The mechanical voice answered after a few moments. "Maxwell Dylan's net worth is one billion, one hundred and thirty-three million, four hundred and eighty-nine thousand, one hundred and two United States dollars."
Shelly smiled at me triumphantly.
"He made me cook for him," I said, unthinkingly.
"What, like an audition?" she asked, looking as confused as I was at the time.
"Yeah, kind of." I shrugged.
"What'd you make?"
"Just a pasta dish, with your favorite - scallops."
Shelly made a face. Growing up, her father was a fishmonger - still was, in fact - and I theorized that excessive early exposure to seafood had caused her an aversion later in life.
"The point is, did he like it?" she wanted to know.
"Guess so." I shrugged.
"Whoa," she breathed, picking up the last egg roll. "You got to cook for Chef Dylan? And he didn't scream at you? You're a rockstar."
I twirled the stem of my glass. "He was pretty intense. But no, he didn't scream at me."
"So he liked it. I mean, he must have. He hired you." She crunched a bite of egg roll, thoughtfully.
"Sort of. He said my pasta was anemic."
Shelly's forehead creased. "I don't even know what that means."
"Yeah, well, I'm not sure I do either."
***
The next morning, I got to work half an hour early, wearing my own chef's coat this time. The door was locked, but Chef Dylan came as soon as I rattled the handle.
"Come on," was his greeting to me. "Let's get started."
He seemed impatient, and irritated, but not at me. Still, the kitchen was tense and quiet as he pulled down some pans and prepped a few ingredients. I assumed he was about to take me through the menu, so I stood patiently by the stove and waited for his instruction.
"Are you planning to work anytime soon, or just stand there?"
He didn't even look at me when he said it. My ears burned.
"What would you like me to do?" was all I could think of to say.
He gestured impatiently towards the chicken breasts that he'd just laid out on the prep table. "Pound those out," he snapped. "I hope I'm not going to have to hold your hand like this every day."
"Yes, chef." Fuming, I pulled the tenderizer down off the wall. Was I supposed to read his mind? Thankfully, the cutlets took my abuse without complaint, and I was able to pound away my frustrations until I felt calm enough to look at him again.
"I said pound them out," he muttered, when he came over to see my handiwork. "Not murder them."
But he used the flattened cutlets without further complaint, which I considered to be a small victory.
From my own research, I knew a little about Chef Dylan's vision for this restaurant. It would be his first foray into Italian cuisine, inspired by the foods that his mother cooked when he was young. Simple. Fresh. Bold flavors. A more casual experience, but still with that signature Chef Dylan flair.
After studying the culinary arts in France, and working in professional kitchens for almost a decade, Chef Dylan had founded several Parisian-inspired restaurants in New York City. I'd heard amazing things, but personally, I'd never been. Even when I was gainfully employed, I never felt like spending a hundred and fifty dollars on a tasting menu. This place, his first restaurant in his old hometown, was different. Much more my style. I didn't dislike French cuisine, exactly, but it didn't really make my top favorites. Then again, I'd been known to eat boxed macaroni and cheese with the nuclear-orange powder from time to time. So perhaps my taste shouldn't be trusted.
At work, though, I had higher standards.
Chef Dylan plopped a menu in my hand, then went back to laying out ingredients. My eyes drifted over the paper, without really seeing any of the words - at first. But on the second or third pass, something jumped out at me.
"What's..."
He looked up at me, holding something in his hand.
"...black garlic?" I finished. He plopped whatever-it-was onto the counter in front of me.
"It's that," he said. "Have you really never heard of it?"
I swallowed, feeling my face grow hot. Way to make a good impression on my first day. Well, all I could do was play it cool.
"Not that I can recall," I said, picking up the bulb and examining it. I brought it up to my nose and sniffed it carefully, same as I would any unfamiliar ingredient. It was richly fragrant, somewhat like the garlic I knew, but without the acrid bite. The skin was brown and crinkly, almost as if it had been roasted. When I peeled it back and plucked a clove free, I soon saw it was aptly-named. The little nib was coal-black, and soft between my fingers.
