions and get the refrigeration unit installed on top. Or get a refrigerated van. That would mean better gas mileage. And with my own truck, I’d get a larger percentage of the profits. It’s forty percent when you use a company truck and sixty percent when it’s your own.” The pork quesadilla was in the center of the table, and Owen took a section and scooped some apple salsa onto his plate. “Man, these are quesadillas gone wild!”

  Ade spoke with her mouth full of cod and vegetables. “True, but it’s nice that you get to use the company’s one for now. And that monster will definitely get you through the Boston winters.” She finished chewing and pointed at Owen with her fork. “He doesn’t pay for anything except gas. His boss pays for all the maintenance, repairs, insurance, inspection fees, and all that. He’s got to get the lock fixed on the back of the truck, and that won’t cost him a thing. Not a bad deal. Oh, my God! That fish is so good. Is that fresh oregano? I love it.”

  “Oh, pass some over here.” Terry reached for the plate of cod that was accompanied by plain couscous that soaked up all the delicious juices. “A broken lock, though? Aren’t you worried someone is going to break into the truck?” asked Terry. “People probably think it’s full of lobsters.”

  Owen shook his head. “Nah. I’m only at each restaurant for a few minutes while I’m delivering, and then the truck is empty the rest of the day and night. Someone could get into the back, but there’s nothing there to take except plastic tubs full of ice or the dolly I use for larger deliveries. I’m getting the lock fixed in a few days anyhow. This has got to be the best job I’ve had! And best of all, I’m usually done for the day anytime between one and four in the afternoon. It’ll be perfect when the little one arrives.” Owen reached over and rubbed Ade’s stomach. “Hear that? Daddy’s gonna be making big bucks and is going to have plenty of time for you. Oh, did I tell you I got another account today? Big order for tomorrow already.”

  I was so happy for Owen. He was obviously doing well with this job, and his success was going to make life less stressful for him and for Ade. She was still working as an independent hair stylist, but because she’d been feeling so sick, she’d eased up her hours by keeping her highest-paying clients and slowly dropping off the less profitable ones.

  We worked our way through the meal, savoring the delicious food and the good company. Doug excused himself to go to the men’s room. When he returned, he scooted his chair close to the table and leaned in. “Hey, Chloe. Since you’re a regular here, do you know what’s going on with our waitress, Leandra, and that other girl back there?”

  I peered in the direction Doug was pointing and saw Leandra almost nose to nose with Blythe. Or, rather, nose to boob, since Blythe was much taller than Leandra. Blythe’s back was to me, but I could see Leandra’s pretty face scrunched up in a snarl. “That’s Blythe,” I said with an unintentional sigh. “She’s a hostess here, but sometimes she bartends or waitresses when they need her to. Why?”

  “Just looking for some restaurant gossip. When I walked by them, they seemed to be having some sort of spat. I don’t know what it was about, but I did hear Leandra say something to the other one about being flat-chested.”

  “Yeah, I’m not surprised. They don’t really get along. Blythe can rub people the wrong way.” Or at least rub women the wrong way. I had gone to college with Blythe, although I hadn’t known her that well then. We were in some of the same circles, so I’d known her socially, but Blythe had taken icky classes like Introduction to Economics and Advanced Cell Biology, so we hadn’t crossed paths too often. I’d run into Blythe again a few months ago, and with Adrianna out of commission for late-night partying, I’d ended up hanging out with her. I guess it sounds sort of pathetic, but I didn’t have that many friends in Boston anymore. I’d met a few new people at social work school, most notably Doug, but a lot of my friends had moved across the country for school, jobs, or relationships. I was finding that after college, it was becoming much tougher to make new friends, so when I ran into Blythe, I just felt happy to see a familiar face. Blythe was taking a few classes at Suffolk University Law School, and I hooked her up with Simmer for some part-time work. I had sort of a love-hate relationship with her; one minute I loved her, and the next I wanted to claw her eyes out. And Ade just hated her.

  Blythe’s mother was Filipino, and her father was Irish. The combination had produced the intoxicating Blythe, who was infuriatingly attractive, although in a completely different way from Adrianna. While Ade had more of a model look, Blythe was less classically perfect. She had dark-brown hair that was cut in stylish angles that accentuated her cheekbones, shorter on one side than the other, gorgeous brown skin, and a tall body. She had one
slightly lazy eye that somehow added to her looks. In fact, all of Blythe’s supposed imperfections made her more attractive than she’d have been without them. As Leandra had evidently pointed out, Blythe was pretty flat-chested, but she always wore low-cut shirts that exposed her smooth skin. I always had the impression that Blythe wanted people to think that because she didn’t have big boobs, her revealing shirts couldn’t possibly attract the opposite sex, right? Even the permanent chips in her nail polish seemed deliberate, part of a calculated effort to convince people that she had a blasé attitude toward her appearance. Men often seem drawn to women who don’t look as if they spend hours in front of the mirror loading on makeup and hair products. Blythe cultivated that kind of inadvertent-looking beauty. In combination with her sharp intellect, it dazzled almost everyone. Yet she rarely hooked up with guys. One thing I couldn’t fault Blythe for was being slutty. And she was definitely entertaining to be around: charming, smart, and engaging. As if all of that weren’t enough, she somehow managed to balance her law school studies with her work at Simmer; she was one of the busiest people I knew. Hormonal Adrianna was a lot fussier than I was about who she hung out with. Ade tolerated Blythe only for my sake and only after repeated assurances that Adrianna’s place as my best friend was secure.

  Josh returned to our table looking significantly more sweaty and food-stained than earlier this evening. He held a small notepad and pen in his hand. The top few buttons of his chef’s coat were undone, a sign that he was finishing up for the night. I was surprised. It was only ten fifteen.