by Meg Benjamin
Most of the time, he got a secret kick out of the difference between what people thought he was and what he really was. This evening, though, he wasn’t quite as pleased with it.
Because he knew, only too well, what the Jepsens and the Wellses and all the other people in Konigsburg would think about a woman like Andy going out with a terror like him. Probably the same thing Andy Wells herself would think.
You’ll never know if you don’t ask her.
Which probably meant he’d never know. He unlocked his front door and headed inside. For a man who looked like a lot of people’s worst nightmare, he sometimes behaved like a real wuss.
Chapter Three
Darcy didn’t realize how much she’d been stewing about the Barbecue King and his meat pronouncements until he showed up at the Rose for another cookout. This time Joe left the whole thing to her since his Significant Other, MG Carmody, was singing at a club in Austin and he’d taken the night off to go hear her. Jorge was running the restaurant, which he could do with one hand behind his back given the small number of diners they’d probably have, and Darcy was running the special barbecue dinner for the inn’s guests and anybody else who wanted to pay forty dollars for the privilege.
Joe swore they still made money, even after the King took his cut. Darcy was willing to believe it, given their cost per plate, but it didn’t make her any less resentful. So far as she could tell, all the King did was to throw some cheap cuts of meat on a low fire for twelve hours or so. She could do that. Hell, any chef with halfway decent skills could do that. Paying the King to do that struck her as a prime waste of capital.
And yet, and yet… She was professional enough to know that most regional cooking—with the exception of crap like Fluffernutter sandwiches—took skills that were passed down between generations. And those skills were rarely taught in culinary school or in high-dollar kitchens like the ones where she’d been working for most of her professional life. People who did barbecue the way the King did barbecue undoubtedly spent a lot of time learning how to do it right.
She could probably pick up the techniques a little faster than a novice, given that she already knew how various types of protein behaved in a variety of situations. But she’d still need some time to observe, to see what particular things he did in what particular order. And then figure out how much of what he was doing was really necessary and how much of it was traditional mumbo jumbo that she could skip.
And then possibly take over barbecue at the Rose. Or at the very least add another skill to her already bulging résumé. Who knew? Maybe her next job would be with a cutting edge place that wanted to use traditional techniques.
Besides, somewhere along the line her competitive gene had been activated. She was pretty sure the King was underestimating her. And that was always a dangerous thing to do.
Midway through service, he ambled across the lawn in her direction, his black cowboy hat cocked over one eye, pausing to fold his arms across his chest as he regarded the service line. “Not setting out potato salad tonight?”
Darcy shrugged. “I put it together. Manuela’s doing the serving this time around.” Manuela was an extern from a culinary program in San Antonio, which meant she was available for kitchen slave duty.
“So what did you put in it this time? Truffles?” The King’s dark eyes were laughing.
Darcy refused to rise to the bait. “Just celery and capers, with a little red bell pepper. And a sour cream dressing. No mustard this time around.”
The King shook his head. “Capers. Lord help us.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever tasted one of my other salads.”
“Don’t suppose I have.”
“Capers aren’t poisonous. In small amounts. You could try a spoonful.” She picked up one of the plastic spoons they used for the cookouts to cut down on missing silver and scooped out a small amount of potato salad that she plopped onto a plate. Manuela sniffed but let it go.
“I could try it.” He gave her a lazy grin, then took the spoon from her hand before scooping up a bite. He chewed contemplatively, eyebrows up. “Salty. Crunchy. Nice contrast with the potatoes, although they could use a little bite.”
“Bite?”
He shrugged. “Like vinegar. Or mustard.” The lazy grin was back. “Just not DayJohn. French’s, like I said. Or something else that’s bright yellow.”
Darcy studied him for a moment. She’d had a few silent conversations with herself since the last time she’d talked to him, trying to figure out how to frame her request, but when push came to shove she was lousy at subtlety. “I want to learn to do what you do.”
He stilled, his gaze turning watchful instead of amused. “You want to learn how to cook ’cue?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Maybe I could follow you around for a few days. Learn the basics.”
His eyes narrowed. “LeBlanc put you up to this?”
She grimaced, shaking her head. “Joe doesn’t know anything about it. I’m the one who wants to know how you cook barbecue.”
“And why exactly would I want to teach somebody how to be my competitor?” The King tossed the plate and spoon in the trash, then rested his hands on his hips. “Doesn’t sound like a winning idea to me.”
Darcy clenched her hands into fists, eyes flashing. “How exactly am I going to turn into your competitor? I’ve got a full-time job here as sous chef. I’m not looking to open up a barbecue business on the side.”
His eyes stayed narrow. “You wouldn’t have to do it on the side. Maybe you’re planning on doing it here. The Rose is one of my best customers. Why should I train somebody to take over something that’s making me money?”
She gave him a dry smile, ignoring the sudden pinch of guilt. “Gee, you think I can pick up enough information in a few days to take over as the Barbecue Queen? Your faith in me warms my heart, believe me.”