"It's fermented," said Chef. "They've been using it for its medicinal properties in Korea and Thailand for thousands of years. Just got popular around here a few years ago. I'm not much for fad ingredients, but..." He drifted off. When I looked up from the clove, I saw he was staring at me. "Well, try it," he said impatiently. "Are you just going to stare at it all day?"
Feeling particularly stupid, I popped it into my mouth. It all but melted on my tongue. The taste was comfortingly familiar, like a perfectly roasted garlic, but with a sweet richness that reminded me of molasses, or maybe a balsamic glaze. It had absolutely none of the bite of fresh garlic juice, but all the good parts of the flavor had been enhanced by the fermentation process.
"Yes?" Chef said, watching my face.
"Yes," I agreed. It was perfect for the salad he'd selected, yet somehow completely unexpected. I really shouldn't have been surprised.
The rest of the menu was like that. Simple food, but always with some decadent gourmet twist that ensured his customers would never eat a meal quite like it anywhere else.
When he talked about the food, his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. A few minutes into his rhapsodizing, I found myself wondering how he could be the same person who'd just snapped at me about chicken cutlets. Obviously, the way to keep Chef calm and happy was to keep him talking about his menus.
We started working through the dishes together. I expected him to have a small criticism, or at least a correction, for every little action I took - but he didn't. Was he saving it all for the end? Should I be bracing myself as I cooked?
He worked alongside me, occasionally talking me through what he was doing with the food. I nodded along, saying "yes, Chef" whenever he paused and glanced at me. At times, it hardly seemed like he was talking to me at all. I wondered if he'd forgotten where he was. Had he fallen into a trance, thinking he was on one of his numerous TV shows?
Suddenly, in the midst of one of his explanations, there was a quiet rapping at the door frame. I almost jumped out of my skin. The kitchen door was propped open, and in front of it, there was a young man - couldn't have been more than nineteen, built like a string bean, sort of slouching against the frame. Not so much out of disinterest or disrespect, I thought, but simply because he didn't know how else to hold his body.
"Hey," he said. "Sorry I'm late."
Chef let out an irritated sigh, and I realized that was why he'd been so tense all morning. He must have been expecting this new hire for ages. I braced myself.
"It's fine," said a voice that sounded remarkably like Chef Dylan's, and somehow coming out of his mouth. "Just don't let it happen again."
I gaped at him. Was this real life? Could it possibly be? Granted, there were certainly parts of Chef's personality I didn't know that well yet, but...
It's fine? On what planet, in what parallel universe, would any version of Chef Maxwell Dylan ever say that to one of his employees who was inexplicably several hours late?
Well, okay, maybe there was a backstory I didn't know about. Maybe there was a train delay, or the kid's car had broken down, or there was a death in the family. If I tried really hard, I could almost picture Chef being a little sympathetic about something like that.
I breathed a little easier. The world was starting to make sense again. This had to be an extenuating circumstanc
e. But something about the kid's overall demeanor, a sort of practiced sheepishness, that told me he was used to apologizing.
Whatever. I shook my head, turning back to the dish I was preparing. I had to stop worrying about how Chef was treating other people, and focus on my own work.
As if on cue, Chef Dylan turned to me, presenting the kid. "Jillian, this is Aiden. Aiden, Jillian, my sauté chef. She's the only other employee on staff at the moment. We're working on filling out the rest of the ranks. Jillian, Aiden's going to be my head server."
Head server? Really?
I tried not to let my incredulity show. "That's fantastic," I said, extending my hand to shake Aiden's. "It's very nice to meet you."
"Jillian, I'd appreciate it very much if you'd go over the menu with him. And Aiden, make sure to taste everything. I'm afraid some of it's gone a little cold." Here, he made a slight face. "But you should still get the gist of it."