His shoulders seemed to relax marginally as he gave her a guarded grin. “Still not seeing what I’m supposed to get out of this, sugar. Aside from the pleasure of your company, that is.” His grin widened as he gave her a slow once-over. “Not that I rate that pleasure lightly, believe me.”
Normally, she would have taken a strip off his hide for that head-to-toe survey with a longer stop at her breasts, but she wanted the damn job. “You’ve got a food truck too, right?”
He nodded. “Five days a week usually. Corner of Main and Spicewood.”
“So I’m guessing you sell side dishes along with your meat, right?”
He nodded again. “I do plates. One or two meats, sides of beans and potato salad or coleslaw.”
“I can make your sides. They’ll be better than anything you’re serving now.” She had no idea how good his sides were at the moment, of course, but you might as well go big. And her sides were good. No matter what he might think currently.
The King stared for a long moment, his grin widening, then shook his head. “You do realize I’ve been trash talking your potato salad for the past couple of weeks.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You do realize I make my potato salad for the Rose’s customers and not you.”
He nodded. “Okay, that’s a fair point. So let’s see what happens when you make it for me.”
She frowned. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning if you can make a potato salad that doesn’t make me shake my head, I’ll consider taking you on as an apprentice. Assuming LeBlanc doesn’t get a stick up his ass if I do it.” His grin narrowed. “That’s the other part of the deal. You make sure LeBlanc doesn’t decide to get himself another barbecue man on account I stole his sous chef.”
Darcy shook her head. “He won’t care. And you’re not stealing me. Working with you isn’t going to get in the way of what I do here.”
He sighed. “Maybe not. But I want that spelled out. No hard feelings later on.”
Darcy folded her arms, nodding. “Agreed. Give me a couple of days to put the salad together.”
He smiled again. “Sugar, I don’t want a salad that takes days to put together.”
She gritted her teeth again. Apparently that was going to be a sort of chronic condition when she was around him. “I need a couple of days to find a recipe and get it right. Once I’ve got that down, I can do it in record time, believe me.”
“I do believe you. Just remember the French’s. Yellow. Gotta be yellow.” He tipped his hat, dark eyes shining, and then strolled back across the lawn toward his smokers.
“Oh yeah,” Darcy muttered, “this is such a good idea.”
Joe shook his head. “I still don’t see why you want to do this, Darce. I mean, good ’cue is precious stuff, but it’s not exactly rocket science. You could probably figure it out on your own with a smoker and a couple of books.”
Darcy managed not to grimace. He had a point, after all. She settled down in the battered leather chair opposite the desk in his office. “Look, we both know cookbooks don’t tell you enough. I’ve got a chance to watch a pro pit master do his stuff. Then I can take what I learn from him and apply it to a regular kitchen.”
“You’re not thinking of taking over the barbecues we do here, are you?” Joe shook his head. “I can’t spare you for that. Plus, the arrangement with the King works out for everybody.”
Well, scratch that idea. “I don’t want to do it here necessarily, but I might do it somewhere else sometime.”
Joe gave her a dry smile. “Thinking of moving on, Darce?”
She shrugged. “Nope. But who knows what’s going to happen here in the future? You might take a job in New York or something. I might get an offer I can’t turn down—chef de cuisine in Las Vegas or San Francisco.”
“I’m not going to New York, Darce. I’ve done that, and I’m not doing it again. I’ve got a home here.”
She sighed. “Okay, neither of us is going anywhere at the moment, but I’d still like to know how he does what he does.”
Joe leaned back in his chair, frowning. “If you do this, and I haven’t agreed to anything yet, how can you keep from screwing up service at the Rose? I need you here full time.”
“I thought about that.” She rested her elbows on the edge of the desk. “Most of the work at a barbecue pit takes place in the late afternoon or at night, right?”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on the pit master, but yeah. A lot of it usually takes place at night since you want to leave the meat on to smoke for twelve hours or so.”
She gave him a triumphant smile. “So I do brunch like I usually do, then switch with you and do a couple of lunches instead of dinners.”
He frowned again. “One of the reasons I wanted you on dinner in the first place was so I could take some time off. I don’t necessarily want to go back on that.”
“It would just be a couple of days a week. And I’ll take Friday and Saturday so you can go off and listen to MG.” Darcy tried for a winning smile, but it wasn’t really something she was good at. “And it’s only for a few weeks, so help me.”
He sighed. “Okay, we’ll try it, assuming the King buys in. But no promises, Darce. If things start going to hell here, you’ll have to quit.”
“Right. Got it.”
He settled back into his chair, his smile broadening again. “So how did you talk him into it? So far I can see what you’d get out of this, but I’m not so sure about him.”
“I’ll be doing sides for his food truck. Don’t worry,” she added hurriedly, “I’ll do the work at home. It won’t come out of the Rose’s kitchen.”
He shook his head. “I never thought it would. Come on, Darce, I know you better than that. When do you start?”
She blew out a breath. “We start as soon as I can come up with a potato salad he likes.”
Joe frowned. “What’s wrong with the potato salad you’re already making? Tastes great to me.”
“He wants something more basic. I don’t suppose you’ve got a good basic recipe lying around anywhere?”
He shook his head again. “Potato salad wasn’t exactly big around my house in Baton Rouge. Besides, you’re the garde manger chef, not me. I always like to leave salads to somebody who knows what they’re doing.”
And that, Darcy considered, was the problem right there. She and Joe both thought in terms of garde manger, the chef who was in charge of cold platters and salads. The chef who kept her food in a refrigerated space. A garde manger like her might produce one hell of a salade niçoise, but she’d be operating blind if she were asked to produce a potato salad for a church supper.
Joe shrugged. “Maybe you could talk to a short order cook. Somebody who fixes stuff like potato salad for the regulars.”
“No. What I need is a church supper master chef. Somebody who knows how to do down home and do it right.”
He gave her a slow grin. “Got any idea where to find one?”
She nodded. “As it happens, I think I do.”
That evening, her mother answered the phone on the third ring. “Darcy, honey, I was halfway out the door heading for book club. What’s up?”
Now that the time had come to actually ask her mother for a recipe, Darcy felt her confidence take a quick hike. “You’re heading for a meeting? I can call back later.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother said crisply. “What is it you need?”
Darcy closed her eyes. Now for the hard part. “A recipe. For potato salad.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “You’re asking me for a recipe?” her mother said finally. She sounded almost as dubious as Darcy had. “Why can’t you just take something off the Internet?”
“Because I need something that’s user tested. Something I know will be good.”
There was another brief pause, probably so her mother could decide whether that was a compliment or not. Apparently, she went with yes. “Why do you need this?”
Darcy took a deep breath. “I need to show somebody that I can make regular food. And if I try to do something from my recipes, it’s not going to be regular food.”
“Regular food.” Her mother paused again. “I’m not going to fight with you over that idea, although we could go for a good ten rounds on what constitutes regular food and why it isn’t exactly poison.”
Darcy pinched the bridge of her nose. “C’mon, Mom…”
“All right, all right, let me think about it. I’ll even talk to the girls at book club and see if they have suggestions. But you’ll have to pay for this.”
Darcy frowned. “Pay? How much.”
“Those cookies you made at Christmas. I want the recipe.”
She felt a strange tightness around her diaphragm. “You want a recipe of mine?”
“Of course,” her mother said briskly. “Those peppermint meringues were terrific.”
Darcy tried to remember if her mother had ever complimented her cooking before. She was fairly certain she hadn’t. “Sure. Fine. Anything.”
“All right then, I’ll see what I can do. Anything I should avoid?”
“Capers.” Darcy sighed. “And feta cheese. And olives.”
“Well, I don’t think we’ll have any problems avoiding those.” Her mother sounded like she was grinning.
“Glad to hear it.” Darcy found she was gritting her teeth again. At this rate, she’d be seeing a dentist before the end of the month.
“How soon do you need this recipe?”
She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. “As soon as you can get it, to tell the truth. When will you be back from book club?”
“I’ll call you,” her mother said firmly. “As soon as I have something that will work. How are you, by the way.”
“Fine.” Darcy sighed again. “I’m doing fine, Mom.”
“When are you coming home to visit?”
Darcy licked her lips. It was a two-day drive to Lincoln, although she could always fly to Omaha and rent a car. “Maybe the end of the summer. We’re sort of busy right now.” And if I ask Joe for time off after screwing u
p his schedule to work for the King, he’ll probably demote me to line cook.
“All right. Do you want me to email you the recipe?”
“Or call me again. Whatever works best for you, Mom.” She leaned back in her chair again. “Give my love to Daddy, okay? And Ken.” Both of whom thought she had too many tattoos and too many earrings. On the other hand, they were the only father and brother she had, so she made allowances.
“I’ll do that. Don’t work too hard, Darcy.”
“No, ma’am.”
“And make sure the man who wants this potato salad is worth it.”
Darcy closed her eyes. Her mother had some kind of scary sixth sense when it came to potential men in her daughter’s life. “It’s not for a man. Well, not exactly.”
Her mother chuckled. “Whatever you say, honey. Talk to you later. Love you.”
“Love you too. And thanks.”
Darcy stared at the phone in her hand. She hadn’t asked her mother for a recipe in a decade, and this particular recipe would now be brought up regularly in their long-standing argument about cooks versus chefs. But it really didn’t matter. Her mother would find her the absolute best potluck potato salad recipe available.
And she would use it to blow the Barbecue King’s socks off.
Chapter Four
Chico leaned against the wall surrounding the beer garden, watching MG Carmody finish her set. The crowd was enthusiastic, and MG was selling it like a true pro. She was one of their most popular acts, which had its upside and its downside. The upside was the increasing crowds she was drawing, crowds who drank a lot of beer in the summer evenings and, with any luck, told their friends back in Austin and San Antonio about the great new place they’d stumbled across in Konigsburg.
The downside was that those crowds always included a few scouts from the bigger clubs. MG had already played some dates in Austin. Eventually, she might move on to bigger and better venues, although given her connections in Konigsburg, she’d probably still play the occasional date at the Faro.