Simultaneously training a new server, and testing my knowledge of his food. Quite clever, Chef. But I was ready. I rattled off each dish as I pointed to it, explaining it using enough of my own words that Chef Dylan knew I wasn't just parroting everything back. Aiden nodded, his eyes growing bigger and bigger as I went on. When we got to the squid ink pasta Alfredo, I could see the aversion on his face, and it almost made me chuckle. Black pasta? He'd never seen such a thing in his life. But when he got up the courage to try a piece, his whole demeanor changed.
"This is awesome," he said, picking up the plate. "Is it okay if I finish this? I didn't get a chance to have breakfast today."
My jaw nearly dropped, but I looked over at Chef, and he was nodding. "Sure, all right. Just don't make a habit of grazing in the kitchen."
Holy crap. Did this kid have any idea who he was talking to?
More importantly, how did he get this job?
Maybe it was unfair, but I was getting the distinct impression that Aiden had never been a head server anywhere. He might not have even been a server, period. Hell, he might not have ever had a job. I mean - he was nice enough, and it seemed like he was trying to be polite, but he was so uncomfortable and nervous and baffled by everything that was happening. I felt bad for him. At the same time, I worried about the prospect of working with someone like him, in an environment like this. It certainly wouldn't be the first time I had dealt with an inexperienced coworker, but with someone like Chef Dylan in charge, I knew the kitchen and dining room would need to run like a well-oiled machine. Otherwise, heads were gonna roll. And clearly, for whatever reason, Aiden wasn't someone whose head Chef seemed likely to knock off.
It was certainly an uncharitable thought to have about a brand new coworker. I better not end up carrying your dead weight or taking flack for your screw-ups, buddy. At least, to my credit, I didn't show it.
After he was done with his impromptu meal, Chef had Aiden recite back what he'd learned about the dishes. At first it was rote, until Chef encouraged him to add in his own opinions of the dishes. Unfortunately, most of those simply boiled down to "it's really good." But Chef Dylan seemed satisfied, so we moved on.
The rest of the day was a flurry of activity, and I barely had time to think about my own issues, let alone Aiden. But when he finally left, and a strange quiet calm descended over the kitchen, I realized how much his mere presence had been stressing me out.
"So," said Chef, picking up the dishes from our last menu experiment and piling them into the sink. "What do you think of him?"
He was working hard to keep his face neutral, but I could tell how annoyed he was. What did he want me to say? Did he want validation for his hiring decision, or did he want me to acknowledge the obvious problems? I cleared my throat.
"It's very early," I said. "I only just met him today."
Chef chuckled a little, turning on the sprayer. "That's not an answer," he said, his voice raised over the sound of the rushing water. "Don't be diplomatic."
"Well then, Chef, he seems a little..." I took a deep breath. "Inexperienced."
He just nodded, looking down at the sink.
"But, I mean, that's easily cured," I backpedaled. "And everybody has to start somewhere, right?"
There was no answer. I wished I could see his face, but he was bent over his task. I wondered why he hadn't asked Aiden to stay and help clean up. Like in most jobs, the kitchen pecking order typically indicated that the least skilled, least experienced people did the majority of the grunt work. It simply made good sense. Someone like Chef Dylan shouldn't be wasting his time with dishes.
"I like washing up," he said, suddenly. It was like he'd read my thoughts, but more likely, he'd picked up on my staring at him awkwardly and wondering if I should help out. "Clears my head. Don't worry, I'll have a proper dishwasher hired before we open."
That's not what I'm worried about, I wanted to say. But I bit my tongue.
CHAPTER SIX
Brule
Sometimes, in order to bring out the best flavor in a food, it needs to be burned. Just enough to caramelize, to brule - to bring the natural sweetness to the surface.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Max
***
When you're in the public eye, it's very easy for people to think they know you.
Yeah, yeah - no surprises there. We know how ridiculous it is, yet we all do it. We psychoanalyze people we've never met. We speculate on their motivations, their character flaws, and just generally behave as if they aren't real people.
Some of us blur the line. I'll grant you that. They have public personas that are carefully constructed, over-the-top performances. A lot of people think that's true of me. But I swear to you, on whatever you consider holy - it's not.
Of course, the version of me that you know isn't the whole picture. But that's a different story altogether.
You learn to value the people who really know you, really understand you, and don't buy into any of the bullshit. It's not just anyone who happened to know you before you were famous. As it happens, it's really not uncommon for people to be swayed by public opinion. Even if they should know better. Sometimes especially if they should know better.
There's just a few people in my life whose opinion I really value. Barbara is one of them. She's an old friend from my dishwashing days, beautiful and self-assured, who's never once hesitated to tell it like it is. When we met, she was engaged to be married. By the time she filed for divorce, I was in a semi-serious relationship that - for some reason - I thought was actually going somewhere.
It went like that, for years and years, always just slightly out of sync. At a certain point I told myself I'd given up on the possibility, but if I'm being honest...
Ah well, it would happen when it happened. If it happened.
I wondered what she would think of Jill. I often wondered what she would think - but for the first time in a while, I found myself wondering what Jill would think of her.
***
"You're insane," Beckett told me, for the fiftieth time, as he dropped off his wine pairing list for the charity dinner.
"You could just record a loop of you saying that," I pointed out, scanning over the names, "along with 'you're a right bastard,' and you'd never have to talk to me again."
"I don't understand why you'd put yourself through all this stress a week before opening." Beckett had his arms folded across his chest, and the slight frown on his face reminded me very much of Mom. But for some reason, I didn't bother telling him.
"For charity, Beckett," I said. "It's for charity."
"Right," he said. "Of course. Here I was, thinking you were after publicity. How could I be so cold?"
"Like I need it," I scoffed, setting the list down. "You know how much I love donating my talents for the greater good."
"Almost as much as you love patting yourself on the back." Beckett was already turning to leave. "You know these people are just in it for the tax write-off, they'd pay a thousand dollars a plate for McDo
nald's."
"Thank you, and fuck off," I called after him as he walked away.
As far as I was concerned, there was no such thing as too much publicity with a new restaurant opening. And yes, of course, it was nice to do things for charity. I didn't know why Beckett felt the need to give me grief about it. Even the people who seem to give selflessly are just doing it to make themselves feel better.
Peel back enough layers, and everyone's a selfish bastard.
Jillian got to work a little later. I still hadn't told her about the charity dinner. There were a lot of things I hadn't gotten around to telling her yet. It was bizarre, but somehow I found it difficult to talk to her. Not because she was judgmental, or awkward, or anything really in particular - she was certainly intimidated by me, but that was hardly a new experience. Something about our dynamic was just...skewed.
I wondered if it was just me. I couldn't remember the last time I really felt tongue-tied around someone, and I didn't care to analyze why.
The point was, it made communication difficult. I'd have everything planned out, then I'd look at her...eyes bright green and expectant, often with her hands clasped in front of her, often biting her lower lip a little bit, which I assumed she didn't even notice...
I wouldn't describe it as nervousness, exactly, but that was the closest feeling to what I experienced around her.
Maybe it was some residual sense of guilt for our first encounter. But really, that seemed as unlikely as my actually feeling nervous around someone who had no power over me.
"What's this, Chef?" Jillian asked me, after we'd exchanged perfunctory greetings. She had Beckett's wine list in her hand.
"Pairings," I said. Which would be obvious to anyone with eyeballs. What a stupid answer. "For an event we've got this weekend."
"I thought we didn't open until next week." She set the list down, and went to her station. Even though I supposed she didn't intend it that way, it sounded like a challenge.
"Well, yes, that's true. But I was offered the opportunity to cater this thing and since we're ready - I figured, why not?"
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